Instead of clearheaded preparation for Wednesday’s staff extravaganza, Thursday’s press conference, pre-concert meet and greet, and Friday’s board meeting, I closed Monday tangled in confusion, suspicion and doubt. Shoving my hands through my hair while staring at my desk photos of Ethan-in-uniform and Muriel Beausoleil accomplished nothing. I called Darlene and laid out my situation. “Before you reply,” I added, “attorney-client privilege lets me give you information and explain my creepy feeling about Carmine?”
“As your attorney, I strongly suggest you remove your toe from uncharted creepy feeling waters. Plus a client’s communication isn’t privileged if she intends to cover up a crime or fraud.”
“I’m not covering up anything. Isgro is. Or, more probably, Julian is.” I forced myself to stay on the Carmine track.
“Emma, this could be a colossal waste of your money and my time but I’ll stick my toe in for you. Nevertheless, you’ve got better and safer things to do than turn over rocks looking for more dirt on Carmine and his idiot gangsters.”
Bouncing my angst and suspicion off my attorney rather than my photographer loosened my knots. After the board meeting and members’ departures, for sure my stress level would plummet. Without a doubt Julian would suggest a review of the week’s success before he flew home Saturday morning. I could yank the celebratory evening from the Swiss spa.
My concerns required calm demeanour and complete sobriety. My file snooping and Thomas’s duplicated photos put me on shaky ground. I had no intention of betraying Wilma’s indiscretion, but no qualms sharing spread sheet information. My WTF punch list grew.
Zurich Move: Facts and timeline. Who goes? When?
Kinetic counterfeiting: Knowledge? Involvement?
Relationship with Carmine: Truth!
Ethan’s Jacoby offer: Misha; Julian/Bat & Glove. Truth!
If nothing else I’d see Ethan at the concert and Friday marked the end of our no-contact agreement. The light from an empty weekend shone at the end of my boulder strewn, Launch Week tunnel. Here to there seemed an eternity.
An overdue Central Park run under bright May skies kick started Tuesday. Thomas texted as I crossed Fifth Avenue. U ready? I tapped back: All ok. Clear headed & ready to launch. Darlene called. “Anything not in the public domain regarding Kinetic and Imperial, and especially possible Petrenko connections will take digging. Carmine has seven months left in the Danbury FCI. He’ll likely be released by New Year’s.”
“Let that old acquaintance be forgot,” I muttered.
“Take it to heart, Toots,” she replied.
At three o’clock I launched myself over to the Waldorf
Astoria, unpacked and set up Command Central with Jennifer and Dustin. Their enthusiasm for my Royal Suite and upcoming events kept us focused. Constantly ringing cell phones underscored this was not the time to embroil them in anything but the tasks at hand. We finished over supper served in the suite’s renowned dining room, soon to be transformed for our celebration.
Wednesday evening kicked into high gear as my New York team mingled in my suite. Andrew Case arrived from Chicago and chatted playlist with Dustin. Thomas and I went over last-minute photo suggestions until impromptu jazz suddenly wailed from the living room piano. Atticus sat on the bench; head cocked toward the keys. Surprise enough, but Julian, impeccably business casual, stood at the lid prop tapping his foot. Like a scene from a cheesy thriller, he turned and we locked glances. “Julian! I had no idea you’d be able to stop by.”
“Just a pop-in on my way to dinner with a few of the board members. I’ve no intention of interrupting. Looks to be a superb night. With all firm and in place for tomorrow, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.” Something flickered in his studied blue-eyed stare. He knows erased everything else in my head. My files snooping? Thomas’s? He knows, and he knows I know. At that moment Amanda Denton pounced into the foyer and bounded over.
“I’m here! Flew in with Atticus but needed a nap.” I introduced her to Julian and she offered her hand.
“Lovely to finally meet you. I’m coordinating Mesmerise placement for the release. I’m here to pay close attention to tomorrow’s controlled chaos.”
His expression returned to normal. “Emma’s assured me we’re to come out alive.”
“A good thing. By the way, congratulations to you both on the Windmill purchase.” She turned to me. “Maureen McDaniel knows I work for Mayfair and gave me the details personally Monday morning. She did say nothing’s public as of yet. I only mention it since here we are face-to-face. When you fold Windmill into Imperial, I’d welcome the chance to talk strategy and my place in your plans.”
I turned to Julian for his correction. His expression shifted as it had at the piano, as it had in Zurich when I laid out my Ethan accusations. “We’ve all manner of business opportunities up for discussion, but it’s prudent to wait until Launch Week’s put to bed.”
