Marsha gathered her paperwork. “Whatever it takes from both of you, sales goals are to be over-achieved at every venue. Now stop wasting my time and yours.” She stormed toward the door. Brian huffed his way behind her but stepped on the caramel, hopped and yanked his shoe. “I’m sure you find this hilarious.”
“No, not at all.” I did, but I replaced my contempt with ego polishing. “Look, we both need Marsha happy and satisfied. I assure you my team and I’ll have this room set up perfectly for your presentation, from handouts and their goodie bags, to your bottled water.” I leaned in, the complete conspirator. “You can see how much pressure Marsha’s under.”
“We all are. Pressure, pressure, pressure,” he muttered.
“Have Dustin double check your Power Point.”
“No Dustin necessary. Thank god I’m a perfectionist. I’ve put together an excellent presentation. You know all things technical are my specialty. Of course you’ll have the screen set up, connector cable, projector…”
“Of course.”
“I do appreciate your little group preparing the room.”
“Thank you. Let me know by the end of the day if there’s anything else.” Little group, hell. He went back to caramel removal and I went back to my office, teeth gritted.
The next afternoon I met Jennifer and our Filene’s buyers for lunch. I enjoyed and respected these savvy women, major players who set the pace in her New England region. While we settled into the conference room, One-man-band Cox moved from goodie bags to his laptop. “Lights, Emma,” Brian sang, the moment Marsha made her perfectly timed entrance.
The room went dark and a beige out of focus image filled the entire screen. Out of focus Charade promo? Brian shrieked. My FFA husband would have identified it as the squeal of a stuck pig. The rest of us gasped. The image sharpened into a close up – an extreme close up – of an erect penis. Possibly two. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I am so terribly sorry. I—This—” He slammed his laptop shut. “Sabotage! This is someone’s terrible, terrible idea of a prank to ruin me.” I turned on the lights.
“Us, to ruin us. All of Platinum. And Charade. Someone’s—”
“My office. Now.” Marsha, impeccably cool in her fury, pointed from Brian to the door. She turned to the speechless Filene’s group.
“I am terribly, horribly sorry. Please disregard what you’ve seen, if that’s at all possible.” To Jennifer and me she hissed,
“Pick up the pieces.”
The room remained silent as she herded Brian out the door. “Never in my entire career…anything so unprofessional…no words…” and, “Gone! …out of here for the rest of the day,” trailed behind them.
I looked back to the table of women. “We work to keep Platinum the talk of the town, but that opening was not what I had in mind.”
The head buyer shook her head. “I thought I’d seen it all with Brian Cox.”
Her assistant nudged her. “You mean all of Brian’s cocks.”
“Betsy!”
“Well, he’s always seemed an odd duck.”
“Odd dick. Odd dicks,” a third said.
The room erupted. I finally blinked the lights, choking back my own laughter. “Let’s take a breather to get this under control.” Truth be told, I could have come up with a million more hilariously derogatory one liners.
Five minutes later our whirlwind in high heels returned to the head of the table. “Ladies, what do you think of our new advertising campaign?” shifted into a deep, professional apology, then right back to the business at hand. As the meeting concluded an hour later, Sheila appeared with replacement goodie bags double the size of those on the table.
Marsha thanked them a final time. She finished as the consummate pro, doling out tidbits of Charade chatter, insider launch scoop, and a promise to underwrite a Ladies Night during her next Boston visit. Before the elevator of Filene’s reps hit the lobby, Marsha’d instructed Sheila to set up a meeting with HR and ushered me to her office.
“What do I really need to know about Brian and sabotage?” I remained standing. “Marsha, the closest anyone could come to sabotage would be unplugging him or messing with externals. He considers himself a technical expert. Dustin, anyone in IT, even Jennifer and Veronica will tell you no one is allowed to touch his computer. He sets up every presentation himself. The porn downloaded into it is his and his alone.”
I ached to add that the sociopath was drinking at his desk and possibly snorting coke in the men’s room. He fabricated reports and padded expense accounts. He remained aloof to disguise his incompetence. He’d had it in for me since I’d first suspected, and doubled down since he’d run into Jennifer outside the brothel. I kept it all to myself. Marsha had hired him, given him key responsibilities he was clearly unqualified for, turned a blind eye, and kept him on despite the obvious. At that moment I realised she had enough to answer for.
