“Bonjour Felix. It sounds like you ’ave a problem?” He had a gravelly, heavily accented voice.
“Yes, as a matter of fact…”
“Shut your fuck-eeng face you preek. If you cause my Sandra any problems, I will cause you much beeger problems, you understand? My CEO is ’aving dinner with your CEO next week at Par-ee Fashion Week, at my company’s expense. So ’ow about I arrange for ’im to ’ear you are incompetent and are fuck-eeng everything up? Comprendre?”
The phone went dead. I handed it back.
“Don’t worry Felix – you’re on a learning curve. Everyone’s allowed to be a bit of a dick when they’ve just started. The question is, are you a fast learner or not?” I could see the shape of Sandra’s nipples pressing against the thin fabric. I suspected her breasts were so proud, so outrageously firm, they would mock the mere suggestion of a bra.
“Let me explain what’s going to happen now,” she said. “I’m going to give you a price increase and you’re going to bend over the desk and take it like a bitch. But I will be gentle, Felix. And I shall ease your pain with a substantial tranche of marketing funding, allowing you to promote the brand and drive those all-important sales. How does that sound?”
I thought it sounded filthy, and I was as horny as hell. I wondered if her two pin-striped gimps might step outside while Sandra literally delivered on what she’d promised. I composed myself. “I agree in principle, but I want a clearly set out programme for the next twelve months. If we’re going to get Pink Priest back on track, I want to do it properly. I want to double sales by Christmas.”
“Oh well done Felix! You are a fast learner – I so hoped you would be. John will send you a summary of this encounter along with the price increase and our marketing proposal.”
They all pushed their laptops shut and stood. Sandra extended her hand once more. “Since we’re all working together so constructively, I’ll send through a ticket for the Grand Prix in July. We have a marquee at Silverstone and we always invite the Gatesave directors plus a few key buyers. We are the official Champagne sponsor, you see. You won’t be allowed in the premier seats, of course – you’re not important enough – but you can stand with the plebs. It should be a fun day out.”
Excellent! My first proper junket and a Formula One race at that. This is what big business was all about. It certainly beat a plate of Bulgarian stew at Georgi’s restaurant.
***
Two months later, race day arrived and a right orgy of glamour and over indulgence it was too. The Gatesave directors were flown in by helicopter, the VIPs buzzing overhead as I crawled for two hours along the traffic-fouled approach to the racetrack. But, once there, I was allowed into the Paris-Blois marquee where the Champagne and caviar were flowing. I was soon surrounded by a bevy of lightly dressed promotions girls, all anxious to explain their marketing plans for the Champagne sponsor, mainly through the medium of touch.
I was involved in a detailed discussion of brand equity round the back of the marquee when I heard a familiar voice. “Zip yourself up darling and make yourself scarce.” It was Sandra, cigarette in hand, smirking at me and my companion. I helped the lady secure her top, which had indeed become rather loose during our conversation, and she disappeared back into the tent. “I heard you were a bit of a player Felix. Well, who can blame you when it’s all laid out on a platter?”
“I’m simply immersing myself in your corporate culture Sandra. Would it be inappropriate to ask you to share your own strategy on customer acquisition?”
“Oh Felix, yes. It really would be wildly inappropriate. In fact, mister junior buyer, you’ve more chance of being appointed CEO this afternoon than ever getting your hands on these.” She didn’t have to look down – it was perfectly clear what she was talking about. She wore an elegant, lace-trimmed, blue summer dress, the curves of her chest hovering, unsupported, a tantalising hair’s breadth from freedom.
“Well, I do aim to be CEO one day. Wouldn’t you like to be part of my career development?”
Sandra took a drag from her cigarette and placed the forefinger of her other hand against my chest, tracing a little circle. She exhaled into my face. “There are three things I look for in a man. One, good looks. You get a big tick there, Felix, I must confess. Two, not too bright, but intelligent enough to dress without help. Again, a tick for you, I think.”
She tapped her finger against my left nipple. I had a boner the size of a post box.
