I mentioned my experience in terms of what I knew his
Nordstrom agenda required. “Fifteen years in the business, Mr Christopoulos, display counters to product presentations.” He smiled at my broad hints and regretfully explained he was not hiring.
“But still, you must come and see my Ciao!Beauty office,” closed our kaffeeklatch.
I called his personal assistant the next morning. Perhaps not the right time to make the magic happen, but hiring or not,
I needed my foot in any door except the one on Canal Street.
Nikos Christopoulos’ twenty-seventh floor Empire State Building address made it clear he intended to run with the big dogs. However, rather than steel and chrome, the Ciao!Beauty! lobby screamed, “I made it to the big-time mid-century.” Oversized, classic, black and white photos of Las Vegas entertainers hung on a panelled side wall. Despite his Greek and Italian roots, vintage French travel posters lined the hall. We talked fragrance. I hoped to see Provence’s lavender fields one day; Paris was magical…
We reached the oversized conference room, the first I’d seen with a piano. My host bemoaned the demise of good Manhattan piano bars for entertaining clients. He mentioned hosting Nordstrom in the room after they struck the deal. Voila, I had my opening into his Seattle presentation plans. Like a lawyer in court, I dribbled and drabbed my way, asking only questions for which I knew what his answer should be.
Who would hold influence among the corporate buyers at the table? He blinked.
Would he share his strategy for the six months leading to his launch with them? He blinked.
Would he hint at having chosen them over their largest competitor? He flushed.
The pause grew awkward. I’d gone too far. I opened the piano fallboard and asked if he played.
“I pay others to play.” Okay then. Deep breath.
“I fly over Neiman Marcus headquarters to reach Seattle.”
“Pardon me?”
“You ask if I hint at their largest competitor. No hinting. I say to Nordstrom outright, ‘Nordstrom, I fly right over your Dallas competition to make sure I get to you first.’”
“Yes! Yes, great idea, Mr Christopoulos. That’s the perfect idea.” This time the pause was comfortable.
“Such flattery, Emma Paige.”
On return to the lobby I commented on the posters again, the je ne sais quoi of Paris’s fabled shopping. Did he know Galeries Lafayette had tried to make a go of it in Trump Tower? “Indeed. Pierre Meysselle. Eighty-five thousand square feet they rented. A risk for the French, but all guts, I think.”
“He was my client,” I replied. “Bad timing for them. High fashion lost its stronghold in that location.”
“New tourists in Nikeland, I think they don’t buy fragrance.”
My childhood of second guessing taught me to interpret body language and nuance before I knew there was a name for it. My host was back in his comfort zone. Amidst sincere thanks for his time and tour, I thought: consulting.
“Mr Christopoulos,” I blurted, “I’ve done so many presentations myself, I’d be honoured to review your Nordstrom pitch. While I figure out my next professional move, I’m freelancing. I’d been happy to help.”
Nikos Christopoulos was Old School, Old Country, old enough to be my father, if not grandfather. I was too young, too female, too bold.
“A poco, a poco,” he said.”Little by little and hard work. I am a stubborn old man, eh? But now, I’m thinking efharisto. Thank you, Emma. Nordstrom is—” He shrugged.
“Your brass ring.”
“Yes, but maybe the ring falls through my fingers. All my years in Milan…my Italian strangles my Greek. My Greek accents my Italian. And oh! English.”
“You’re trilingual. It adds to your charm.”
“You are too kind.”
“I’m not. Fragrance is international. Your gift is being multilingual and your success no accident. Even if you’re thinking, ‘This from a woman,’ and ’too young,” Nordstrom’s is interested in what you have to say and present.
“No, I am thinking, ’Nikos, you want to win this luxury account. Here is the professional, standing right in your office. Stop being stubborn.”
I grinned of course, and swallowed the urge to hug and high five him. “I know how to put you and your products in the best light possible, for the results you want.” To be more precise, I knew who to call. We struck a deal and the minute I left The Empire State Building, I dialled Dustin’s number.
Over a freezing weekend of collaboration in my home office, he designed a template for the presentation. After work Monday evening he returned so I could provide specifics from an additional meeting at Ciao! I opened the door to find him holding an arrangement of roses.
“Be my valentine a day early.” He handed them to me. “I confess, they delivered as I arrived. Your phantom husband?” I nodded and showed him the typed card:
Happy Valentine’s Day, Love, Ethan
I explained Ethan’s current baseball gig and confessed to keeping him in the dark about my situation. “That kind of stress affects his game and, frankly, what good would it do?”
“Secrets aren’t healthy, either, Emma.”
“We’ve walked this tightrope our whole marriage.”
Dustin could read me as well as I’d read Mr Christopoulos. He knew to abandon Ethan analysis and we got to work. As he’d done for me at Platinum, he turned my notes on the arrival of Clos-Vougeot into an impeccable business-cantered presentation for the Italian-by-way-of-Greece lover of all things French. “I’m a realist,” I said as I wrote him a check three hours later. “Ciao!Beauty isn’t hiring beyond this project, you and I are a damn good team, Dustin Walsh. This could change his mind.”
“Damn right. My thoughts exactly. Get yourself to Seattle. Make sure this sets Nordstrom, Ciao!Beauty, and Mr C on fire, then make me an offer.”
Ethan and I managed a Valentine’s Day call and I thanked him for the flowers. I let his enthusiasm for scouting reports and managing rookies keep our conversation weighed heavily in his favour. I’m guilty of the sin of omission, but I didn’t mention the trip to Seattle or Nordstrom presentation. Mr Christopoulos and I shared a car to the airport and settled into the plane’s Business Class section. As with my early days shadowing Marsha, nothing breeds familiarity like seven hours seated together. Somewhere over the Midwest he reiterated his language frustration and I asked for some Greek lessons. We moved into Italian phrasing, and then French. All things French was his passion, his idea of class, and “The epitome of the good life,” he added, expounding on his new fragrance, and his belief in the venture. After all his years making, losing, investing fortunes, He was still nervous over this first presentation to a legitimate, American luxury department store.
