“And I’m back Sunday morning. I’m thrilled for you. I’ll take off Monday so we can spend some time together. We’ll have lots to compare.” I kissed him.
“Both of us in Teterboro private planes. Emma, look at us!”
Before I knew it, I was on my flight to London, bolstered by a Xanax to avoid obsessing into an anxiety attack. What if we didn’t land the deal? We would; we would; we would. Dustin and I worked on the pitch book for weeks. I was still reminding myself it was flawless as I checked into Claridge’s. I met Julian in his apartment/office, thanked him for the play-off tickets and offered Ethan’s gratitude for the VIP treatment. I hoped for some chit chat to calm my nerves but Julian stayed on his feet. The board was taking too long. Did they need to inspect every detail under a magnifying glass? Did he seem impatient?
My first glimpse of anxiety in this man of steel raised mine but I hoped it meant he trusted me. I assured him we could kick the process into high gear. We reviewed the letter of intent Dustin and I created. We examined the basics of the deal: large guarantee of minimums, royalty percentages, commitment to a high percentage of sales toward marketing and advertising. Julian agreed it surpassed any licensing contract ever offered a designer or celebrity. We reviewed our strategy to ensure the competition wouldn’t go to this extreme.
When I commented on our big company competition not giving up easily, he morphed back into Invincible Petrenko. No matter the outcome, he had gotten us this far, he said. There would always be another deal around the corner.
“Quite the confidence-building session we’ve given each other,” he added with a pat of my shoulder.
“Across the pound we call it a pep talk. Stay positive. As Yogi Berra said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
I gave up on sleep before dawn and pulled on workout clothes. I’d convinced Julian to take the leap; I’d convinced him to persuade the board this venture would to keep Mayfair in the black. Was I being wrong? I ticked the time difference off on my fingers and called Dallas for some Ethan perspective. I could barely hear “Well, how’s London, Babe?” over background noise. “Are you in a bar?”
“Great game. I’m getting used to VIP perks. It’s the only way to watch. We’re back in my suite.”
“We? With women. Don’t bother to lie I can hear them. Your whole group’s in your room? It’s midnight out there.”
“Yeah, I’m exhausted. Lots to celebrate. These guys think they’re twenty-five again. I’m making sure nothing gets broken.”
“Broken! You even sound different; you’re making a racket. You know I know the manager of The Four Seasons. If your friends get out of line, I’ll hear about it. You’re on Julian’s tab. I don’t need this stress! Tell them the guy who pays my salary covers this and it’s time quit.”
“I’m not stupid. Don’t obsess. Nothing’s going to happen. God forbid you and your boss aren’t happy.”
“You’re all drunk. Or stoned.”
“We’re not. I’m not. No nagging. We’ll and catch up later.”
“My meeting’s in a few hours. I wanted your input.”
“Shit, Babe. It’s hard to talk and you can barely hear me. The guys are celebrating and I’m wiped. You’ll be great. You’re a pro at this. You know I hope you get the deal.”
“Whatever.” I hit the top floor health club determined to work off my jealousy, doubt—whatever it was… Whatever it always was. An hour later, dressed for success in a black skirt and Gucci jacket, I met Julian for coffee. “Preoccupied,” he said when I didn’t pick up on his chat.
“I called Ethan for advice and got a room full of noise.”
“Dallas, the playoffs, quick holiday with his mates. The last thing he wants is a phone chat with his wife. From what you say, Ethan’s solid, not the type to muck things up.”
Julian raised my spirits. Threatening skies, a London downpour, and sketchy directions forced me into the present. Our driver missed the out-of-the-way music company office on the first pass, leaving no time for our pitch review. We were in the office, off with the trench coats, and out of the gate.
Twenty minutes of happy talk and pointless chatter laid a friendly foundation. We pitched and London management team played devil’s advocate. Yes, but; What if sparring filed another ninety. To his credit, Julian remained brilliant and well spoken (unobtrusively checking his Girard-Perregaux), however he didn’t know the beauty business. Discussion dragged on and I sensed he sensed he was losing the upper hand.
