“I see, Mr Hart. So you can think of no circumstances when a win-win might be appropriate?”
“Oh, but I can. I would define a win-win as when I’m faced by two opponents simultaneously and they both come off worse.” I looked the immaculately made-up HR assistant in the eye. “And when I am faced with an opponent, that is invariably the outcome.”
A flush of colour appeared in the assistant’s cheeks and she looked down, sucking the end of her pen.
“How very refreshing,” purred Channing. “We do like winners at Gatesave, Mr Hart. Tell me, if I were to ask your current colleagues what they think of you, what would they say?”
“I believe they would say that Felix Hart is a serious man, whose drive to achieve is matched only by his attention to detail. A person who focuses on the task at hand, dismisses petty distractions, and possesses an innate ability to spot commercial opportunities.”
“Are you a steamroller, Mr Hart, crushing all before you?”
“A steamroller is slow, blunt and noisy, Mr Channing. I prefer to think of myself as a snowplough, swift and clean, neatly cleaving obstacles aside, leaving a clear path for those who follow in my wake. The perfect combination of grip and grit.”
Channing raised his eyebrows, the movement of his plump hand quickening against the fur. “Grit, you say? I like that.”
“Would they say you were a supportive colleague?” asked his assistant.
“They would say I am capable of bearing a heavy load, and that I am generous with my expertise, but that I have little time for passengers. Unless they are flying business class and paying for the privilege, of course.”
Channing leant forward and stared me in the eye. “Are you a giver or a taker, Mr Hart?”
“Both, Mr Channing, depending on the circumstances.”
Channing leant back in surprise.
“When I’m buying, I bring a forensic approach to negotiation, and I see my role as extracting every penny from those with whom I wrestle, without fear or favour. But when it comes to selling, my generosity to my customers is boundless. I exist merely to serve, to accommodate their most ambitious demands, without complaint.”
Channing nodded, clearly pleased, stroking his personal organiser even faster. “And what would you say is your greatest weakness, Mr Hart?” whispered his assistant, pen poised above her neat shorthand.
“My passion, I’m afraid. Sometimes it can overwhelm my less engaged colleagues.” The assistant’s bright red lips quivered as she scribbled, open-mouthed, in her notebook.
“Well, I hope you learn to channel that passion productively,” murmured Channing, making a note of his own. He looked up, snapping his fur-lined notebook shut. “And do you have any questions for us?”
Yes, I thought, have I got the job and how much fucking cash are you paying? “Both of you are Gatesave colleagues, so you’re clearly at the top of your game,” I gushed. “I’d be fascinated to know how you made it to the pinnacle of the human resources industry.”
I didn’t get where I am without a strong sense of empathy and emotional interest in my fellow colleagues. My interviewers swelled with pride as they delivered potted histories of their personal climb up the greasy pole. In Channing’s case, I suspected, more greasy poles than most see in a lifetime. When they’d finished, I thanked them and we all stood.
“It’s been invigorating meeting you, Mr Hart, thank you for your time. Ms Edwards will show you out.”
I felt the interview had gone well and I was right. Before the end of the afternoon, Melissa from Octane Consulting called me.
“Congratulations Felix. Gatesave intend to make you an offer. Check your email.”
They were offering twice the salary I was on at Charlie’s Cellar. I called Melissa back.
“I’m very flattered but the salary is pretty similar to my own. I’ll need another ten thousand if I’m going to move.”
“Nice try, Felix. But we have your entire company’s current salary records. Maybe if your company hadn’t just told half its HR team that they’re to be made redundant, Charlie’s Cellar might have been able to keep their records secret. I know you’re paid sweet FA at Charlie’s. This will double your salary and, given your rather short career to date, it’s a rather generous offer. Gatesave appear to rate you quite highly, actually.”
It had been worth a try.
“You’re on a sinking ship, Felix. Time to move up to the premier league, don’t you think? Accept the offer and do it quickly. They won’t wait.” She hung up.
