by Gail Hewitt
When she went to the office, she kept the Palm on the desk, next to her elbow, where it dutifully vibrated several times. It was never Miles, however, who was texting. As she watched the Inauguration on her laptop, the Palm sat next to her keyboard. When she'd done all she intended for the day, she dropped the Palm into her pocket and headed home. In the condo, she kept the Palm at hand when she went to the gym, ate dinner, watched TV, and took a shower, but there were no texts from anyone. She slept with the device next to her head, and awoke the next morning to realize that there were still no messages. The silence continued all the next day and through the next night.
She was about to give up on even getting a "no" from him when, on Thursday, more than forty-eight hours after she'd sent the plea for help, she finally heard from Miles: "City Club Friday 2 pm. Miles" The message was terse, but at least it wasn't a refusal.
Friday was the next day, which didn't give her much time to prepare. At work, she assembled notes for the information that needed to be conveyed when she met with Tom and Jameson Halbrooks. Back home, she gave more thought than usual to what she would wear to the City Club. She was, after all, seeing Miles for the first time since the New Year's Eve party at which the French supermodel had been draped all over him, a party he'd enjoyed so much that he had become unprecedentedly drunk — otherwise, why the uncharacteristic texts he had sent to her and to Tom? While she had no expectation of being able to approach the soignée perfection of the supermodel, she wanted to look good. Also, she'd be wearing something similar to this when she talked to Tom and Halbrooks. Also, she admitted, it would be satisfying to return to the City Club looking like a member rather than someone whose last experience with the place had been to be fired on its premises while wearing a pant suit that made her — at least according to Tom — look like an auditor. It would be the Stella McCartney, she decided. Whatever Tom said, she liked its tulip skirt.
On Friday, she went in early and worked for three hours before returning home to shower and dress. As was her habit lately, she took more pains with hair and makeup. The finishing touch, she thought, would be a pair of pretty pearl earrings given her by Miles on her previous year's birthday. She looked at them more closely than when she'd unwrapped them, and realized for the first time that they were much nicer than she'd originally noticed. They were, in fact, obviously expensive, now that she'd bothered to look at them properly. She remembered how casually she'd accepted them, in the middle of a busy day when she hadn't been expecting Miles. Had her thanks been more than perfunctory? Had she ever worn them for him? She didn't think so. She couldn't remember wearing them at all. They'd just been sitting in a drawer. The realization made her feel so awkward that she put the earrings back into their eggshell-blue box and turned to her usual plain gold studs.
Knowing how Miles did things, Maggie wasn't surprised when the City Club receptionist directed her not to the dining room but to a private conference area. It was, however, surprising to open the door and find a small, sparsely furnished space with no Miles, no flowers, no music, none of the usual touches Miles brought to bear on a situation. On the long serving credenza sat two plates, cutlery, glasses, a pitcher of ice water, and a platter of sandwiches under a glass dome. On the conference table lay only a couple of pads with pencils on top of them. This sparse setup didn't seem like Miles.
When he appeared, almost ten minutes late, Miles himself didn't seem like Miles. He was as sharply dressed as usual in a vested charcoal gray suit with a tie of dark blue figured in pale gray, but something looked different about him. The difference extended to his manner, which was courteous but reserved to the point of chilliness. He briefly explained that his tardiness was due to the Friday traffic — he'd just driven in from Hartford, he told her. Then he went over to the credenza, helped himself to a sandwich and brought it back to the table. "Haven't had lunch," he said. "I assume you've eaten. If not, I can recommend the turkey."
"Thanks, I'm not hungry," she told him.
There was an awkward silence while Miles chewed, impassively gazing at her all the while. When he'd finished, he brushed his lips with the napkin and tossed it aside. "Your new wardrobe suits you. Perks of the job, I assume."
"You could say that," she responded, surprised at how hollow her voice sounded, almost as if she were nervous, but she couldn't be nervous. This was Miles.
She waited a moment to see if he'd say anything further, but he didn't, just sat and waited. It was clear he was expecting her to state her business with no preamble. Well, he was doing her a favor just by being here, and there was no reason to delay. Anyway, what small talk could they possibly share without venturing into dangerous territory, which she was sure he wanted no more than she did.
"I need some professional advice." She paused, giving him a chance to say something, but he only nodded. "I've got a credibility problem at TTI. It's affecting my ability to do what I was hired to do."
"Who doesn't find you credible?" he asked drily. "The executive coach drillmaster? One of the dream team?"
"Tom . . . Merriman Scott."
Miles looked bemused. "That's interesting. The big guy himself, huh? How does it manifest?"
"He won't listen to anything I say without picking it apart. He denigrates all my suggestions. He doesn't treat me like a professional, but more like a child who doesn't know the score."
"Do you? In relation to what you're doing for TTI? Is it the kind of thing you've done before?"
She sighed. "Yes. It's something I know backwards and forwards. Just let me tell you where I am." She described – with as few details as possible – the impasse she'd reached with Tom.
For the first time, Miles looked interested. "So you've identified the core problem as his resistance to learning anything that might make him question this grand vision he has?"
