Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (29 page)

Sarah didn’t even bother to look up from her computer. “I don’t eat Italian food,” she said.

“Well, we could go somewhere else,” Elizabeth tried again.

“I don’t eat lunch.”

A couple of people who sat nearby sniggered. Elizabeth swallowed hard, determined not to let them see how she felt.

“Right, I understand,” she said quietly, turning away.

In the end, she went out on her own at lunchtime, to get some fresh air and grab a sandwich. As she walked along the street, she happened to glance in the window of Bertolli and there, sitting in the window and tucking into pasta, was the whole team—including Sarah. Ducking her head down, Elizabeth hurried on, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of witnessing her humiliation.

That had been three months ago. Three months of photocopying and filing and being snubbed by her coworkers. For a brief, wild moment, she had considered quitting. She could tell her father that she needed some time elsewhere, perhaps getting an MBA. And she might have gone through with it if it hadn’t been for Cole Greenway. She didn’t want him to think that he’d won.

The way he treated her that first day still grated, and weeks of seeing him stroll self-importantly around the office while she was forced to deal with menial tasks had infuriated her even more. But what made it worse was that every female in the department seemed to have a crush on him. She was in the ladies’ room one day, touching up her makeup, when she overheard Kathleen and Sarah talking about him.

“Last Friday, I swear I was drunk enough to beg to go home with him,” Kathleen was saying.

Sarah giggled. “I don’t blame you. Do you know if he’s single?”

“I don’t even care.”

“Kathy!” Sarah giggled again. “Although I know what you mean. He’s really hot.”

Without thinking, Elizabeth gave a loud, dismissive snort. The other two women heard her and turned.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kathleen asked nastily.

Elizabeth shrugged. “I just don’t think Cole’s all that great, that’s all.”

“Well, honey, you’re the only one.”

Back at her desk, Elizabeth turned the conversation over in her mind. Okay—maybe Cole was good looking, she admitted grudgingly. But the problem was, he was just so cocksure. Every time he walked by her in the corridor, he would give her a condescending smile, as if to say he’d taught her a lesson. And every time he did that, she would vow to herself that one day, soon, she would show him.

She just had to figure out how.

During those first few months, Elizabeth kept her head down and tried to absorb every piece of information that she could. When she wasn’t in the office, she devoted hours to reading Melville’s annual reports as well as a variety of business journals. It was from one of these that she got the idea to spend a Saturday each month working in the store. “Time on the sales floor is the best way to keep on top of what’s going on in your business,” one CEO of a global retail group proclaimed. Every day Elizabeth was learning something new about the industry. She stored away her findings and waited for an opportunity to prove herself.

It came sooner than she expected.

Late one Thursday afternoon, Cole popped his head around the door of her office to ask if she would take the minutes for this month’s board meeting.

“I’ve got loads of stuff to do . . .” she started to say.

“Sorry.” He was curt. “You’re the only one free.”

She sighed heavily. “Fine.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he said, as they walked along the corridor. “This has got to be more interesting than photocopying.”

“Plucking my eyebrows is more interesting than photocopying,” she retorted. She sounded so annoyed that he started to laugh. She glowered at him. Then she gave in and laughed, too.

In fact, the meeting was better than she’d been expecting. Most of it was routine—going through monthly sales figures. But then Cole proposed a motion that piqued her interest. A Japanese steel magnate was coming to London in a few weeks’ time. With a personal net worth of two and half billion dollars, he was retiring this year and looking to fill his time with more entrepreneurial pursuits. He was doing a tour of Europe, exploring various investment ideas.

Despite all its expansion, Melville had never entered the Asian market.
Cole thought that it was time to go into Japan, and he wanted to meet this businessman. William was more reluctant.

“The economy is terrible over there,” he pointed out. “Everyone’s using the term ‘Asian Crisis.’ Gucci issued a profit warning the other week based on the ongoing downturn in the region, and its share price fell 30 percent. Why invest now?”