I knocked on snakey James Nelson’s door the next day and placed the envelope of resignation on his desk. I apologised, not that I was the slightest bit sorry, and explained I’d been offered a great opportunity elsewhere.
Nelson’s head flicked from the envelope to me then back to his computer screen. “Fuck off then.”
So that’s what they mean by the death of gentlemanly capitalism, I thought. If any other little turd had spoken to me like that, I’d have grabbed his pants and given him the wedgie of his life. But I probably needed a reference from the sod, and inducing a dislocated testicle might have counted against me, so I left his office without a word.
I had my farewell party a couple of weeks later down the Royal Oak. It was a legendary event. We’d bunged the landlord a pallet-load of free beer and wine and he let us take over the place. Clive and Gillian joined us, there were speeches, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house – or a dry breast, for that matter, because everyone was issued with a bottle of Champagne to spray around the room. After some dancing on the tables we finished the day with a rousing rendition of ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and yours truly was hoisted aloft by the stronger members of the logistics team, four pairs of knickers around my head, as half the office snogged the other half on the beer-soaked carpet.
Charlie’s Cellar didn’t last much longer. Most of the personnel at Tinto Towers were poached by other companies, no doubt helped by Melissa and her team of vultures at Octane Consulting. Inevitably a few hung around, waiting for the grim reaper, as suppliers refused one by one to deliver more booze unless they were paid for outstanding debts, and the shelves of the stores slowly emptied.
When payroll announced that the payment of salaries would be delayed by a week, everyone knew the game was up. Store staff gathered up whatever booze remained on their shelves and flogged it to their local pubs to recoup owed wages, or held all-night closing-down parties. A couple of managers did a runner to Spain with the contents of their safes but most just locked up and posted the keys through the letterbox.
Fortunately I had leapt from the inferno just in time. On a crisp, clear November morning, just one week after my farewell party, I arrived at Gatesave’s Head Office for my first day. I paused for a minute to take in the vast, gleaming glass building, its fascia reflecting the silvery Thames. No more beige, peeling paint and out-of-order elevators. This was a workplace more in keeping with my aspirations.
I had indeed joined the premier league.
2.3
The Pink Priest
Gordon Bannerman, Head of Execution for Alcoholic Beverages, Carbonated Drinks and Impulse Grocery, was a well-built man in his late fifties and nearly as tall as me. He met me in reception, grasped my hand with a loud “Ha!” and shook it firmly. He appeared to be an avuncular fellow, rather like a jolly bank manager, his face creased by laughter lines and an occasional flash from the gold fillings at the back of his mouth.
“Right, you. Welcome to the Gatesave family. No time to lose, you’ve inherited a burning ship. We had to get rid of the last buyer. Didn’t really have what it took. Ha!” Bannerman grinned like an enthusiastic crocodile. On closer examination, he looked less like a happy-go-lucky bank manager and more like the zealous organiser of a badger-baiting circle.
“I can’t wait to get stuck in, sir.”
We entered the lift. It rose quickly and silently to the sixth floor.
“Good. So, here’s your area of responsibility – yo
u’ll be looking after Germany…”
Oh well, I had a soft spot for the misty, schloss-strewn Rhine, not to mention a hard spot for their liberated and fair womenfolk. Achtung Mädchen, here comes Felix!
“Eastern Europe…”
Bugger. Not exactly the most up-and-coming region. I thought I’d seen the last of Transylvania’s pot-holed roads. Could be worse, though. Bound to be a few more rip-roaring trips to Varna with Georgi.
“Portugal…”
Ok, that’s more like it. It may not be the largest wine producing country but a nice, hospitable place to visit with good food and fine-looking brunettes. There were the charming cities of Oporto and Lisbon, the lush Port vineyards of the Douro, the sun-kissed landscape of the Alentejo. Yes, that would do nicely.
“…and England.”
Sod that. I didn’t get into this game to stand in an Essex field sampling Chateau bloody Basildon. And now, a big, glamorous area please. California? Argentina, perhaps? Italy?
