“Lots of props,” I replied as we juggled my containers. “They’re talented as all get-out, but don’t be afraid to play the schoolmarm when needed.”
We entered the room and five working class young men stood up. Taylor bowed to me. May I present the UK-Connection. “Gentlemen, have at it.” Five hands shot forward.
“I’m George, from Cheshire.”
“Cian, Cardiff. In Wales.”
“Jasper. Manchester. Not in Wales,” Cian elbowed him.
“Tommy. Bibury, Gloucestershire, and proud of it.”
“Ennis. Dublin’s finest.”
I Repeated their well-rehearsed introduction.
“Spot on! Will you listen to that,” Tommy said. I displayed my props, explained the fragrance creation process, our plans for their input and distributed storyboards with samples. “The most important will be the name, logo, and package designs. My New York team’s offered suggestions but the final decisions will be yours. We like M words for the sound and think it could be called Moments, Mesmerise or Midnight.” They stopped drumming the table and tapping their thighs. “Blimey. Like writing me lyrics,” Tommy said.
“Sounds good in the throat. Midniiiiighttt.”
“Mesmerise.” Cian cupped Jasper’s chin. “Here’s a face, could mesmerise the birds in the balconies.”
“And don’t he want us all to know,” Tommy added.
“Hey now,” Taylor said. “We’ll vote at the next meeting. Take this seriously.”
I passed around iconic bottles. They studied Chanel Number 5, White Diamonds, even JLo’s recent launch. By then they were hooked. During the break, after finger waving at Tommy and Ennis for smoking, they asked about a husband. When they clamoured for baseball details, I embellished Ethan’s farm team career a bit, and took pride in adding that he now coached.
By the next meeting we were old buddies. “We vote today, gentlemen. But first your nose.” I brought out ‘Smelly Sticks’ (Ethan’s term). I dipped tongue depressor sized blotters into scents to clear their sinuses. Then they sampled fragrances currently on the market: Vera Wang, Carolina Chic, Britney Spears’ 2002 launch.
“Blimey! Petrol and citrus,” came from one end of the table, and a healthy sneeze from the other. With an occasional nudge from Taylor and lesser managers, their input grew serious. “Emma, we’ll be blinking, bleedin’ experts. When our voices give out, we’ll just hire out the noses.”
“There is such a career,” I said. “Perfumers. Seriously. Select men and women with expertise, knowledge of chemistry and an excellent sense of smell. We call them noses.”
George tweaked Tommy’s. “Chemistry? I’m out.”
Decision-making closed with the vote and Taylor tallied the slips of paper. “You blokes’ve agreed on something for once. It’s Mesmerise. And by god, it’s unanimous.”
The wet weather stayed mild for head-clearing walks. I shopped and soaked up the English Christmas ambiance, including Henry Sotheran LTD on Sackville Street, half expecting Bob
Cratchitt and Tiny Tim at the entrance. Ethan flew in on December fifteenth. Since our Lake Allamuchy weekend, we’d spent so much time-sharing Julian trivia, I talked him into a visit to Tate Britain. (He wore the cashmere sweater.)
“There,” I whispered as we strolled among the Turners. “To the right of The Shipwreck. That’s Turner’s finished version of The Angel Standing in the Sun.”
He stepped forward and squinted. “A pot head for sure. ‘Painted while stoned.’ Says so right there in the small print.” We Christmas shopped, compared Harrods’ holiday windows to our favourites along Fifth Avenue. We enjoyed dinner at Rules and sex at Claridge’s. As promised, my work and Ethan’s week concluded with front and centre concert seats amid the screamers. We flew home with photos and CDs covered in personal notes, doodles and autographs from George, Cian, Jasper, Tommy, and Ennis, to my nephews, the ultimate Christmas gift for Genevieve’s boys.