“Three, the kind of money that means he can fly into Silverstone in his own aircraft.” She turned and nodded at the row of helicopters parked in front of the race track. “My boyfriend owns that one. If you can point out yours, you might just be in with a chance.”
“If it’s my chopper you want to see, Sandra, why didn’t you just say so?”
Sandra threw back her head and squealed with laughter. “Felix! You get an extra portion of pudding for that one. You really are très drôle, aren’t you?”
She took another drag on her cigarette and was serious once more. “I want you to do me a favour Felix. If you do it, I’ll help you with your first step toward that CEO position. Does that sound like a deal?”
“I’d love to do you a favour.”
“Not that sort. Your colleague, Bill Teddington, the spirits buyer. Is he a friend of yours?”
Bill had been spectacularly unfriendly to me throughout my first six months. Among a bunch of spiteful and arrogant bastards, he’d stood out as almost maniacally hostile. “Not in the slightest.”
“Good. He’s a corrupt old bastard, Felix. And although that’s not unusual or even problematic in the general scheme of things, his selfishness and inflexibility is now causing my company some concern.”
I stayed silent. I knew when I was out of my depth.
“He is making demands of us that are outside the parameters of our tolerance. He has become good friends with his opposite number at Merryfields, your principal competitor.”
“I see.” I didn’t really see at all.
“Together, these two little tits think they can dictate what’s happening in the market. What price to sell our brands at, what new products to list. That’s not an acceptable situation for Paris-Blois Brands, Felix. We decide what happens in the market, not some shitty old buyer with body odour and a cheap suit.” Sandra took another drag on her cigarette.
I hoped she was referring to Bill Teddington, not me. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“At some point over the next few weeks you will find yourself in a situation with Bill, where you are both under pressure. You need to be ready to show him up.”
“Can you give me a little more detail? That’s rather vague.”
“No I can’t. But it will happen. We will arrange it. I will give you warning and you need to be ready and prepared. Understand?”
“Not really. You haven’t given me much to go on.”
“We will, when the time is right. In the meantime, keep up the good work. And if you do make it to CEO and get your pilot’s licence, look after these. I won’t stand for poor performance.”
She reached down and grabbed my crown jewels, giving them an assertive squeeze. I nearly sounded a trumpet salute on the spot.
2.4
Store Walk
There were many directors at Gatesave, but only one Director. His true title was something bland like Commercial Director or Trading Director, and he was not the most senior on the board. But everyone knew where the power really lay. It was with The Director.
All the Heads of Execution and Heads of Margin reported to him. He was tall, thin and pale, but always immaculately turned out in dark suit, white shirt and thin, bright tie, usually red. A mean, secret policeman’s smile rested upon his lips, which vanished into a taut, severe slit when he spoke. His voice was surprisingly high pitched but quiet and precise, without a trace of accent. He had never been known to raise his voice, nor to swear. He didn’t need to, because everyone remained absolutely silent and
motionless in his presence unless asked a question, the answer to which generally determined the immediate trajectory of one’s career.
The undisputed zenith of terror was The Director’s monthly Store Walk. This took place at an ungodly hour on the first Thursday of every month. A random clutch of buyers and junior managers from across the business would receive an email at four the preceding afternoon, simply stating, ‘Store Walk, 4 a.m. sharp’, followed by the location – generally an out-of-town superstore within fifty miles or so of London.
The Store Walk was the graveyard of many a buyer’s career. The preceding evening would be spent in a cold sweat, memorising your products’ selling prices, your competitors’ selling prices – God help you if your product was more expensive – weekly rates of sale and profit margins.
I had just arrived back at my desk after an extended product-immersion session with Georgi, who was very anxious to start doing business with Gatesave. Rather than discuss his wine range in a dull Gatesave meeting room, I insisted on lunch at a fine Mayfair restaurant, Di Puccini. It was rapidly becoming one of my favourite eating places, as long as some other sod was paying.