We stepped out of the lift. The Head of Execution stared at me, grinning, gold fillings glittering from the back of his mouth. “Yes? Think you can handle that then? Any questions?”
“Oh. Is that it?”
“Ha! Is that it?” Bannerman parroted me, guffawing incredulously. Then he jabbed his fist into my lower ribs. I exhaled sharply. He was quick for an old guy. I sensed I shouldn’t punch him back. When it came to physical violence, the Head of Execution was clearly a giver, not a taker. “You’ve got a lot to prove, Hart. That’s quite enough responsibility for a junior buyer to be getting on with!”
As I rubbed my bruised ribs, Bannerman walked me across the vast trading floor. There must have been a couple of hundred people on the sixth floor alone – more than the entire staff complement of grey old Tinto Towers. We weaved through the sea of desks and arrived at the Drinks Buying Department.
“Trisha! I’ll leave this young man with you. Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the job, won’t you? Ha!”
A jolly looking, stout woman with an idiotically wide smile jumped to her feet. “Hello!” she exclaimed.
“Cheerio then, don’t cock it up!” chuckled Bannerman. As he departed, he thumped me from behind with his tightly balled fist, his knuckles cracking into my spine. I arched my back in pain and he strode off, roaring with laughter.
“Don’t worry about Gordon, he’s very tactile,” laughed the woman. “I’m Patricia Hocksworth, call me Trisha. This is the wine team. Everybody, say hello to Felix!” A bunch of surly looking characters eyed me from over their computer monitors. Nobody said a word.
“This is Joan Armitage, she looks after Spanish and South American wine. She’s a Minstrel of Wine!”
I nodded and smiled to a well-dressed woman wearing half-moon spectacles. She looked me up and down for a few seconds and then nodded before returning, unsmiling, to her screen. Happy New Year to you too, I thought. You like the look of young Felix, though, don’t you? Shame you won’t be getting any, you miserable old sow.
“This is George Bolus, he’s the buyer for Australia, New Zealand and South Africa.”
An arrogant-looking man with a face like a ham looked up, smirking. “Oh, you’re the guy from that failed wine merchant aren’t you? Well, watch and learn. And let us know when the pace gets too fast for you, eh?” He chuckled to himself.
I gave a little laugh too, imagining his expression if I slapped a keyboard across his smug face.
“This is Timmy Durange. He buys French and Italian wine.” A pale-looking man with oily black hair peeped over the top of his screen and grimaced. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to smile or just struggling to keep his breakfast down.
“And finally, Bill Teddington, he looks after spirits and liqueurs. Say hello Bill – don’t be a grump!”
Bill, a ruddy-faced man in his fifties, stared at me with unalloyed hatred. “Hello Felix. If you need any help, ask someone else. Got it?”
Well, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover but they struck me as a right bunch of arseholes. And, not for the first time in my short career, I was by some distance the most junior member of the team. Well, that would have to change. There was no way I was going to be the whipping boy for this preening collection of social skid-marks.
I spent my first couple of weeks reading sales reports and talking to suppliers on the phone. It was clear that my first challenge was to rebuild Gatesave’s German wine business. It was in horrendous decline and we’d lost a chunk of market share over the past year – presumably the reason my predecessor had been thrown under the bus.
The range wasn’t particularly inspiring. Most of what we sold was cheap, sweet white wine – Liebfraumilch, Hock and light Moselle. At the expensive end there were a couple of more interesting estate wines, fabulous aromatic Rieslings with gothic labels and unpronounceable names, which nobody bought.
And then there was Pink Priest. This was an ancient brand of rosé wine from the Rhineland, created over one hundred years ago and allegedly a favourite of Queen Victoria. The label showed an old church, in front of which stood a wrinkled old man in a long pink robe, hood half-pulled over his bald head, looking like some freakish child molester from the depths of the Black Forest. The brand was all the rage in the sixties and seventies but had rather fallen out of fashion in the last decade or so. It still sold quite well, however, to pensioners who remembered it from their youth, ironical students who used the empty bottles as candlesticks, and the more blasphemously inclined members of the homosexual community who found the unusual bulbous bottle ideal for recreational purposes.
