by Jan Moran
Newco. Lance had heard that term used before. It meant they were creating an as yet unnamed new company.
“My people might want in on that. What’s the deal?”
“It’s going to rival the monolithic beauty companies. Coty, LVMH, L’Oreal, Estée Lauder. Roper’s been quietly acquiring smaller domestic companies. VSS is the key to international distribution.”
“Nice profit margins there,” the other man said. “We like what we see in the beauty industry with the aging demographics.”
Derrick nodded. “VSS will give us immediate high level entrée into the coveted Asian market. It’s got a celebrity-studded pedigree to boot.”
The man chuckled. “Got to hand it to you. You set yourself up pretty well with Roper. Even masters of the universe don’t live forever.”
Derrick scowled. “I work damn hard for that old codger. He spends every day scheming about how to become even richer before he dies, just so his obit will have a higher score than anyone else’s.” Derrick glanced around and checked his gold Piaget watch.
“I hear that might not be long. Old guy’s not in best of health, is he?”
“Yeah, but he’s tough. Roper’s heirs will still own the majority share of the firm.”
“But you’ll run the show. Be patient. You’ll be richer than all of us one day soon.” The guy shook his head. “How’s he do it?”
“It’s a formula,” Derrick said. “Find the company, whittle its projections, loan them less than actually needed. Lock up the founders with mountains of legal documents. Create complications for them, obtain board control.”
They guy laughed. “Man, that’s a beautiful set-up for failure.”
Derrick shrugged. “We acquire equity, take over the company on technicalities, replace the founders with our management team, grab the preferred stock, and repeat.”
“Like shooting fish in a barrel right now.”
The two men grinned at each other.
The other man shook his head. “Don’t you ever feel a little guilty?”
“I’ll make a bunch of charitable donations.”
“Think that’ll hold your place in heaven?”
Before Derrick could answer, Lance saw Roper coming back to the table. Spying him, the other man rushed away.
Lance let out a long breath. He couldn’t believe people actually acted like that. Sometimes what he saw in real life was worse than any fake reality show ever could be.
As Roper signed the check for the meal, Lance hurried to the kitchen.
He had to call Verena and tell her about overhearing this conversation. If it were him, he’d sure want to know, but she might think he was butting in where he had no business. Maybe she already knew, or maybe this was why Derrick had wanted to talk to her. Should he share this conversation with her?
Lance paused at the door to his office. He didn’t care. Verena should know.
5
VERENA HUMMED TO herself as she dressed for the day ahead in a cream-colored pencil skirt with a matching silk blouse. Between Marvin’s death and the pressing financial issues, she had little reason to feel happy, but replaying last night’s scene in the kitchen with Lance at least gave her some respite.
Of all her girlfriends, Verena had dated the least because she had her hands full with her family and the business. Though Derrick was as busy as she was, he’d been persistent about their relationship. She had to give him credit for that. Lance seemed so kind and easy going, but then, Derrick had been different in the beginning, too. He’d presented such positive, powerful confidence and she’d found that appealing, but she began to realize that he wasn’t necessarily what he seemed.
A wail arose from the bedroom next door, and seconds later, her sister Anika door burst open, her face flushed with anger. “Bella is wearing my new purple top.”
And Derrick would never adapt to this sort of home life. Could Lance?
“Bella, we don’t have time for this,” Verena called out. The twins were twelve years old and nearly as tall as she was, but at times they acted like they were five. “You’ll be late for school. Give it back.”
“Can’t hear you,” Bella yelled. “Let’s go!” She jingled Verena’s car keys and slammed the front door.
Verena snatched a purple shirt from a drawer and tossed it to Anika. “Here, wear mine.”
“Really? I love this!” Anika pulled it over her head.
“Hurry, get your backpack.” Verena scooped up her purse and the files she’d brought home from the salon.
Minutes later, they were on their way to school. Anika beamed from the backseat. After Verena dropped them off at school, she drove the short distance to the salon.
She stepped inside the salon and drew a deep breath. Her office always smelled fresh and clean. The unique scent of their products permeated the air, and Verena loved it. The natural aroma always helped her clear and focus her mind.
She picked up the telephone and called Scarlett, who had already confirmed Marvin’s death.
Scarlett had started work early this morning. “I spoke with my friend at the coroner’s office,” Scarlett said. “Although early reports said it appeared Marvin shot himself, an autopsy is being done and the police took forensic samples. There’s definitely an investigation underway.”
“Why? Isn’t it evident?” Verena’s hand began to shake and she shifted the receiver.
“I’m not sure. He mentioned something about the angle of the bullet entry. Wait a minute, I took notes.”
Verena closed her eyes. “I can’t listen to this, Scarlett.”
“I understand. We’ll talk about it later.” Scarlett paused. “On a brighter note, Lance seemed awfully nice. Are you planning on seeing him again?”
“Haven’t heard from him. Besides, you know how busy I am. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go.”
After hanging up with Scarlett, Verena dialed the bank. She spoke at length with one of Marvin’s associates at National Western, and then she sat back, dumbfounded. Greta’s information had been accurate. The bank could not honor its loan commitment for the VSS expansion into Asia.