Chapter Nineteen
Mayfair Beauty opened 2003 by relocating from Rockefeller Plaza to a slightly smaller space on Madison Ave and Sixty-sixth Street. Our still-fashionable address and smart, creative interior exuded fashion, luxury, and beauty sense. My last piece of the financial revamp upped the aura of best-in-class for beauty industry and saved fifteen thousand dollars a month. In just over a year my New York strategic planning team eliminated excuses. Mayfair ran as a well-oiled machine. Our annual board meeting was months away but Julian required financial blueprints to maintain funding approval and investments to keep the company in the black. It took two weeks but we synchronised schedules. My assistant gussied up the Mayfair conference room. I gathered our VP and director of Marketing; Bill Grose and his Operations team; plus Dustin for all things PR, Special Events, and on-line Social Media Sales. Jennifer corralled New York, New Jersey and Connecticut sales reps. The rest participated via conference call speaker. Our Chief Operating Officer sat at the head of the table with our finance guru. I assigned two executive assistants to take copious notes then distribute them to all present, with CC to Julian, and me.
After anecdotes about the band and screaming teenagers, I leaned forward, flattened palms on the table. “Our Mesmerise’ launch must break sales records in domestic and international markets. Our small B level beauty company will execute the largest sought-after beauty licensing deal in history.”
“No pressure there,” Bill said.
“Stay confident,” I replied. “According to every focus group, we’ve produced a winner. It tests high to off-the-charts. Our pros in Development estimate a ninety percent chance this will be like nothing done in past campaigns.”
I made constant eye contact. “We want to shock the beauty industry, outsell the icons. Knock the socks off Chanel, Dior, Prada, Oscar de la Renta—all the big-time houses. And, of course, sweep the fragrance awards from major companies in major countries.” My Marsha Johnson imitation revved into high gear. “We industry and consumers UK Connection and Mayfair have created the fastest selling fragrance of all time.” Jennifer led the clapping.
“Stay alert for counterfeits. Inside intel’s heard back alley, black market operations tidbits already. if any of you hears so much as a whisper pertaining to knock-offs, contact me or our COO to shut it down before they get too far.” I handed out the market/region briefs on sales goals and expectations. “We’ll review this individually in coming weeks. Consider yourselves neighbours in the village it takes to pull off our launch.” I smiled at more applause. “Thank you for the hard work. Consider this a boost to your careers.”
Our contract kicked in and clothing designers courted, eager to add exposure, elevate lifestyle awareness. By the end of January I had high expectations for Fashion Week. On a brittle, bright afternoon my housekeeping service reported Alyssa was quitting to care for her aging parents. I had them send her flowers and met Misha Baskin, the eager young replacement for her three-days-a-week routine. Ethan’s early commute across the river left introductions to me. We rushed through critical points. I explained Ethan would have more free time to answer her questions, walk her through our schedules, and explain our doorman laundry and dry-cleaning routine.
Nevertheless, clothing to go out or clean pickups in their cleaner bags still hung over the foyer chair on too many nights. Cans sat in the trash instead of the recycle basket. Ethan and I bickered over it and her in the gloom of mid-winter Manhattan. Better than Xanax or Alyssa’s’ return, February Fashion Week arrived. Sure enough, Mayfair’s UK-C contract gave us enough panache and credibility that Diane Von Furstenberg expressed interest. Icy downpours be damned. I left the Bryant Park thrilled her spring collection came with the project. As I huddled in my new neon green rain slicker and dashed for waiting town cars, a man positioned a large umbrella over my head.
“Mrs Emma Paige?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He handed me a legal document. “You have been served.”
“A deposition,” I cried into Julian’s answering machine as soon as I reached my home office. “Carmine! The scumbag’s demanding I give sworn, expert testimony.” I repeated it into Darlene’s. My guts were back in knots.
“His infractions and the evidence should have kept Carmine in prison for years,” I whined to Darlene over strong coffee. “Hell, no. His deep pockets and flashy-smart attorney found technicalities in the legal process. Bingo, released before the holidays. Most of his Christopoulos inheritance has gone to legal expenses. Emma, he sees himself as broke. You know how the trade pubs covered Mayfair’s deal with the UK Connection. Now they’re applauding you as running the company. Voila. Carmine finds his ‘Ah Hah’ moment.”
“I hate it, but I get it.”
“That much you can share with Ethan.” She put her hand on my arm. “As for the rest, entre nous, Ems. You must understand the rest of this will be confidential.”
“Go ahead.”