"Pretty much," she agreed. "Otherwise, his opposition to doing research doesn't make any sense."
He looked at his watch. "I've got two hours before I have to leave. Tell me what you've got in mind for this meeting you're having with him on the ninth."
Maggie got out her list and began to enumerate the sort of information she intended to pass along to Tom and Halbrooks. When she paused and looked up, Miles was shaking his head. "What's wrong?" she asked anxiously.
"If you were dealing with a rational executive in a standard business situation, you'd be right on target. In fact, it sounds excellent for what it is. Here, however, you're facing a very different kind of animal in an extremely nonstandard situation. When you get to be as rich as this guy, particularly as an entrepreneur, you begin to think you have a magic gut. You tend to fly by the seat of your pants. If your instincts are at odds with what anyone else is telling you, you believe your gut, not them. As for the situation, you said it yourself – TTI is his grand vision. His, not someone else's. He's probably willing to share it only with those who instinctively or consciously share, or seem to share, the identical vision. You can throw statistics at him for hours and all it will do is irritate him because this has nothing to do with his reality. And you have another disadvantage."
"What?"
"You said you were seventeen when you first knew him?"
She nodded, fighting the urge to blush.
"It's possible he unconsciously continues to think of you as a girl, not an experienced professional."
"It sounds hopeless," she said, suddenly feeling tired. "You're saying that, unless I can guess what's in his head and he can get over thinking I'm seventeen, he won't listen to me."
"Are you sure that you're committed to working this out and staying at TTI?" He looked at her steadily.
She knew what he was asking her, and she was briefly tempted. Then she thought of his assumption that he had the right to tell her what to do, and temptation faded.
"Yes," she said. "In spite of everything I've said, it's a dream job for someone in my field. It's difficult to explain how much this means to me."
"Money's good, I take it."
"Money's great, but it's more than the money."
Miles stood up and went to the credenza. "Are you sure you don't want anything to drink? I can have the bar send us something."
"Whatever you're having," she said absently, creasing her brow as she made a couple of notes relating to something he'd said earlier.
"Do you ever stop?" he asked her.
"I'm obsessed with this," she admitted. "It's like a puzzle I can't let go of until it's solved."
The waiter came to the door and took Miles' order for Utopias and a bowl of pistachio nuts, returning in just a couple of minutes. Miles opened the bottles and handed one to Maggie.
"Utopias?" she asked, looking at the label before she poured and tasted it. "Whoa, that's something different."
"It's an extreme beer, 25 percent alcohol," he told her, "from my part of the world. But to get back to your problem, here's my take. You've got to get this guy's attention where he lives, show him you share the vision. Anything you tell him, you tell him within the context of what interests him — which is what he already thinks. Anything you show him must incorporate at least some element of what he already accepts. Look for clues in anything he had a hand in."
"His aunt told me he helped design the logo," she remembered.
"Then use it on everything you show the guy. Use the colors of the logo any way you can. Use any subliminal trick that occurs to you. The whole point is to elicit instant empathy from him before you open your mouth."
"And you don't think I should use the statistics?" she said, recalling his earlier comment.
"I'd use statistics only when they prove what he already believes — give him numbers that relate to the need for what he's got in mind with TTI. And keep those to a minimum. I don't think this is a statistics kind of guy. Another thing, guys like this always say they're not looking for 'yes' people. In actuality, that's all most of them can hear because by and large they don't register anything with which they don't already agree, so don't ever disagree with him. At the same time, you can't obviously capitulate. You have to find a way to make it seem that you agree with everything he says about TTI, but not because he said it, simply because you recognize that it's so. The other thing to remember about men like Scott is that they have everything summarized for them. Keep anything you tell him to a minimum, and keep it superficial – don't get into deep waters."
He gazed at her critically. "I'd go in there looking like a million dollars in a very sharp- edged suit — not that. It looks good on you, but it makes you look too girly. What you need is the female equivalent of this," he indicated what he was wearing. "Tell me again, how much time do you have?"
"Until Monday the ninth."
"Is cost an issue?"
"Well, I can't afford French couture, but I can manage maybe $2-3,000, if you really think it'll give me the look I need."
Miles pulled out his cell and scrolled. "Nick, Miles Brewster. How are you? Good, same here. Look, I have a challenge for you. A young lady, an old friend of mine, needs a super-executive suit by the sixth. The suit needs to be conservative but stylish and, above all, flattering." He listened for a moment, glancing at Maggie, as if he needed to remind himself of the specifics of her appearance. "She's about 5'9", slender, nothing obvious that needs to be disguised, brown hair, brown eyes – can definitely handle any style you put her in. I know it's short notice, but I'd consider it a personal favor. Let me pass the phone to her and you can give her a time to come in, this afternoon I assume. Great. Here she is."
Somewhat dazed at the rapidity with which this scenario had developed, Maggie took the phone and agreed to be at Nick's place on Park no later than 4:30, which gave her, she realized, less than half an hour to get there. She began to gather her notes.
