I held that thought for the rest of the day, that and the reality that within twenty-four hours there’d be no physical evidence of my having occupied the executive wing.
As planned, Darlene called with instructions Tuesday morning. Fresh snow, bright sun, designer clothes, and good concealer helped me survive the exit process. I wore Versace to deliver my signed agreements and cool my heels in Platinum’s Human Resources waiting area. Ten minutes later I left with my document co-signed by the CFO. No tears till I hit the sidewalk. My four-day out-of-body experience had me on automatic pilot, running Dad’s advice through my head. “Get knowledge from her and use it for you.”
My work was my life. By the end of Tuesday, my life was finding work.
By Wednesday that picturesque Monday snow had morphed into grainy, gritty, curb residue the consistency of an ugly grattachecca. I schlepped as
I interviewed for positions clipped from WWD and other trade publications, overqualified for some, others only vaguely related to my experience or skills. I networked with my top Manhattan retailers. There was little available at my level. Dustin’s packed and delivered boxes of all things Platinum now sat in the middle of my home office. I propped my silver framed Ethan and Muriel framed on top.
Week Two, Jennifer suggested a head hunter exclusive to the industry. That round of interviews turned out to be temporary jobs or positions I’d want to leave within a year. I kept Ethan clueless, happy to listen to his elbow news, his raves about Titanic he’d seen with his Laredo rookies and anything else unrelated to my turmoil.
Five years of car service and fancy-schmancy Manhattan based clients left me clueless about the outer boroughs. Suddenly I had to hail cabs and negotiate the subway. I knew more about navigating Los Angeles than crossing the East River. In January my heel caught in a grate at the Fifty-ninth Street subway station. Unlike the movies it did not snap off. In defence of my blood-curdling scream, I thought someone had grabbed my ankle from below.
Five days later I stumbled on DUMBO’s icy brick sidewalks while searching Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass for the Brooklyn loft housing a start-up packaging design group. The twenty-something creative director interviewed me as I dabbed my skinned hand with his graffiti inspired paper napkins. On Groundhog Day I left a Chinatown interview and skidded into a Canal Street sidewalk cart of counterfeit Louis Vuitton luggage.
I faithfully filled my agenda notebook with possibilities, appointments, follow-up reminders. Jennifer Rocket’s tale of her friends giving titles to horrendous interview styles, had nothing on mine:
Daddy’s Helper. The nervous HR director for her father’s fragrance industry consultation firm, sat in her Madison Avenue office and read my resume back to me. She paused after each line for my comment and seemed clueless as to what Vice President of Sales entailed beyond my listed accomplishments. I heard about her Dartmouth degree, her internships in LA, Paris and, “right here for the family business. Quite the dance card,” she said. “So tell me about your education.”
Our ninety-minute session mutated into my beauty industry tutorial. She masked her ignorance with sarcasm and covert study of my Prada vs. her Banana Republic attire. I recognised the look. There wasn’t a prayer of a job offer from someone who knew I knew she was inept, over her head, and under dressed.
Odd Man Out. I arranged an interview for a sales person for an import/export brokerage business back down in Chinatown. I maneuvered Canal Street again, still at its iciest, for an interview with owner Jack Smith. His office sat above The Jade Garden, via a staircase lined with black and white photos of mid-century greats. Judy Garland, Bette Davis, Dean Martin, even Sammy Davis, Jr. and Frank Sinatra posed in separate shots with a middle-aged man sporting various disco era ensembles and a full head of dark curly hair. I knocked on the door.
He answered and offered me a chair. Odd Man Out wasn’t Asian but he didn’t look like a Jack or a Smith either. Regardless, in person the man in the photos, now in his mi seventies, was a combination of Alfred Einstein, Gene Wilder and Christopher Lloyd. The aroma of hoisin sauce from downstairs, and marijuana from Mr Smith masked whatever odours lay in the stained, rust colour carpet. He complimented my resume and rambled about his need for someone in the business to get him more clients. This segued into the vagaries of importing and the joys of exporting.
I expected he’d reference the glory days depicted in his staircase gallery, but a cockroach appeared on the wall behind him. My train of thought vanished as the insect worked its way toward the ceiling. I gripped my chair, fighting flashbacks to my infested childhood apartments. When I could finally concentrate on his expectations, I brought the interview to a close, shook hands, and closed the door behind me.
My past pressing against my future stopped me on the stairs. I took a deep, cockroach cleansing breath and a closer look at the photos. Everyone was of Mr Smith glad-handing Madam Tussauds Wax Museum figures.
Touchy Feely. The owner and CEO of a well-known event rentals company needed a sales and marketing director/ supervisor. The position was a lateral move at best, but I knew their high-end work. I’d reached Week Three with no job. This midtown address was two blocks from Platinum. Familiar territory. So far, so good.
Or not.
He introduced himself to my breasts as he shook my hand and held it a moment too long. He offered me a chair. The cockroach free wall behind his walnut desk showcased celebrity-infused photos of living people: Giants, Yankees, and Knicks players, a rock band, and two mayors. The framed women were recognizable by their NFL cheerleader uniforms, beer labelled bras, or pasties and feather headdresses.