“Absolutely. That was my thirty second pitch. I look forward to the right time and place to continue.” Amanda thanked us then headed for Atticus still playing the piano. Julian avoided my stare by checking his international everything watch. “I’ve much to explain, of course, though we can agree this is neither the time nor the place.”
“Yes we can but Maureen McDaniel is Gregory’s wife so I’ll assume Amanda’s information is accurate.”
He paused. “Yes.”
“I’ll see you out.”
“No need.”
Like hell. I accompanied him anyway, past imbibing team members and camera-laden Thomas giving no indication he was listening. If he had recorded my snooping, he knew my discoveries gave me leverage. I opened the foyer door. “Julian, I was so clear about the pitfalls of this purchase. Windmill’s entire P&L is exaggerated. You’ll have McDaniel-the-amateur at your heels. My question’s not why you changed your mind but why behind my back?”
“If you’ve a mind to jump right in, I give you my word. Friday when we’ve cleared the decks we’ll use the evening to walk through current developments step by step.”
I bit my tongue to keep from spewing, “Shutting down our New York headquarters as well?”
He left. Dinner was served. As we ate, I tossed out tidbits about the Duchess of Windsor’s dinner for Estee Lauder and compared those queens of high style and fragrance to the UK-Connection. It brought laughs from my crew and kept me focused. CFO, Sam Garten, raised his glass. “To our very own Duchess of Mayfair and this royal evening.”
Over the “hear, hears,” I gave everyone a one-thousand-dollar American Express gift card, plus a smaller one for Find Your Soul candle shop. My enthusiasm was real. I concluded by asking Bill to stand. Dustin and Sebastian Ballantine, our Director of International Business, set down a package. “In appreciation for all your overnights in the office.” Bill tore away the wrapping and pulled a large bottle of Belvedere Vodka from inside the coiled LL Bean sleeping bag.
Atticus clinked his glass. “Dessert will be served in the salon. Life’s a cabaret, old chums.” We assembled, the play mix rebooted and he introduced two female impersonators. The drag queens knocked Whitney Houston and Diana Ross songs out of the park. As Thomas packed up his cameras, the evening settled into camaraderie that closed my throat.
This group, this family of professionals, had cleaned corporate house, turned Mayfair around and put us on the fragrance map. More change was in the air. I owed every one of them honest information I didn’t have, honest answers to where we were headed. Julian owed them.
The stress of separating my personal issues from professional refused to let up. By midnight I was pacing my now deserted suite. Anxiety blindsided me. Imagined Julian arguments swam in my head. I struggled to remember who of my crew knew what. Bill unearthed the Zurich move. Amanda knew of the Windmill turnabout, Thomas, the photo files. I was blurry over how much of his scouting job and Misha info Ethan had admitted to me, versus how much I’d thrown at him. Should I confide in Jennifer?
The dreaded flush heated my cheeks, oozed into my scalp, then drained into a cold sweat. “I can count on Thomas to be at the press event well in advance. Hotel staff will clean and clear while I’m with Julian.” I grabbed someone’s half-empty glass sitting on the dining room sideboard and threw back watered-down scotch not giving a thought to screaming teenaged hoards, press briefings, escape routes, or the Madison Square Garden frenzy awaiting me.
The following morning looping mental images of Julian’s photos, detailed files on our private lives and Misha Baskin as some sort of hired marriage assassin nearly obliterated the murky details of my professional situation. By then I’d made it to Julian’s thirty-third floor Cole Porter Suite, read the commemorative plague and knocked.
He opened the door, all charm and enthusiasm while gesturing to the dining room. Alistair called hello while he circled the mahogany table and laid out board meeting agenda folders. Would I like a tour; Of course the piano was not the composer’s; Frank Sinatra also used the suite as a residence. I was in no mood for Julian’s to-the-manner-born routine and it must have showed. He took both my hands.
“Bollocks, Emma. Amanda Denton’s charming and no doubt qualified, but you’ve not been informed only because I wanted to ensure your week was clear of the very distractions such as Windmill.” We crossed to the sitting area. “Earlier in the week I alerted your team that I’ve scheduled our Versteckte Hügel getaway for Sunday. They heartily approved my whisking you away for a well-deserved retreat to celebrate your achievement. Zurich, then on to St. Moritz where we can lay out future plans in a far more relaxed atmosphere. I’d planned to surprise you this afternoon.”