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this," she told Miles. "I know it was an imposition for me to call on you."
"Glad to be of help," he said crisply.
She snapped her case and looked across at him.
"I miss you," she said impulsively.
"I miss you," he said quietly, "but —all things considered — I'm not the best one to offer you a brotherly arm to lean on."
She waited and watched as he responded to a text. "Which reminds me," he said. "Sorry for the New Year's text. Just say the sentiment of the moment overcame me. I'd had a little too much to drink."
"I figured," she told him. "It's all right."
He hesitated before responding. "I texted Scott too."
"He told me," she said.
"It just occurs to me that maybe I've contributed to your problem with him. If so, I apologize."
She shook her head. "I don't think so, but thanks for telling me." She couldn't stop looking at him, at the way his fair hair seemed almost to spring from his distinctively shaped narrow head; at the touching straightness of his posture, suggesting the well-behaved boy he'd undoubtedly been. He looked so unhappy. She wanted badly to reach out and ruffle his hair, to tease him, to make him smile.
Miles did not look at her, but neither did he make any move to leave, instead taking the time to input another text.
She smiled sadly. "Out of curiosity, Miles, why did you come? Why are you helping me, after everything that's happened?"
He gazed at her for a very long minute, then shrugged. "Call it an au revoir gift."
They both stood up and headed for the elevators without saying anything further. Tears clouded Maggie's eyes, and Miles looked as grim as she felt. Downstairs, he hailed a cab and got in with her. He gave the driver the address and, when it was reached, got out and held the door so she wouldn't have to slide across him.
"Good luck," he told her. "All you can do is give it your best shot."
"I appreciate it," she said automatically. As she turned to walk away, he was reflected in the display window before her, a tall, slender, well-dressed man getting into a cab, which began to pull away even as he shut the door. It occurred to her that this might be the last time she'd see Miles, and she'd never felt more alone in her life.
In the days that followed she put a great deal of thought into the counsel he'd provided, and wrestled with condensing insights gained from years of experience into a few crisp paragraphs. Tom himself never called. As for Miles, as far as she could tell, he had dropped off the face of the earth. It was a lonely period, lonely and unsatisfying. Sometimes she'd walk around the block just to work off her frustrations. At night, she doubled her usual time in the gym. None of it helped the horrible emptiness in the pit of her stomach when she thought about the distinct likelihood that Miles was lost for good. Also, nothing made her feel more confident in her ability to sway Tom professionally. Still, she persevered, and gradually some sense began to come out of what she was doing. When her new assistant reported for work on the first, she used him as a sounding board as she cut and refined, focusing her priorities with increasing precision.
Twice during the period she returned to Nick's place on Park for interim fittings, each time hearing how pleased Nick was that Mr. Brewster —"an excellent client with impeccable taste who wears his clothes with such elegance" — had referred her to them. Miles, it seemed, had worked his magic here as he seemingly did everywhere. Each time, Maggie listened and nodded, heart aching, wondering yet again why she and Miles couldn't get past this obsession he had with Tom Scott. On the sixth, she returned for the final fitting. She stood within a bank of mirrors as Nick and his assistant moved around her, adjusting details. At last Nick stood back and signified his approval. "One of my best," he said, "and you do it justice. I hope that you and Mr. Brewster are pleased." And that, she thought, was probably the last time anyone would join her and Miles in the same sentence.
On the ninth, she girded her loins, as it were, for the meeting with Tom and Halbrooks in what was certainly the best-looking business suit she'd ever owned. Paired with the Christian Louboutin cap-toe t-straps recommended by Maja at Bergdorf's and a bright red silk pocket square (bright red being the color of the
TTI logo that Tom had helped to design), the pale gray suit made her look killer corporate. It helped that she'd had some of the length trimmed from her curls and was able to wear her hair loose without having it look unbusinesslike.
She made sure she was in Alysha Harding's office the prescribed ten minutes before nine. When she was ushered into Tom's office, he and Halbrooks were already seated at the conference table. Halbrooks stood, but Tom was, as usual, on the phone, saying something in an irritated voice about clawbacks from the Madoff-managed funds. When he finished the call and looked up, he was all business.
"Maggie," he said, "have a seat. Glad you could join us."
"Of course," she said. "Thanks for inviting me."
"We're having this meeting because I think we have a problem."
"I couldn't agree more," she assured him. "I think I misinterpreted my role to some extent. I've been considering the points you made on the way back from the Georgia experiment, and I think I see how to align my skill set where it better complements the TTI agenda."
Halbrooks looked at her quizzically and raised an eyebrow. Tom was obviously surprised.
"I didn't say you were wrong, Maggie. I do feel, however, that perhaps we didn't make our approach clear enough to you."
"I appreciate your saying that, Merriman, and I think I'm on the right track now. Let me show you some of my thinking about the launch."
She pulled out, first, a one-page press release, announcing the TTI launch employing the exact terms in which Tom had first described his vision to her. He read it and frowned slightly.
"It's fine as far as it goes, but it doesn't incorporate enough information. There's not enough in here about the all the experts involved."