Georgi was only too happy to oblige. After all, a listing at Gatesave would have been worth ten times what poor old Charlie’s Cellar could muster. Five courses of exquisite seafood, pasta and ox cheek later, we surveyed the empty bottles lined up – a crisp Gavi to match the calamari, an aromatic yet steely Barbera d’Alba to accompany the exquisite risotto, and no fewer than three bottles of muscular Barbaresco, an absolute dream with the ox cheek ragù.
We were the last lunch patrons left and the restaurant manager and waiting staff had joined us by this time, helping us finish off the last of the wine. As an encore, we broke open a bottle of aged grappa to wash down some gorgeously creamy home-made gelato.
At five p.m., just as the first customers started to arrive for an early dinner, I embraced Georgi and wished him good night, accompanied by a vague promise to list some of his fabulous Pinot Grigio later in the year. With a cacophony of cheerful ciaos from the staff ringing in my ears, I swung gracefully into a black cab and announced the address of Gatesave House.
“No need to bloody shout,” muttered the cabbie as he pulled away from the curb at what seemed an unnecessary pace, flinging me across the back seat, my phone and tasting notebook clattering to the floor. As I picked it up I could see there was a text message on the phone. It was from Sandra at Paris-Blois Brands.
Memorise pricing of our Scotch brands in Gatesave and competitors. Tonight.
What the hell did that mean? I squinted at the dancing letters. I really was quite bladdered. Why would I need to know the price of whisky? Spirits were nothing to do with me – that was that arsehole Bill’s job.
Back in the office, I sat regally at my computer and tapped in the password, managing to spell it correctly on the third attempt. A couple of incisive emails, pre-written that morning, were dispatched to Trisha Hocksworth, just to show I was on top of my game and committed to the office well into the evening. Then I focused on the few dozen new messages in my inbox, just in case something important should…
My blood froze and my inbox snapped into crystal clarity. Embedded among automated sales reports and unsolicited sales pitches, a single message, sent at precisely 16:00, stared at me like an unblinking cobra:
Sender: Director’s Office
Subject: Store Walk. 4am sharp. Oxford South.
A Store Walk. My first. There was no escape. Failure to attend, even backed up by a doctor’s note certifying Ebola, would result in a rapid transfer to a ‘development role’ as buyer for toilet tissue and moist wipes. The blood pounded in my head and my stomach cramped aggressively. Even at the top of my game, with hours of sober preparation behind me, this would be a terrible trial. With a skinful of Piedmontese wine and 70 miles to travel, my cause was hopeless.
I put my head in my hands, principally to prevent it falling onto the keyboard, and cursed my luck. Oh God, why did I start on the grappa? Tears of pure alcohol dripped from my eyes. This was it, the game was up. A brilliant career as a promising young member of the wine industry was about to end in ignominy, less than ten hours from now. A bitter memory of ox cheek ragù pricked at the back of my throat as my head spun.
“Oh, dear Felix,” Joan Armitage, the snootiest wine buyer, observed me with distaste over her half-moon glasses. “A Store Walk tomorrow and you’ve come down all poorly.” She smirked and made little quotation marks in the air with her fingers as she said ‘all poorly’. “I heard you were on the list, but I didn’t want to interrupt your important meeting…”
Joan was not a big fan of mine. After decades in the ‘proper’ wine trade, as she called it, buying fine claret for wine merchants that catered exclusively to millionaire Hooray Henries, she had washed up on the shores of the supermarket world. Her distaste at having to buy cheap plonk for the masses was just about masked by the comfort of her gigantic salary.
For Joan Armitage was a Minstrel of Wine, one of only a thousand in the world, who by virtue of that exceptional qualification were able to command astronomical salaries from star-struck wineries, merchants and supermarket chains. Joan was diligent, precise and trustworthy, qualities she evidently found sorely lacking in yours truly.
“I knew I could count on you Joan, you’ve always been supportive of younger members of the team,” I muttered.
