“Sounds a lovely match. Time to break. You’ll need time to prepare for the evening. In addition to the usual members of Parliament, I’ve been alerted the Prince of Whales will be attending. I expect the island will be in security lock down.”
If Julian dropped that nugget for effect, it worked. Ye gods. “Goodness. I may have not have packed enough glamour.”
“The English love understatement. I’ve no doubt whatever you wear will be perfect.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at the art again as he walked me to his proper entrance. Surreal. All of it. Strong work ethic, clearly presented goals, handsome yet no sleazy sexual innuendo. My guard was up but his offer was too tempting refuse.
My mind raced as I returned to my suite. During my Marsha tenure Wilma Nash was known to combine her considerable business skills and drive with flamboyance. I avoid gossip traps, especially regarding women determined to advance in the corporate world, but even I knew she worked her way up the management ladder juggling a short-term affair with a luxury retailer CEO that ended badly. Either the Nash buzz faded, or I was too preoccupied with my miserable February unemployment situation to know or care where she’d landed. I loathe dysfunctional environments. If her private life remained separate, I’d concentrate on number crunching.
In the midst of getting ready a few hours later, a Petrenko assistant delivered a small blue box with a note tucked under the velvet ribbon. “For this evening,” she said with a smile.
Dear Emma,
Thank you for making the long journey to meet with me. My sister, Oksana, was a critical part of tonight’s event every year. Seeing her necklace in use again would give me great joy.
Sincerely,
Julian
I lifted the single strand of perfect pearls, divided by a square cut emerald, held and attached by gold strands. Despite my doubts to Julian, I’d packed the perfect Vera Wang satin cocktail sheath, understated and perfect for the necklace. Andrew Case, extolling the importance of wardrobe, taught me to lower others’ expectations, then deliver the punch. Impressions were everything. Prince Charles, The Royal London Yacht Club, ownership of the entire hotel property… I opened my closet thinking my host was working overtime on his.
I left Ethan another message: job offer, evening activities, and a promise to fill him in. And then for the third time I left for the Priory Bay Hotel staircase. Instead of topping my earlier banister-sliding joke as I descended the stairs to him, Julian greeted me with his voice full of emotion. “Thank you for wearing Oksana’s pearls. You’ve brought life back into them. You are stunning this evening, Emma.”
“It’s so kind of you to lend me something so special. I’ll cherish the necklace tonight. I feel like Cinderella.”
He bowed, brushed the sleeve of his impeccably crafted dinner jacket, and offered his arm. “My driver awaits. No pumpkin worries.”
Chemistry sparked but during the forty-five minutes’ drive from Seaview to Cowes, Julian was all business. I explained having left a message for Ethan and accepted the offer to consult. We sealed it with another handshake.
At the yacht club he helped me from the car amidst arriving dignitaries of all stripes, royal and otherwise. I glanced across the road at the nautical flagstaff, still flying RLYC colours in the early evening light.
“The club burgee,” he whispered. “The royal standard indicates the prince is on the premises. Should we be introduced, you needn’t genuflect.”
“Good to know,” I whispered back. We were and I didn’t. I left Fantasyland having met a prince and been treated like a queen.
Chapter Sixteen
My status as a consultant bolstered my jubilation. As perfect as the all things Petrenko appeared, the cynic in me still needed as exit strategy if Julian turned out to be a Brian Cox-Carmine Isgro combo, or I sensed another shove under the dismissal bus. While I was gone Ethan’s major league interviews came to nothing, but nearly for the first time he was genuinely interested in my pond hop. I stuck to over-the-top descriptions from Secret passageways, the sea-hugging golf course and museum quality art, to my chartered Gulfstream commute and the Prince of Wales. Two days after my return a Federal Express package arrived for Ethan. He hooted and stuck the note under my nose. Ethan--
Much appreciate your urging Emma to meet with me. Like you, I enjoy athletic competition. I hope you can use the enclosed tickets to the next Knicks game at Madison Square Garden.
Best Regards,
Julian
“See? I told you we’d have perks. Amazing seats!” He hugged me, tickets-in-hand. “Babe, I am so frigging glad you accepted his offer!”
