The board passed both proposals: ten for; two against. After the announcement the younger of the London investors glanced around the table. “Ms Paige, I speak for each of us with teenagers at home. If this vote garners so much as an autograph, let alone backstage passes, I’ll be father of the year and indebted to you for life.” Over laughter and “Hear, hear!” the meeting adjourned.
“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Julian added as we headed out.
“If I were Churchill, I’d offer you a cigar.” I raised the V for Victory. “If I were FDR, I’d smoke it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Just after nine pm Julian led the way to our waiting town car. “Exhausting day, but I’ve arranged a small stop on the way to the hotel. A bit of a surprise. Is it a go?”
“Sure, Any hints?”
“No but high hopes you’ll enjoy it.” We wound along city strada until our driver paused between quintessential Milanese buildings. Julian ushered me onto a piazza. “Do you know this?”
“For starters, a lot of Renaissance brick and terra cotta.”
“Spot on. We’re at the refectory of the Covent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. The surprise lies within.” I stopped in my tracks and pivoted completely around.
“You know it?” he said.
“Julian! The Last Supper ‘lies within’. It’s been on my list every trip to Milan, but I’ve never had the time.”
“I believe in time for inspiration. I’ve arranged a private viewing to celebrate tonight’s success and your accepting my job offer. I promised art exposure. I am a man of my word.”
“And I’m speechless.”
“The basilica closes to the public at seven thirty. It was sand bagged during World War Two and even survived that insanity.” He led the way past the exterior to a garden. An elderly nun stood in an open doorway, back lighted from within like a Renaissance painting. “Buona sera, signor Petrenko. Signora Paige. E il mio onore. My honor.”
“A full tour another time,” Julian whispered as we followed a hallway smelling of eucalyptus, lavender, and acacia. She gestured to the refectory. “Pochi momenti da contemplare. Momenti con genio e nostro signore.”
“Molto bene, Sorella.” Julian replied as she left us.
“She’s suggested moments with genius and moments with our Lord.”
“DaVinci’s Last Supper in front of me, Giovanni Donato da Montorfano’ The Crucifixion behind me. Judgment, power, good, evil. Maybe even strength to rise above what life hands out.” Julian studied me, not for the first time. Whatever I imagined I saw in his clear blue gaze was left unspoken.
I flew to New York alone, sleeping most of the way, contemplating Julian Petrenko the rest. Ownership of a landmark hotel, Winston Churchill’s penthouse, a private viewing of priceless work, sprinkled with royalty and Russian spies, presented in the guise of understated generosity. I was gobsmacked, to quote the Brits. By design, I felt sure. Easy on the eyes, business acumen, multilingual, bespoke wardrobe, finely tuned style—his assets seemed endless. The man also possessed enough charm to mask his intentions. He worked hard to hide it but I felt his scrutiny. Always. Yet even at our most comfortable, he rarely let his guard down. Easy affection, even sexual tension hadn’t spilled into flirting or anything overt. Was he working overtime to impress me or reaffirm the Julian Petrenko he presented to the world? Possibly both.
Ethan’s enthusiasm bordered on disbelief as I rambled from ‘Yes, that’s Prince Charles,’ to I swear, it’s true. A little nun let us in for a private half hour with Leonardo daVinci.
I also returned to Wilma’s preoccupation with the upcoming annual Luxury Style Awards. I was using the Mayfair conference room as my main work space, and she hustled into our weekly executive meeting thumbing her Smythson of Bond Street planner. “I am seriously about to burst. I’m on the board, practically running the whole celebration. The night culminates with the Billion Dollar Club winner.” She plopped next to me as her fellow executives trickled with a few nods.
The core group addressed the serious business of massive operational and supply chain problems while she surreptitiously wrote Linkedin, hair colour, eyebrow waxing, and nail appointment reminders in her planner. When the meeting adjourned she returned to starring massages and dinner reservations, then crossed her legs in a whisper of silk. “…Already dealing with fragrance icon temperaments, and ego-laced requests from every rising fashion star and industry innovator being recognised.” She finally closed her Symthson. “You do know I’ll be taking a date. Not just any date. My match maker claims ninety-eight percent compatibility. It’s not inexpensive; seriously, over five K, but have I found the perfect guy! The sex is amazing. We’ve been seeing each other for six weeks.”
“And he’s your date?”
“You bet. Total arm candy.”
I met her gaze. “Business smarts to go with it?”
“Of course, of course.” Wilma knew as well as I Mayfair Beauty had to pick up his two-thousand-dollar entry ticket fee, a huge expense when the company was losing millions.
“Wow, after six. I’m off to meet for dinner. And dessert.”
“You should join the Luxury Group. I could put in a good word.”
I ignored her power play. Wilma liked playing CEO, but didn’t take it seriously. I was consulting in a soap opera atmosphere. I waved her off and re-read my notes.
I left for the day by way of the women’s room, opened the door and stopped dead in my tracks. Wilma, razor-in-hand, stood at the sink, faucet running, skirt hiked into her belt. She stood on her right foot, left leg propped on the counter, inner thigh wrapped in shaving cream from knee to parts unseen.
“Emma! Oh my God!” She flushed into her scalp but our soon to-be-former operations manager kept her balance and winked. “Just getting ready for my date.” I gave an inane reply, backed out, and used the men’s room.
During the days I stewed over Wilma, I completed my Mayfair business model. Bringing over most of my long-standing team would allow me to hustle the commitments I’d made to Julian. The executive board governed execution of the turnaround. We had the go for UK-C. Now to get the company on its way to correcting two years of demolition. I assembled key executives and studied Jennifer Rocket’s new concept, The Four Ps: People, Product, Present, Promotion. My dream core would be.
Financial Officer: Samuel Garten
VP Global Sales & Marketing: Jennifer Rocket Field Sales Director: LA based Amanda Denton
VP Operations & Product Development: Bill Grose
Director of Analytics and Ecommerce: Abdul Maliki
Director of International Business: Sebastian Ballantine
Creative Director: Dustin Walsh
Two companies remained in the race for UK Connection. In a week Julian and I were scheduled to meet at London record company headquarters to offer management our final pitch. They promised determination within forty-eight hours.
At the same time, Ethan continued to cheer me on as his expansion to private lessons in the city picked up. Word was out. Ethan Paige had the ability to reach troubled kids, improve rag-tag teams, even mentor semi-pro young guns fresh out of high school still trying to reach the next level. His journey, as thorny and meandering as mine, had eased. Hopefully the frustrations of transitioning from pro ball were behind him. I made peace with his disdain for socialising. My introvert husband never willingly went to large events. He seemed confident in his future. For now that was enough. Thanks to Julian he regularly attended NBA games. They had yet to meet, but stayed connected via email and generous amounts of Federal Express packages. Each contained the hardest tickets to score, and the best seats for viewing. Over a quiet dinner at home he showed me the latest package. “I swear I’m trying not to take this for granted. Playoff tickets! Dallas, in his corporate box. Enough to include Adam and a couple of Texas guys I played ball with. Babe! He’s even arranged a private jet. Adam’ll freak out. Julian’s assistant booked The Four Seasons, where you stay in Dallas. We fly down Thursday morning. Game that night, then two more, Friday and Saturday. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. For once we’ll be gone at the same time.”