He expressed genuine interest in my experience and was familiar with my resume and many of my successful events enhanced by his rental products. After sincere compliments, he leaned in conspiratorially. Hadn’t I left some information off my resume? We both knew big wigs could get out of control at those events. (He chuckled.) He’d heard stories that had the industry buzzing. So had I.
I refused the bait. Instead I asked proper and pertinent questions about the company. Somehow this got him extolling the virtues of his Mercedes Benz. Cross my heart, he put his hands behind his head, leaned back, rested his Gucci-loafered feet on his desk, and suggested dinner in his Fifth Avenue penthouse.
I can coat anything with sarcastic humour, but three weeks of crappy weather, unfamiliar transportation, sketchy neighbourhoods and few opportunities set my teeth on edge. The perfume event loomed the following Wednesday and weekend three of unemployment mired me in anxiety. I paced my apartment in conference with myself. Had my years with Marsha been a fluke, success never again achievable? Worse, did I exemplify the Peter Principal? Had I reached my personal level of incompetence?
I called Andrew. He offered to ship me a Madonna bustier, a cone-shaped bra, and a major dose of confidence. “But, Sweetie,” he added, “you already have what you need: preparation. Folks like us get nothing handed on a platter. When you’re in the right place at the right time, you’ll recognise serendipity and your opportunity to make the magic happen.”
I filled my free time with hair and nail appointments, chose an impeccably appropriate ensemble, and awoke Wednesday to brilliant, thirteen-degree sunshine. I took it as a good omen – the perfect evening to stay warm at the familiar St. Regis. As with many industry events, for their Winners Table Hall of Fame night, The Perfume Society of America sat a mix of companies, titles, and ages together to enhance cross industry camaraderie. Neither Marsha nor any other Platinum employee would be at my table. I neither saw neon clothing flashes, nor heard clanking bangle bracelets. Linda Clarkson was either absent or avoiding me. I could do this.
I mingled among senior executives, directors, marketing and sales managers as though I were running for mayor. Had they heard I was in a career change… Time to broaden my experience…intend to bring my skills in driving sales teams to new venues. Dustin waved from a few tables over as I found mine. Coty’s field sales rep Ken Lopez sat my right, deep in conversation with the fellow on his right. He stopped long enough to greet me and introduce Nikos Christopoulos. We shook hands and they went back to business. I sat down. Thick white hair, impeccable suit, broad accent. Hadn’t we met? Years ago.
Chicago? St. Louis?
Wait staff served dinner but he continued to lean toward
Ken. It hit me! The Hilton seminars during my early Olympia Beauty days! The gentleman at the Nobodies Table. Over clinking glass and silverware that accent continued to hold my attention as I recalled his kindness.
Twenty-four years and fifteen global brands, he explained to Ken. I remembered. Distribution for one company. Greek, he had told me, but made his career in Milan before his New York move. Ken nodded. “It sounds as though you’re mostly under the radar of the big retailers, even with this new account.”
“Under the radar. Yes, the right expression. Especially this new one. Ciao!Beauty needs the right kind of awareness for our global reputation.”
I nibbled as the self-made multi-millionaire explained he was investing in a new project. I leaned in, as attentive as if wired for surveillance.
“It’s time for my family to be major players. It’s time for me to connect to prestige retailers. We say Efaga porta. I tried before. It didn’t work out. You understand?” Mr Christopoulos raised his goblet.
“So I try again.”
When he finally put food in his mouth, Ken turned to me. “’Didn’t mean to ignore you, Emma. Quite the tale. Nordstrom’s corporate buying team’s expressed interest in a new French fragrance he’s bringing over in six months.” I pounced.
Chapter Eleven
Ken flinched as I shot my outstretched arm across his chest. “Mr Christopoulos?” I tapped his sleeve. “We’ve met. Six or seven years ago at a conference at The Hilton.”
He smiled indulgently, his mouth full, then turned as the host called us to attention. A waitress removed my plate. “We sat together back then, too,” I explained to Ken as the ceremonies began.
The rest of the evening Hall of Fame induction and speeches blurred. Nordstrom’s corporate buying team would be Seattle.
When? The how jelled. It’s only serendipity when you recognise your opportunity and make the magic happen. Thank you, Andrew. Amidst applause, brightening lights, and attendees leaving their tables, I said goodbye to Ken then reiterated details of the long-ago Hilton conference to Mr Christopoulos.
He broke into a grin. “Of course, of course, our table in the back corner. I am Nobody. Well, look at me. Grey hair from making all my success. And Emma Paige, still so fresh. No longer green. I think you must now be a very big shot at Olympia, no?” ‘A very big shot’ made me grin. “We have a lot to catch up on. Do you have time for the King Cole Bar? It’s right here.” He shook his head but fished out his business card. “When we met my headquarters were in my Long Island warehouse. No longer! The Empire State Building. How about that?” He studied me. “I have a second thought. Perhaps a quick cappuccino?” Something made him change his mind. Second pounce. We chatted over the din of attendees. I offered sales stories from my earliest Brucknerfield counter days (ah, she’s self-made), to the Charade launch for Platinum (what a skilled professional), tidbits I hoped would stay with him.
“Such press! And the Guggenheim. Extraordinary Launch. I confess, I studied it.”