“Because this is the bottom—it can only get better from here,” Cole said evenly. “Demographics are a key factor. The social landscape is changing. Sure, the country’s in a recession and the traditional breadwinner, the salaryman, is suffering. But the upside is that women are getting more disposable income. And Japanese women love designer goods. Gucci, Louis Vuitton . . . they’ve been raking it in. We’ve missed out on a big market so far—let’s take the opportunity to get out there now.”

Without thinking, Elizabeth joined in. “I agree with Cole.”

Everyone turned to look at her. Cole frowned as though he wanted her to stop, but she had something to say—finally—and she knew her opinion was worthwhile.

“We regularly get buyers in from Tokyo,” she told the board. “They pick up fifty-odd bags at once. I bet they’re taking them back home and selling them for a massive markup.”

“How do you know that?” William demanded.

Elizabeth met his eyes. “I’ve been spending some time as a salesclerk.”

The meeting moved on. But Elizabeth’s words must have had some impact, because the next day, Cole began to look into opening a branch of Melville in Japan.

A couple of weeks later, it was decided that the best way to approach the Far East was to go along with Cole’s idea of entering into a joint venture. Mr. Yamamoto, the steel magnate, was coming to London the following month to talk to prospective partners. Cole delivered the news to Elizabeth in person. But if she’d been hoping that her support in the boardroom might earn her a bigger role on the presentation team, she was wrong. He made it quite clear that Kathleen was in charge. Elizabeth would simply be helping her put together the research.

“I know maybe it’s not what you were hoping to do,” he said, “but prove yourself on this and I’ll find you something else—okay?”

Elizabeth hid her disappointment and nodded. “Okay.”

*   *   *

Of all the people in the strategy department, Kathleen had remained Elizabeth’s least favorite. The strident Scottish woman, with her no-nonsense attitude and permanent frown, might be a smart, slick ex-McKinsey consultant. But Elizabeth could tell at once that she was the wrong person to be heading up the pitch to Mr. Yamamoto. If Elizabeth had been in charge, she would have sat down and brainstormed what Yamamoto was looking for and how Melville could meet those needs. Instead, Kathleen had taken a more arrogant approach, slanting the presentation toward how great Melville was, compared to its competitors. It all felt too forced, too lacking in subtlety.

At first, Elizabeth tried to voice her concerns, but Kathleen made it clear that her suggestions weren’t welcome.

“You’re just here to put together the graphs and find any info I need,” she said nastily. “If you have a problem with that, tell Cole you want off the team.”

So Elizabeth shut up, got on with what she was told to do, and watched the train wreck unfold. When she saw the new store designs that Kathleen had prepared, she knew that they had already lost the pitch. Yamamoto was looking to invest in a little slice of England, a piece of tradition. But Kathleen’s designs didn’t play to that at all. Instead they were self-consciously modern: white walls, glass walkways, chrome fittings, lots of light and mirrors. It was the kind of anonymous decor that didn’t give any clue to the identity of the brand.

The day for the pitch dawned. Any hope Elizabeth held that Kathleen might work some magic during the presentation faded when she saw what the other woman planned to wear. She’d chosen a navy pinstriped trouser suit and tied her hair back in a slick bun. It was an aggressive, manly look and all wrong for meeting a Japanese businessman.

Things went from bad to worse. When Mr. Yamamoto interrupted Kathleen to query one of the projections on the second slide, she was brisk with him. “That will become apparent very soon,” she said, as though talking to a small child. “Why don’t you let me get through the presentation and then you can ask me any questions afterward?”

Yamamoto’s brow furrowed for a second. Then his expression cleared. “Of course,” he said politely. “Please excuse me.”

Elizabeth could tell he wasn’t happy. Kathleen hadn’t meant to be rude, but the Japanese style of doing business was simply far less confrontational.
Mr. Yamamoto listened politely for the rest of the time. But when he left the building, Elizabeth could tell he wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Back at her desk, she considered the situation. There had to be another way to get Yamamoto on board. That was when she remembered that his wife was over here with him. She picked up the dossier that she’d carefully prepared on Kumiko Yamamoto. She’d spent hours putting it together. Kathleen had barely glanced at it, but Elizabeth thought it held the key to rescuing the situation. No one had asked the basic question about why a steel magnate was bothering to diversify into luxury goods, an area he knew nothing about. Maybe if they’d taken the time to consider that his wife was a fashion icon in her native country, as well as a notorious shopaholic with an Imelda Marcos penchant for shoes . . .