Joan’s smirk faded as her phone pinged with a message. “Ah, my car. Off to the theatre tonight.” She sprayed each side of her neck with a squirt from a tiny bottle of cologne. “Good luck with the Store Walk tomorrow.”
I stumbled to the toilets and splashed cold water over my face. With my head only a little clearer I stared at myself in the mirror. Concentrate! Face the impending horror.
The Store Walk. I had heard tales of KGB-style interrogations on price points and margins, tearful buyers stumbling and forgetting the price of their products, the quiet Director with his watery eyes pointing to the door. I knew the prices of about half my products but I had a couple of hundred in total and I needed some serious cramming time. I also needed some sleep and a clear head.
Then I remembered Sandra’s text, and her command to memorise whisky prices, as if I didn’t have enough on my plate. It had to be connected with The Store Walk, but how?
It was seven p.m. and time for action. I strode back to my desk and grabbed my laptop, downloading all the range and pricing information I would need. At least there was no need to return home. I was careful to keep a change of clothes, overnight bag and a range of pharmaceuticals in my foot locker for the not infrequent occasions that sunrise found me in a bed far from home.
I hailed a taxi to Paddington station and just made the 19:22 to Oxford, pausing only to buy a large Cornish pasty to line my stomach. An hour later I was checking into a budget hotel near the station, drinking two pints of water and setting my phone’s alarm for two in the morning.
What felt like ten seconds later, the beeping of my phone informed me it was time to wake up. My head felt like a rusty bell and my mouth like a camel’s nosebag. Bleary with nausea, I prized open an old shoe-polish tin, in which I had secreted a few scoops of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel. I stirred a teaspoon of the powder into half a glass of water. It hissed as it dissolved to the familiar faint pink hue. I downed the liquid and almost straight away felt my dry throat soothe. Soon my abused head cleared, my joints loosened and the adrenaline started to pump.
For the next 90 minutes I crammed information, flicking to the websites of competitors and back to my spreadsheets. What was the price of our cheapest Portuguese red? What profit margin did it make? Was our Liebfraumilch cheaper or more expensive than the equivalent in Merryfields Superstores, our main competitor? In how many of our stores did we sell three-litre boxes of Bulgarian Merlot?
Not the most glamorous end of the wine business and, all in all, a pretty dry hour and a half, but I do have a certain talent for remembering
names and numbers, particularly with Madame Joubert’s help, and I felt a lot more confident now than I did staggering around the office the previous evening. A tepid shower and a quick dress later and I was directing a minicab to the store, which lay some three miles south of the city centre in a dull retail park.
It was ten to four and some thirty cars were already parked outside the supermarket. The poor devils would have been up the same time as I, shitting themselves on the two-hour drive from London’s suburbs, after cramming all their figures the night before. The rest of the retail park was shuttered and in darkness, but the Gatesave supermarket was incandescent, aisles brightly lit and visible through the glass frontage, shelves heaving with produce. A security guard slid the front doors open and nodded grimly as I squeezed through.
A large knot of people hovered just inside the doors. Some were silent, others gazed at printed sales reports, murmuring numbers to themselves. All eyes darted up as I slipped through the door but quickly returned to their crib sheets or the floor when they saw I was not The Director. They were right to revise. The Director never forgot a number, and God help you if you didn’t know your profit margins. Somehow the freakish bastard knew the price of everything – maybe he had some sort of implant to receive information directly from the Head Office mainframe.
The store management were there, looking pale and crumpled. This was a trial for them too. They would have received the same twelve hours’ notice and worked all night to ensure every shelf gap was filled, every surface cleaned, every toilet seat buffed. A poor visit from The Director would guarantee the Manager a new job as night supervisor in a grim inner-city store, ejecting thieving drug addicts or mopping up the blood of staggering drunks who’d gashed their heads open on the confectionary counter.
And there, in the scrum, was Bill Teddington, Buyer of Spirits and Liqueurs. I had brushed off the hostility he’d shown on my first day and, a couple of weeks later, made a friendly suggestion that he barter some of the single malt from his store cupboard for a few bottles of my fine Port.
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