Pink Priest was owned by Paris-Blois Brands International, a huge luxury goods conglomerate. Much to their horror, they found they had accidentally purchased it when they acquired a group of Champagne brands five years earlier. It sat, incongruously, in their portfolio of Swiss watches, fashionista handbags, bling Cognac and premium Scotch whiskies. The company had attempted to dispose of this embarrassing acquisition but nobody wanted to buy and, given that it was fairly profitable, they quietly kept it going.
Paris-Blois Brands did not, it was fair to say, consider Pink Priest a priority, but for me it was the key to my whole range. I calculated that if I could double the sales of Pink Priest it would turn my entire German wine portfolio from an embarrassing sales decline into respectable growth. And so, after several weeks of trying, I finally managed to schedule an appointment with Sandra Filton, Senior National Account Manager for Paris-Blois Brands International, at Gatesave’s Head Office.
Until this point in my career, my suppliers had been chinless wonders stuttering their way through fine-wine sales catalogues, animated Italians with limited English skills, and the odd professional Sales Director like Georgi thrown in. But this would be my first meeting with a genuine multi-national, a company even more powerful and better resourced than Gatesave itself.
On the day of the meeting, reception buzzed and announced that my visitors had arrived. I took the lift down to the ground floor and scanned the waiting area. Usually, a supplier would be an anxious-looking individual, furtively meeting the eyes of everyone who emerged from the lifts, but there was nobody in reception who fitted the bill.
“Your visitors are already set up in meeting room twelve,” called one of the receptionists.
I entered room twelve. A very attractive young woman, her dyed blonde hair tied back in an elegant pony tail, sat on one side of the table. She wore a stylish black suit with an open jacket over a white blouse, against which strained a superbly arrogant pair of breasts. She was flanked by two unsmiling men in pin-striped suits. All three had expensive laptops open in front of them.
“Sandra Filton from PB Brands International.” She stood, gave a thin, professional not-quite-smile and held out a hand. Her grip was strong and dry.
“Felix Hart. I see you’ve made yourselves at home?”
“This is John, this is Matthew. They’ll be supporting me in this encounter.”
John and Matthew nodd
ed to me without smiling. Encounter? What was this, a boxing match? Well, it may as well have been. And I was about to find out what happens when you go into a professional fight, underweight and without training.
“Morning chaps,” I began. “Right Sandra, let’s get down to business shall we? First of all, we need to look at the Pink Priest cost price. Too high I think.” That usually puts them on the back foot.
“Shut up Felix. I’m not interested in your fucking opinion. We decide the cost price and it’s going up.”
I was astonished by her outrageous disrespect. I was used to being kowtowed to by terrified suppliers, not dictated to. But I was also bemused by how arousing I found her foul-mouthed assertiveness. I do confess I felt a sudden rush of blood to the nether regions. I tried to regain control. “I’m appalled by your inability to negotiate in a respectful manner, Ms Filton. This is Gatesave Supermarkets and we don’t take kindly to being spoken to in that tone. I shall be taking this up with your manager. May I know who that is, please?”
“Of course Felix. His name is Pierre Boulle. He’s the International Sales Director of PB Brands, based in Paris. I have him on speed dial – let me get him for you now.” She nodded to John, or perhaps it was Matthew, who produced a mobile phone, called up a number and passed it to Sandra. She waited a few seconds and began speaking in French.
“Bonjour Pierre, ça va?” Her French was easy, immaculate and extremely sexy. She explained that she was in a meeting with a recalcitrant and immature buyer who was new in his role, didn’t have a clue what he was doing and wished to complain about her negotiating style. I was somewhat dismayed to hear her include the words ‘merde’ and ‘imbecile’.
“Here you go, Felix. Pierre would love to talk to you.”
I took the phone, feeling I was already on the ropes.
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