She flicked on the television in her office and turned to the business channel. New reports were calling this a credit crisis and bank lending was tightening. Although the company had always had good credit, Verena began to realize she probably wouldn’t have much luck with other banks, especially since she wasn’t a customer.
Still, her company was profitable. VSS had been in business for decades and had signed agreements with retailers throughout Asia. Purchase orders had been received, product shipped, and invoices sent. She simply needed short-term working capital to cover expenses until they received payment. The product wouldn’t sell itself; she needed money for co-op advertising, payroll, training, and travel.
The pressure in her chest grew, and she clicked off the television. Whatever she did, she had to act fast.
She glanced at Mia’s portrait, an oil painting by artist Max Band of the Paris School of Artists. It had hung on the wall for decades in the elegant office suite. It was Mia in her prime, before the cancer had robbed her of her indomitable strength. Mia’s expression was fearless, proud, and determined. What would Mia do? She’d talk with her once she grandmother was feeling stronger, but today’s business climate was much more complex than it had been when Mia was running the business.
How quickly things change. Verena pressed her fingers against her forehead to ease the growing ache. On the desk sat framed photos of the salon and the street from the early 1950s. She rose and stood by the second story window overlooking North Beverly Drive. At that time, Beverly Hills had been a small village of grocers, boutiques, hardware shops, and silversmiths.
When her grandfather Emile had built the salon for his wife, all the shops were owned by individuals and families. The corporate invasion had not yet started. Today, the small, five-square-mile city was a mecca for luxury shopping with international retailers from Cartier and Gucci to Gap and Victori
a’s Secret lining the streets.
Verena touched the cool glass, watching the bustling street scene below. She was so proud of the women in her family. Mia had worked tirelessly to grow the business. Many of their current estheticians had begun their careers at the salon and had been trained by Mia.
Angelica, Verena’s mother, had also worked in the business. When Mia had been diagnosed with breast cancer while on a trip to Switzerland, Angelica took the helm. Since Mia’s husband Emile had died of a heart attack a couple of years before, she stayed in Switzerland with her sister during her cancer treatments.
It was during this time that tragedy struck their family.
Verena blinked back tears at the memory. Ten years ago, though it still seems like yesterday. She had just graduated from Beverly Hills High School and had been accepted to Brown University to begin in the fall. She was thrilled to be going with her closest friends, and eager to meet new people.
Angelica was running the salon and looking after Anika and Bella, who were just two years old. “They were a singular surprise, but a double blessing,” Angelica used to say. The twins seemed to make her parents young again.
It had been a balmy summer evening, Verena recalled. Angelica and Joseph had gone out to dinner at Trader Vic’s restaurant in Beverly Hills. Verena agreed to watch the girls so her parents could celebrate their anniversary. It wasn’t far from their home; in fact, it was so close that Verena heard the ambulances and fire trucks, but at the time, she didn’t know the emergency vehicles had been called for her parents.
To this day, whenever she heard a siren she always said a prayer for the victims.
Her throat still tightened when she recalled that night. Died on impact, she’d been told. Killed by a drunk driver. In an instant, her entire world had changed.
Still in the middle of her cancer treatments, Mia was too ill for the long flight home—her doctor sternly forbade it. She did what she could from Switzerland, but most of the work fell on Verena’s shoulders. Dahlia and her grandmother Camille, who was Mia’s closest friend, helped arrange the funeral. Verena immediately canceled her fall matriculation into Brown University so she could care for her young sisters and run the salon. She hired a nanny, and Angelica’s assistant Lacey did everything she could, but it was still a heavy load for an eighteen-year-old.
The summer passed in a grief-stricken blur, and Verena never had the opportunity to go to college. As the business had grown, she’d worked hard to overcome this deficit. As Verena reflected, that was one reason she’d been drawn to Derrick. With his MBA and business experience, he always seemed to know exactly what she should do, and so far, he’d been right. As VSS expanded its product line and began distributing to other retailers, the company had pushed the boundaries of her expertise, although she was definitely up to the task for learning and executing. Derrick had been helpful in crafting her new international strategy to bring the company into the twenty-first century, which she’d undertaken to provide for Mia and the twins. Between the twins’ costs and healthcare for Mia’s condition, Verena’s family budget was often stretched thin.
A knock at the door pulled Verena from her thoughts. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Lacey.”
“Come in,” Verena said.
Lacey shut the door behind her. “I’ve held client calls for you,” she said in a soft drawl, handing her a few phone messages. Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Lacey had been hired and trained by Mia, and now as Verena’s assistant, helped Verena manage the salon business.
“Any luck?” Lacey asked.
Verena shook her head. “Nothing. Although the feds are bailing out some banks, the banks aren’t making many loans to small businesses. The banks are sitting on federal funds, strengthening their balance sheets, and protecting their assets.”
“Asses, you mean,” Lacey said with disgust. “But we have accounts receivables from major retailers that pay like clockwork, every thirty days. Nordstrom, Duty Free, LVMH. Don’t they count for anything?”
Verena nodded toward the TV screen. “According to the news, that doesn’t seem to make a difference, but I’ll certainly try.”
