“And he starts with us on Monday,” I replied.
We hunkered into our coats. I lightened the mood on the walk back to the office with tales of my green-as-they-come Big Apple orientation and the lipstick flaming rooms. Nevertheless, I returned to my desk confused and fearing Marsha had poached from a firm secretly thrilled to get rid of him. Why else would she hire this personality type?
Perhaps Jennifer’s friend was difficult; perhaps Windsor was a hostile environment. Should the story surface, no doubt Brian would have his own explanation. What did Marsha know? Worse, what didn’t she know? Brian Cox, Vice President of Sales, would inhabit my office. Was my head on the chopping block?
It worried me all the way to our empty, drafty, antique rental. Enthusiasm for the Ludlow commute and living out there alone was fading, exacerbated by Ethan’s ever-tenuous career issues. He’d returned to baseball tense and distracted. Even if I could get him to answer the phone, I knew enough not to season this stew with Brian Cox news.
Monday morning car service returned me early. I dressed in vintage black and white Chanel, ready for anything despite my churning stomach and sweaty palms. Gossip and conclusion jumping ran rampant in the fragrance business. I could at least draw my own Brian conclusions.
I arrived to an empty floor with the exception of low voices spilling from the conference room. Marsha’s recognizable chat was punctuated by lilting, theatrical directives. “Mark my words, Marsha, oh my very goodness, such, such potential. Absolutely imperative… Marsha, you will be so glad.” Our new VP of Sales had arrived.
Chapter Eight
It wasn’t in my interest to wait. I needed an immediate face-to face with Marsha. Her facial expressions and body language could clue me into the tete-a-tete. Shelia arrived with Brian still pontificating and I gave her my Marsha request before she’d changed out of her sneakers.
She stepped into her heels. “Why the rush and intrigue?”
“No intrigue. Crushing agenda.”
“Anything for Emma,” she quipped. “Seriously. Marsha left her morning open for Brian’s indoctrination. She has the time; I’ll get you in as soon as they finish.”
I barricaded myself in my office with a fake conference call to make sure he didn’t pop in when he left the conference room. True to her word, about ten o’clock Sheila signalled for me to head next door. Marsha came around and sat in her guest chair beside mine, body language at its most readable: concern. Our small talk and pleasantries slid into industry gossip: Friday’s WWD coverage of Galeries Lafayette’s departure; an upset at Saks’ corporate buying office. I treaded carefully. “Marsha, you’re the perfect mentor. Thank you for all you’re doing for me and my career. You inspire women throughout the industry. I can’t wait for our Salvator Rosa launch.”
“It’s my pleasure to help a fellow saleswoman. They tend to be driven, get the numbers. The best CEO’s are from sales. You, my friend, will be a president or CEO someday.”
“Thank you!”
“Trust me. You’re the genuine article with the guts to make it to the highest executive level. No doubt all that talent jumping to my side’s what stuck in Linda Clarkson’s craw.”
Her train of thought and spin on Linda caught me off guard. I slid forward. “That means a lot coming from you. I hope you’re right. My goal’s to be a vice president.”
“You’ll get there, trust me. I’ll make sure.”
“Thank you. I hope your morning conference went well.”
“Brian’s full of fresh ideas.”
Eavesdropping had told me that much. Her enthusiastic, energised expression knotted my stomach. “I also wanted to discuss my career path,” I heard myself say. “It’s not easy to tell you. I’ve received a sales vice president offer. Unexpected timing… It’s been a wonderful, strong few years but I’m sure you can imagine my concern now that you’ve brought in Brian Cox. There may be not enough room for both of us.”
“You can’t resign!” She narrowed her gaze. “You’re not going back to Linda? She cannot have you back.”
“Linda? Of course not.”
“Emma, you mustn’t think I’ve put you in any position that warrants worry. I swear I’m protecting you. Frankly, there’re a few things going on with the Italians I can’t discuss. I’ve gone to great lengths to set this up so that if numbers aren’t achieved, your lack of experience can’t be blamed. You’re still a little green, but I see big potential.”
I stayed at the edge of my seat. “But you can appreciate that I don’t want to become a third wheel.”
Marsha paced to the coffee table and back. “I get it. How about I increase your salary to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and elevate your title to National Sales Manager?”
“Goodness. I’m honoured you feel this strongly about me.” I meant it and I damn sure wanted to believe she did, too.
“I’ve informed Brian you’re a dotted line directly to me. He’ll be concentrating on other aspects of the VP position. You’re not his focus. We laid it out this morning. Call me selfish but we’ll be a good team.”
I sat back. “We do make a good team. Will you make sure Brian’s aligned with my new role?”
“Consider it done.”
“Then consider me staying.”
Marsha put her hands on her hips. “Now go tell whoever’s trying to steal you away from me, you’re not for sale.” Shelia appeared as if she’d had her ear to the door. “Okay ladies, time to get back to work.”
Marsha told her to set up a meeting with Brian at five thirty. I returned to my office turning internal cartwheels, still awestruck at my gumption and the deal I’d brokered for myself. I updated my team and still avoided him.
Sales and marketing reps are often at each other’s throats. Marketing people, Type Bs, give little attention to numbers. I exemplify the high expectation, aggressive Type A sales representative. Nevertheless I asked Veronica Williams, our marketing director, to lunch for much needed team camaraderie.
Marsha pushed her daily for more analytics and I’d recently received comparable business information from a friend at a competitive company. Over lunch I passed Veronica detailed info she could use to impress Marsha and shared enough on our new colleague to make her wary.
Brian’s most daunting aspects was second-hand info and he deserved a chance to make a good impression. Late afternoon I sent him a welcome email suggesting a morning meeting to go over the exciting business we’d be working on together. Any new employee fares best in a private, welcoming atmosphere and I could assess for myself.
He confirmed. Dustin and I collated reports, field staff names, wholesale and retail numbers, and a Strength, Weakness, Opportunity, Threats-SWOT-report. As the well-trained prodigy of Linda Clarkson and Marsha Johnson, I left nothing to chance. While Linda epitomised the adage: know the rules before you break them, whether gay, straight, male or female, de rigueur wardrobe panache defines the fragrance industry. From eavesdropping I expected Brian to exemplify industry cliché, a spiffy Andrew-Dustin combo of impeccable style and industry enthusiasm.
The following day I waited in the conference room wearing Donna Karan and my best neutral expression. He shuffled into the room, five feet, eight inches of heft wedged into a Sears-issue suit, polyester tie, black shoes and brown belt. Sweat beaded his upper lip and a full set of orthodontic braces wired his smile making him look even younger than early thirties. The shock brought me up so fast I knocked my flip phone off the table. After making a production of checking it for damage, I closed the door and rambled about his experience and how lucky we were to have such a pro joining our team.
I passed him copies of the files and dug into reviewing key points and team details. “Please let me know if any of this is repetition,” I said as his expression shifted from bored to inattentive. “Veronica Williams can be a great help with analytics.” I rattled papers. “Brian? I’m concerned. No notes, no questions. Has Marsha already given you these stats?” He shook his head but my reviews appeared to be torturing him. Body odour wafted through the room and he gleamed with perspiration. Maybe he was having a heart attack. I opened the door. “Are you Okay, let me get you some water.”
“Water would be nice. I’m okay; anxiety makes me to sweat.”
An anxiety attack! I softened. He excused himself to use the restroom which gave me time to turn down the heat and grab a pitcher of water from the kitchen. When he returned, I handed him a filled glass. “I struggle with anxiety, too. I’ve had some awful attacks. They can be terrifying.”