As expected, by Rush Hour the following morning Platinum was electric in its silent SNAFU. “The old In and Out,” Sheila reported. “Marsha and reps from the CFO office met with Legal and HR last night. They terminated Brian at eight this morning. Gonzo by eight-thirty to keep the gossip down.” She grinned.
“Fat chance. By the way, you can have your old office back.”
“No way in hell,” I replied.
After a year’s delay and countless organizational shifts, the Charade launch left zero time to dwell on anything but final details of the global press event. The flood of Brian gossip dried to a trickle.
In October Fashion Week transformed Bryant Park into its famed tent shows. A-List fashion VIPs, from luxury retailer CEOs and editors Anna Wintour and Muriel Beausoleil, to Andre Leon Talley and celebrities filled our Guggenheim guest list. The foreign and domestic fashion press would happily follow the herd from the park to the famed Upper East Side museum. Industry buzz told us our Charade was the most anticipated fragrance event in past thirty years. As frosting on the cake, three Salvador Rosa originals arrived at our office, made to our dimensions. His couture guaranteed Marsha, Veronica, and I would be as au courant as the fragrance.
And then it was Launch Day. Marsha spent most of her time in the conference room with our CFO preparing for the board meeting scheduled for the next day. When we’d dressed for the event, Marsha asked Veronica and me to join her, the public relations team, finance department reps, and our Chief Operating Officer. Sheila worked her magic with flowers, light canapés, and glasses of bubbling Tattinger. Toasts, sips, and we were off to the Guggenheim.
We mingled, networked, and accepted compliments from suppliers, colleagues, as well as celebrities in every fashion, fragrance, design, and client category. Air kissing and glad handing took place to pose and snap as hundreds of international photographers clicked away.
As luck would have it, Marsha finished murmuring one of her directives to Jennifer and me at the moment Carolina Hererra approached with Muriel Beausoleil. Marsha introduced us during more pose and snap. As they wandered away, one of the photographers, all pony tail, designer Chelsea boots, and state of-the-art cameras, lingered. “Thomas Schuman. Yours for the evening, ladies,” he said. “I’m shooting your gig for M. Beausoleil, in fact several global clients, agencies, the trades—WWD…” He and Jennifer exchanged cards after intriguing conversation left the impression, he recognised Platinum as future potential.
The Schuman shot of our fragrance visual merchandising made the cover of Women’s Wear Daily. Within the week Jennifer received two five by seven candids from him, one of Marsha and Anna Wintour, the other Muriel Beausoleil and me. I framed and propped it on my desk within the month. Gut instinct? Valuable resource.
Bergdorf Goodman and Saks New York presales came in above our projected goals, breaking records for the biggest launch at all Manhattan retailers. Marsha was thrilled—and thrilled with our team effort. It wasn’t until I’d settled in the back seat of my town car and kicked off my shoes that I realised how relaxed and confident I’d been without Brian Cox at my elbow. For the first time in my career, I’d had a situation that resolved itself. He would not be missed.
I arrived at Ludlow close to midnight to find Ethan waiting up. He kissed me. “Babe! I made it work! …new Southwest Indie league starting up…based in El Paso…very decent offer…” I fired up a sincere smile and kissed him back. Ethan’s elation said it all. I didn’t share his enthusiasm but he needed to play and this was likely his last chance. He had a week to prepare and I pledged my complete support. Marsha revealed her human side, thanked me for all things Charade and Guggenheim, then granted me time off with Ethan before the long, lonely autumn ball season kicked in.
Ludlow was an issue. We’d made the best of the charming, isolated house but the winter of record-breaking snow topped the troubles list. I wanted no more living alone out there, either. While the El Paso departure clock ticked, we found our solution close to my boutique hotel and Lobel’s Meat Market I knew he’d adore. The eighteen hundred square foot, two-bedroom Pre-War apartment sat at Seventy-second Street and Fifth Avenue. Former help’s quarters had been reconfigured into a small home office, plus dressing room and bath for the master bedroom. High-end kitchen, bright spaciousness, view of Central Park and proximity to Lobel’s sealed the deal.
“We’re not in Brucknerfield anymore,” Ethan whispered.
“And never will be again,” I replied.
