Two weeks into Ethan’s new job, with Marsha off to London and Milan again, I wrangled legitimate Neiman Marcus appointments on her behalf at their Phoenix and Albuquerque stores. I sandwiched El Paso in between. As with most of his baseball gigs, Ethan and his teammates made do in low rent areas, this one near the border. We spent the afternoon in Mexico, much of it handing out hundreds of dollar bills to the impish but needy children. Close to the bone for both of us. We’d fought misery living together but now we fought misery being apart. He asked me to stay on. Couldn’t I fib to Marsha? Pretend to sprain my ankle? I couldn’t. My arduous next-day Phoenix schedule was set in stone so he drove me to the tiny airport, more like a private airfield for drug cartels. “No stoned, roaming around after dark, playing El Paso cowboy,” I said.
“Babe, I know the drill. Besides, we’re on the road more than we’re here.”
We fought waves of separation anxiety knowing our careers would keep us busy, but I couldn’t wait until this baseball dream was over. Still, I played along to ensure Ethan would transition to a more stable life with me. Once it ended, we could be a normal couple. Couldn’t we?
Marsha and I spent the rest of October crisscrossing the country, planning the next phase of Platinum’s growth agenda. My antidote was always work. I may have been ‘Mini-Marsha’ but by now our symbiotic relationship gave me pause. Her risk taking alarmed me. In Chicago with buyers, and Dallas after a day with divisional executives, I suspected she’d offered kickbacks for over-writing inventory sales. ‘Pump and Dump’ could ruin her.
And ruin me by association.
We finished on the west coast and I stayed on alone in LA to interview candidates for open sales field positions. By then I was a regular at The Sunset Tower Hotel in West Hollywood, a step back to 1940s glamour. Yet in all my five-star accommodations, a table for one, or more often room service, served as constant reminders of my social, and sometimes professional, isolation. Now my restless nights second-guessing Marsha’s agenda matched my sleepless stretch over Brian Cox. I spent the following day in endless interviews. My final candidate was legitimately running late, I was starving, in no mood for room service, so we agreed to meet for dinner. He suggested The Abbey but I arrived to find the hip West Hollywood bar/restaurant closed. I was now starving and furious as a quintessential LA-handsome guy waved me closer.
“Atticus Baron?”
“Yes indeed.”
We shook hands. “Your choice is closed.”
“Yes, but only to the public. We have a private room, available to friends of the owner.”
“That would be you?”
“That would be me.” He ushered me in.
I thawed over excellent food, wine, and panache as he fell into professional yet easy conversation laced with Québécois English. This guy, a former champion French Canadian figure skater, had found his niche as an A-list California celebrity make-up artist, currently exploring opportunities within the fragrance industry. We had mutual friends in the business. Atticus had Andrew Case’s wit, plus business savvy akin to Jennifer and Dustin. He explained a recent breakup with his long-term partner as the impetus for his search in new directions. Once again, I’d found someone whose qualities and potential made up for inexperience, a pattern that served me well. I hired him that night. We agreed he’d continue building his reputation within his celebrity world while working as my LA resource.
That entire fall Ethan and I spoke infrequently as he made the most of his last-ditch effort with the El Paso league. I feigned enthusiasm as often as he hid frustration. We’d decided on the Manhattan move to the upscale apartment, with Ethan leaving the rest to me. It didn’t help that Platinum’s pressure to succeed in sales and new venues erased the Charade afterglow.
Work and apartment issues filled nearly every waking hour. By now I trusted my taste and hired a gaggle of professionals to implement what they referred to as my aesthetic. I’d fully adjusted to financial comfort and my earning potential. From Texas my I’m-not-afraid-to-live-in-a-tent husband adjusted to it as well. It let him play ball even after more than ten years of semi-pro and every gum-and-duct tape combination that kept him pitching.
We managed Christmas with my parents, a repeat of Easter but with a gaudy tree next to the orange recliner. Dad’s frustration with his declining health and my mother’s ever erratic temperament set us more on edge. Maxine’s Christmas Eve service in the church on Paige property was as close as we got to Ethan’s family.