“Well, I never,” Lacey said with a huff.
Verena had to smile at Lacey’s southern expressions. Lacey was a smart, loyal assistant, and Verena valued her, quirks and all.
Lacey gestured around the office. “What about this building, the land? I declare, it’s worth a fortune. And what about our other salons? We’ve had our best year ever.”
“All the salons were mortgaged for the expansion. Derrick said it was the right thing to do. But I’ll figure this out.”
Lacey clucked her tongue and placed a stack of papers on Verena’s inlaid French desk. “Here are invoices for your approval and checks to sign.” She adjusted her stylish red glasses. “This is a good business we have here. It’s going nowhere but up. I know you’ll find a way. You always have, sweetie pie.”
“Thanks for your confidence.” After Lacey left, Verena reviewed the documents, made a few notes, and signed the checks. But thoughts of Marvin and the challenges before them made it difficult to concentrate.
She pushed back from her desk, crossed the Persian wool carpet, and made her way down a curved staircase to the salon. At the bottom of the stairs, she stepped into the spa waiting area, which she had recently updated in shades of ivory, taupe, and seafoam green, and added subtle lighting, relaxing music, and elegant recliners.
Out of habit, she surveyed the area, always making sure that everything was perfect and comfortable for their guests, as Verena referred to their clients. In one corner stood an antique hutch with hot herbal tea, china cups, fresh fruit, and chilled water. French doors opened to a private walled Zen garden with a trickling fountain and gardenia bushes. Smooth rocks surrounded the warm water therapy tub and natural stone outdoor showers. She scooped up a magazine that had fallen to the floor and returned it to a table beside a cushioned lounge chair.
Verena wove through the hallway past a labyrinth of rooms outfitted for facial, massage, and hydrotherapy services. She saw Rosa, one her best estheticians who made more than six figures a year, emerging from a treatment room. A tall, willowy young woman with platinum hair followed her.
It was Penelope Plessen, one of the world’s most famous, perfect faces.
“Verena, it’s been too long,” Penelope gushed, “Rosa is sensational, she’s a magician, I swear.”
“She certainly is,” Verena said, giving Penelope a hug. She adored Penelope, who had left her home in Copenhagen at just fourteen years of age to model. Now, a decade later, she was always in demand, and her flawless complexion was one of the reasons. Penelope was a chameleon; her hair was forever changing—color, length, style. With the lift of an eyebrow or a tilt of her chin, she could go from virgin to vixen, from innocent to imperial. She was a designer-favored model for runway and print work alike.
Verena pulled away to inspect the skin on Penelope’s face and neck. “Marvelous,” she said to Rosa. “Well done. And you’re doing your part, too, Penelope. I’m glad you’re staying out of the sun now.”
Penelope laughed. “I hope to have a long career. At least another ten years. So, have you and Derrick set a date yet? I’m booked far in advance, but I want to be at your wedding.”
“Actually, I broke off the engagement,” Verena replied, feeling a small pang of regret, even though she’d known it was the right thing to do.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Penelope said.
“That’s okay. We’re still friends.” His idea. But then, it was complicated.
“Probably just as well. He always struck me as pretty intense.”
Verena nodded. “Anyway, great seeing you, Penelope. Relax, and try our new outdoor showers. There’s a special screened roof high above covering the area to keep out paparazzi lenses. I’ve got to run, but I’d love you to join me and my friends again for one of our all-afternoon Friday lunches. And it’s not just girl talk.”
“I know, last time I picked up some great stock tips from Scarlett.” They traded kisses on the cheeks before parting.
Verena continued to the front of the salon, where the entire line of Valent Swiss Skincare was showcased. All natural, organic botanical ingredients were the hallmark of the line and had been since inception. Worldwide trends had simply caught up with them.
Near the front of the shop Verena saw a famous young British actress, accompanied by her equally famous mother, who was also an actress. Many women passed the VSS skincare regimen through the generations.
Verena paused at the front desk. “How is everything today?” she inquired quietly.
A fresh-faced young woman behind the desk smiled. “Excellent. By the way, a call just came in for you. Lacey said you’d be passing through any minute, so I took the message. Lance Martel asked you to call him. Here’s his phone number.”
“Thanks,” Verena said. “And I’ll be out for the rest of the day.”
How nice of Lance to call. A spark of happiness surged through her, unbidden. She sighed. Although it had been a nice evening, that was all it was, she told herself firmly. She had too much work to do right now.
After visiting the Panetta family and offering her condolences on Marvin’s death, Verena visited several banks, but the answer was the same at each one. They had a moratorium on lending, and they had also cut off many of their best customers. If this kept up, good companies would be forced out of business and many people would lose their jobs.
She was determined that would not happen at VSS.
Verena made several other calls, and then drove up the hills overlooking Beverly Hills to the Mulholland home of David and Marian Cohen, who had been friends of her father. David had run a real estate development company before he retired and was one of the wisest financial minds she knew, aside from Derrick. But even David didn’t have a good answer for her dilemma.
“You won’t find a bank willing to lend right now,” David said. “They’re hoarding cash to bolster their balance sheets.”