Elizabeth put a call through to the stockroom. She’d made a point of befriending the guys down there. Everyone assumed because of her cut-glass accent that she was a snob, but she was actually one of the few people who didn’t care what level someone was at in the company—as long as they were doing their best for Melville.

“Hey, Gary. It’s Elizabeth. I was wondering about the new lines coming in. I wanted to send a sample to a customer.” She gave a brief description of the kind of thing she was looking for. Then she waited. “That sounds great,” she said finally. “Can I come down and take a look?”

Kumiko Yamamoto was in her suite at Claridge’s in Mayfair, waiting for her husband to return from one of his interminable business meetings. She had spent the morning shopping in Knightsbridge. She adored Europe and European fashion. Elizabeth’s instinct had been right—it had been Kumiko’s idea to look into investing in a European luxury goods name. She felt that the right one would impress her circle of friends.

There was a knock at the door. The bellboy stood outside with an unexpected delivery. She remembered to tip him: it wasn’t a Japanese custom, but the English seemed to expect it these days. Then she took the beautifully wrapped box inside to the bedroom. In black satin, with a perfectly tied white bow, it looked exciting. Quickly, she untied the ribbon and pulled off the lid. Nestled in folds of white tissue she found a pair of beautiful satin slingbacks.

She took the shoes out to examine them. Whoever had sent these had done their research. Being a hair short of five feet, she never wore a shoe that didn’t have at least a three-inch heel. These, she could tell at a glance, were three and a half. The shoes were red—her favorite color. And when she slipped them on, they fitted her dainty feet perfectly.

She picked up the “With Compliments” slip. There was a name and phone number on it. She hesitated for a moment and then started to dial.

When Yasuo Yamamoto got back to his hotel suite late that afternoon, he was surprised to find his wife having tea with Elizabeth Melville. He had already dismissed the idea of investing in her father’s company. He had felt insulted today that William Melville himself hadn’t come to meet him. And then to send that dreadful woman in his place.

But one of the few people Yasuo Yamamoto paid attention to was his wife, and she persuaded him to listen to what the young lady had to say. Half an hour later, he was a convert. This was exactly what he had been looking for earlier. William’s daughter spoke with passion. She truly believed in the brand, and she had a vision for the company.

“What about the store interiors?” he asked. “Are you in favor of what I was shown earlier today?”

This had been a major bone of contention for him. He’d hated the modern designs—there was quite enough of that in Tokyo already.

Elizabeth chose her words carefully. “Personally, I’d rather go for something more classic, something that epitomizes the values that Melville is associated with . . .”

She began to outline the ideas she had for the new store concepts. The look would be expensive and timeless, capturing the quintessential Englishness of the Melville name. Regency wallpaper, rosewood paneling, deep pile carpets so soft you could sleep on them. But there would also be the requisite modern touches to make the stores cutting edge: voice-activated elevators, push-button-operated display cabinets, state-of-the-art computerized store directories, so customers could locate and order exactly what they wanted—even if it was in the Paris or London store. It would be the perfect blend of traditional and contemporary.

As she spoke, Yamamoto began to nod. This was more what he’d had in mind. His wife caught his eye and smiled. As usual, she had been right. This was someone he could do business with.

Two days later, Yamamoto called William to say that he was willing to enter into a partnership with Melville.

“I have one condition,” the steel magnate said.

“Anything,” William told him.

“I want your daughter, Elizabeth, to oversee the store opening in Tokyo.”

It took all of William’s control not to sound surprised. “Elizabeth?”

“Yes, of course. After all, it was she who persuaded me to sign up with you in the first place.”

William wasn’t impressed with Elizabeth going behind his back, as he saw it. In fact, he was furious.

“Well, there’s no way that I’m allowing her to go,” he said dismissively. “She doesn’t have enough experience.”