I kissed him. “Take Adam, somebody who appreciates them.” I spent the evening in workaholic mode on my assignment to decode Wilma Nash’s M.O. This was her first CEO general management role but she’d arrived with Big Four experience as head of Marketing and Sales. Due diligence included calling around, reading business publications and trade press. I’d been hired to align, listen, learn, and report, though I vowed to tread lightly.
Julian flew Wilma to Dallas for a Stars play-off game where he explained concerns over the two years of revenue losses. He used the excuse of an audit to justify my presence and made clear her cooperation was critical.
Sacked left a bad taste in my mouth. I preferred to think Wilma Nash would, as the Brits describe it, be made redundant. I arrived at the Rockefeller Plaza office confident she understood the remedy for Mayfair would be Julian’s decision.
From fresh spring flowers to Lucite reception desk, Mayfair’s décor was as chic and trendy as Ciao!Beauty’s had been mid-century Old School. It sent the right message to visitors, but maintaining such a high-end address for a staff of only fifteen was my second concern, and probably easiest to remedy. For six weeks I observed, studied and listened. Wilma and her team focused on creating new products for The Nudes cosmetic line, and signing a celebrity face for both brands. To her credit she’d launched a solid-in-theory polished, catchy quarter-million-dollar PR initiative but the company was haemorrhaging money without proven ability to execute the plans. She made it clear other departments covered the basics but she lacked accountability. The P&L overstated sales vs. results. Her team wasn’t tracking cost for new product development. Most retailer accounts barely broke even. Poor execution had cost them close to a million dollars.
Like Linda and Marsha, Wilma built her career in a man’s world. We had much in common but I had to keep her at arm’s length. My requests annoyed her. No doubt she knew she exemplified The Peter Principle and had risen to her personal level of incompetence. I kept details to myself but incidental chat when Julian checked in always held his interest.
Ethan and I filled late spring and early summer evenings with bistro dinners and walks in Central Park, or take out and Cannes level sex. Midsummer in the midst of putting my report together, Cam Hampton kept his word and updated me on the project we’d discussed at The Jockey Club in December. The celebrity fragrance license venture had sales potential of two hundred and fifty million dollars, yielding over fifty million in profit and bragging rights for executing the biggest fragrance deal in the history of the category. I’d seen the concept as a boost for Ciao!Beauty, but it could be a company saver for floundering Mayfair.
The concept was being pitched to the major cosmetic companies; Cam had three offers pending. My contacts confirmed he was within ten days of awarding a letter of intent. If we were interested, I’d have to move fast. I crunched the numbers. Improved payables and inventory could turn Mayfair Beauty’s losses of over five million a year to a profit of seven to ten and solve our problems within two years. I convinced the indie manufacturing company rep who’d made pots of money over the years from Emma Paige orders to pitch Mayfair to the LA team vetting candidates and hear me out. Julian authorised my flight.
“I haven’t seen you this fired up in ages,” Ethan said the night I returned and got back between our sheets.
I kissed his shoulder. “Total adrenaline rush. I disclosed Julian Petrenko as Mayfair’s owner and the atmosphere sizzled. I wrangled a week out of them to pull together a presentation and organise a proper P&L.” I propped myself on my elbow. “Me, love, Emma O’Farrell Paige convinced these power brokers to put a hold on competing bids and see what Julian brings to the table.”
“Babe, men are impressed with men who own professional sports teams.”
“Like you every time FedEx arrives. As for all that LA testosterone, pure gut reaction tells me buzz over Julian can give us a smidgen of leverage over the other contenders.”
“You better let him know.”
“I emailed in LA and he called me from India. India!” Ethan kissed me where it counts.
Simultaneous work on company restructure plus licensing opportunity required late nights, morning coffee and pacing our apartment before I finally called Zurich. I made it clear a profitable endeavour required restructure and office relocation. I planned to revitalise existing brands, and portfolio expansion estimations ‘to provide profitability within twenty-four months with no debt.’ I used our and we a lot.
Julian suggested I draft a full report and we meet in London in forty-eight hours. “Plan on a week in Europe, Milan included. Your input at the board meeting will be valuable for Mayfair as well our raw materials outfit. We’ll arrange another charter for you.” I smiled at his use of our.
Mayfair Beauty had no Chief Financial Officer, so my last day stateside I met with Julian’s COO and vice presidents for marketing and sales. Wilma’s three top guns reviewed the details but gave the impression the company was running away with itself.