“Gentlemen, if I may?” I stood, reiterated, then batted down every If this should occur scenario. I smiled. “You’re a wise, thoughtful group, but too many men with too many opinions to form consensus. we’re all tired. You granted us an hour and we’ve been here over two, long enough to give our proposition the thoughtful consideration it deserves.” I made a point of glancing at the sheeting rain on the window, then back to eye contact with the men. “With your permission, it’s time to award Mayfair Beauty the contract or move on.”
The room stilled. Stunned expressions replaced slack jaws and glazed eyes. The head of the management company tapped his pencil. “I like your energy.”
Julian looked my way. “Emma has every resource necessary to break records in profit and sales. You’ve seen but a glimpse. She never rests until the job is done. Frankly, you’d be foolish not go with us. Shall we commit to an award-of-contract answer within twenty-four hours’ time?” He gathered his papers. Clearly the question was rhetorical.
“Brilliant, brilliant,” he said as we got into the car. “Corker of an interruption. I’ve not seen such an astonishing moment in my entire career. Gobsmacked, to a man. You know it’s good news tomorrow.”
What I knew was it could go either way. Julian had no clue the power of our competition. I kept that to myself as we grabbed a quick, early dinner in the hotel bar, ending the day anxious, but proud and exhilarated.
“Thank you very much indeed for today,” he said as we parted. “You’re an amazing woman, Emma.”
His compliment had me glowing as I called mid-afternoon Texas. No answer. His Ethan advice nagged and I swore not to tap out his number again. We’d both be back in New York soon enough.
I arrived at Julian’s penthouse Saturday morning to a beautiful breakfast set with flowers. “Slam dunk. Emma Paige sinks the deal. You’ve done it! I’m just off the phone with our UK Connection agent and sending a courier over straightaway with the signed letter of intent and term sheet.”
“Fantastic! Oh Julian, I can’t believe it. And now, oh my gosh, we have so much to do. My mind’s racing. You have to call a board meeting; they’ll officially announce the news. I’ll prepare press statements.”
“I expect the final counter-signed agreement around one today. My assistant’s scheduling a board conference call at two. I’m told once our New York attorney receives the final contact, it’s to be executed within a fortnight. May I to take you to dinner to celebrate your achievement and my good fortune?”
“Yes indeed. And now I’ll admit I’ve begun backup for product development. Julian, to leverage exposure we should synchronise our fragrance launch with the UK-C tour. I have a creative team and suppliers standing by, plus the perfect photographer to keep on retainer. I’ll see the first packaging renditions next week in New York. Then we need to be back here to meet with the talent and finalise. I’ve briefed Imperial for the actual scent, and will see the London rep tomorrow before I fly home.”
“Incredible initiative!”
My turn to grin. “Had it gone all to pot, as you say, I wouldn’t mention any of it. No need at all unless we won.”
“Which we did!”
“Expect enormous buzz, possibly protest. Pulling a deal from under the Big Four is the biggest upset in Beautyland.”
I called my New York team. One by one I woke Bill, Jennifer, Amanda, Dustin, and Abdul, each just as anxious to know the end result. On the east side of the pond, the board of directors’ conference call garnered applause and a collective sigh of relief. This investment would yield security for Mayfair Beauty and total corporation stabilization.
Following the call Julian had a car waiting to take us to dinner. It was impossible to second guess this man so I stayed mum even when Piccadilly streets looked familiar. As we turned onto Maiden Lane, I realised Rules was his destination.
I’d been many times with Marsha and business contacts. I adored it. After his Turner and DaVinci episodes, I didn’t dare spoil his presentation and played dumb as he disclosed Rules’ reputation as the go-to place for upper class men to bring their mistresses. This was going to be interesting and fun.