Platinum’s Energiser Bunny CEO went into 1997 New Year’s overdrive as the board of directors leaned on her, and she leaned on us. For starters she increased our return on investment (ROI) to three million dollars, projecting our profitability at a staggering twenty-five percent over the previous year.
As we oozed into summer, the 1997 Asian economic crash exacerbated Platinum nail biting. By Labour Day when the board wanted more frequent meetings—more overhead accountability from CFO to CEO, I’d been with Marsha long enough to recognise a troubling pattern.
When the business trades, or The Wall Street Journal highlighted Platinum’s successes she was upbeat and professional. When Page Six ran her Anna Wintour Charade shot months later, I knew for a fact she’d put someone in our PR department on retainer to keep her own name in print. Stressful financial or personnel issues made her contradictory or worse, seemingly erratic and unstable. Our competition, her own vice-presidents, and anyone else in the business could perceive this as weakness.
To moderate my stress, Dustin surreptitiously coordinated my travel schedule. When Marsha was in, I often hit the road or worked from my home office. When she flew off, I tackled responsibilities from headquarters. We weren’t getting along as swimmingly as the early years, but it let me maintain chumminess. Her congratulations on my strong west and southwest market sales felt genuine. However, she stayed frazzled as the calendar year wound down.
At our holiday party I grabbed a Santa hat and raised my glass. “To Marsha!”
“To Marsha!” rang out. She needed to hear it.
Chapter Ten
That Brucknerfield Christmas my mother’s ever-erratic temperament included sarcastic comments about my success and throwing it at Darby and Genevieve. On departure day Dad uncharacteristically let Mom speed us to the Terminal A curb. When he remained in the passenger seat as Ethan and I pulled our luggage from the trunk, I kept my alarm to myself.
“You two take care of yourselves.” His eyes shone. “And each other. I love you, Emma. Great to see you.” I hugged him through the rolled down window.
Ethan had finished his fall pitching season with the news that his El Paso outfit could use him ‘midwinter’ in their Laredo camp for off-season coaching. Midwinter meant mid-week, mid-January. He stayed faithful to his New York sports medicine regimen and flew back on the eleventh. He’d continue to limp along; we’d spend more time apart.
Marsha and I overlapped in the office all week but her office door remained closed a lot. If restructuring rumours were true, it would buy her time to fix the problems, or even find a new gig if need be. Rumours floated that she planned to reduce marketing coordinators and sales field people.
I steeled myself for closing January with her inevitable requests—regional appraisals, employee evaluations to estimated sales. I suggested we grab dinner at The Four Seasons. Even on short notice and Early Bird seating, it was the place to be seen. Heads turned as we approached our table in the pool room. “I’m flattered,” she said over the top of her menu. “With Martin Luther King Day on Monday, I thought you’d have holiday weekend plans with your All-Star.”
“My All-Star’s flown back in Texas. Coaching new draft picks, helping plan Spring training.” I embellished to keep conversation going, grateful when our orders arrived.
The gurgling pool made her silences comfortable but I hoped she’d raise Platinum issues herself. Instead she commented on the Four Seasons’ art collection and their Picasso curtain.
I raised my glass. “You’re a Renaissance woman, as up to date from the arts to our business. Another toast.”
“Emma, don’t—”
“Here’s to your superb leadership. I suggested dinner tonight to assure you I understand the pressure as you overhaul our overhead. Flow charts, number crunching – Any assistance you need in the next few months, you can count on me.”
She blanched. “You’ve done some excellent work, a real evolution since our first dinner in St. Louis. Linda Clarkson was nothing but jealous. I see big things for your future.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“Someday you’ll be the CEO facing hard decisions. Right now it’s on my shoulders.”
I nearly patted her hand. “Let’s get Sheila and Dustin to schedule some time to put our heads together.”
“Emma,” she said, “the cutbacks start at the top.”
“They’ve let you go!”
“Oh my God. No.”
