Trilemma

by Jennifer Mortimer

  “These are the costs.”

  All told, the costs total $20 million, which made me want to do a bit of interpreting myself.

  “That is far higher than we were expecting,” says Deepak.

  “We can’t afford to cut corners,” says Tom.

  “I am very sorry, but it is way over our budget,” Deepak says.

  “We can do anything we want with these packages,” says Ian, his head bobbing excitedly as he speaks.

  Deepak looks down at his hands, and Peake moves on.

  “The second option is based on a version of Kiwicom’s systems,” he says. “Their vendor, LCNS, has proposed a lease arrangement. The costs look like this,” and he shows a different set of colored slides.

  Deepak’s face is anxious. “Not as expensive,” he says. “But still beyond our budget.”

  Tom says, “The technology is proprietary. We would be locked in.”

  “And it’s a really old system,” says Ian. “We wouldn’t be able to differentiate ourselves from Kiwicom.”

  “Is there a third option?’ I ask.

  “No,” says Peake. “The other proposals are from the individual vendors of the packages, so each only covers part of the picture.”

  Fred blinks rapidly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, opens his mouth, then closes it and stays silent.

  “So we’re agreed then,” says Tom. “We go with VNL’s proposal.”

  “Hear, hear,” says Ian.

  Deepak hunches his shoulders and says nothing. Fred blinks again and looks down.

  “Great, I’ll get the contracts started,” says Peake.

  “Just a minute,” I say, raising my hand in a gesture that says stop. “I don’t believe we have enough information to be confident we’re making the best decision. I’d like to go through the detailed proposals.”

  “We completed the evaluation against the agreed criteria using the weightings that were signed off,” says Peake. He doesn’t look at me, he looks at Tom.

  “I’m not confident we established all the options.”

  “That was the process we agreed,” Tom says, frowning.

  “But the proposal is costing far more than we budgeted. I’m not comfortable with the recommendation, Tom. I’m not prepared to present it to the Board until we’ve done more work.”

  Peake heaves a gusty sigh and closes down the presentation, still without meeting my gaze.

  “Thanks for the preso,” Tom says. “Let’s talk about where to next.”

  As they leave the room together, I hear Peake say, “Another hissy fit from the prissy chink,” and I hear Tom laugh.

  Peake glances back and smirks when he sees I heard him. My blood starts pumping faster, but my face is calm, my Asian eyes still. His smirk widens to a triumphant grin.

  Tom calls me into his office. “Scott’s pretty upset with your attitude, Lin.” When he leans forward, a manly scent of pine and spice tickles my nostrils. “They’ve spent a lot of time on the evaluation.”

  “I’m not impressed with how much time and money has been spent on the evaluation just to propose an outcome we can’t afford.”

  “There are no other solutions.”

  “There have to be,” I reply.

  A rare uncertain expression flickers across his face. “I’ll talk to Scott,” he says.

  “Scott is a—” I almost say cocksucker but I’m not going to descend into the same behavior.

  Tom’s smile is perfunctory. “Don’t get hot under the collar.”

  I pause, my blood starting to race, but he just nods and turns back to his PC, so I leave his office and head up the stairs. I hesitate at the door to the level where my own office is located, and examine the gray-green linoleum of the stairwell floor, scuffed with the scurryings of a thousand workers’ feet. Then I sigh and carry on up the stairs to Adam’s office two floors above.

  “They’ll have to increase the budget,” he says when I explain our dilemma.

  “They may not be prepared to,” I reply.

  Adam rubs his eyes. “We’ll let them know the situation and see what they say.”

  “We start pouring concrete next week,” I tell the Board. “If all goes according to plan, we should have the switch building ready by mid-December.”

  “Scott tells me you’re making some questionable compromises,” Stanton says.

  I slip my right hand onto my left wrist. Calm.

  “These are the plans we’ve worked on as a team,” I say.

  Stanton and Hobb exchange glances.

  “On the next slide we have the systems implementation,” and I bring up the next Gantt chart.

  “Cost is the major issue,” I say. “We’re still pulling the figures together on the various options, but none of the proposals fall within our budget. The consultants are going through everything line by line to see what we can do to bring the estimates down.”

  “We’re not increasing the budget any further.” Robert is looking grim. “It’s already higher than the original business case.”

  I look around the table to gauge the atmosphere. All faces look stern.

  Stanton scowls. “Do you hear? Get the costs back down.”

  The dark rings under Adam’s eyes seem to deepen. He opens his mouth, but no words emerge. Sweat bubbles on his forehead.

  “There might be some options we can look into,” I say hastily, distracting the eyes of the Board from Adam’s face.

  “Then look into them, but don’t let us hear you’re taking any risks,” says Stanton.

  Yeah, right! As they say here.

  Corporate Kiwis are much the same as other corporate cultures, I’ve found. The risk averse always seem to outweigh the risk takers.

  Perhaps a little more so here, in Wellington, seat of the Government. And in New Zealand if you take a risk and succeed, they eye you with suspicion, because you might be that dangerous thing, a tall poppy.

  But if you take a risk and fail, they crucify you.

  Chapter 11

  Self-serving, sparing with the truth on the rare occasions he’s acquainted with it, Scott Peake preys on my sleep for the next few nights.

  If I complain that Peake insults and undermines me, they’ll be reassured in their judgment of women as needy, whiny, de facto hysterics. Moreover, in the ways of corporate politics the fact Peake has insulted me makes it more difficult, not less, to challenge his arguments. There will be an assumption of automatic bias, as if my anger must cloud my judgment. Particularly as a woman. Anger in corporate men shows strength; anger in corporate women just shows hysteria.

  I could talk to Robert, but he’ll tell me to suck it up, and he’ll consider me weak and not put me forward for the tough jobs again. You can’t expect kindness from Robert, I know that.

  It is just words, and I’d rather be judged by actions or inactions than by that which is merely spoken, so I decide to say nothing about Peake’s snide attacks.

  But I can’t put aside my concern about the consultant’s approach to our systems. We can’t afford to spend the money in Peake’s plan. There’s got to be another option or Hera is doomed.

  If you challenge a powerful man, you’re more likely to be labeled “not a team player” than admired for your courage. If you’re a woman, you’ll be labeled “a bitch” as well. It is the way of the corporate world. And there are quite a few outstandingly awful corporate bitches who have prepared this path for the rest of us.

  I try hard not to be a bitch. I’d rather be called a bastard than a bitch, because, of course, I am a bastard. So what?

  Adam has been looking even more stressed of late. I wish I could help him cope with the conflicting pressures, the dilemmas he’s constantly facing as Hera’s chief executive, but he’s not the sort of man who takes advice from a woman.

  In her role as director of human resources, Marion managed the process to select Hera’s executive team. She’d chosen a group of people with different skills and different personalities, but who all had one thing
in common. Like her, they all had hearts—or that empathy and care for others that we think of as coming from the heart and which, according to the article, psychopaths lack.

  Having a heart is not necessarily a common trait amongst leaders. It is remarkable how often leaders are selected first on their self-confidence and ability to talk. The top-dog attitude is so often based on arrogant self-satisfaction, and not the natural confidence that comes with achievement. Caring about people ranks farther down the list, especially for roles in the commercial world where they want you to be strong and sharp and focus on the bottom line.

  Adam, our chief executive is a nice man, a decent man, but maybe not quite tough enough to make the hard decisions that need to be made when you face the challenges Hera faces.

  Adam’s blocky figure is encased in a tight t-shirt, baggy shorts, and brand-new sneakers.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Not if you’re quick,” he says. “I’m going for a run.”

  “We need to go through the costs and find some ways of bringing them down.”

  “Not quick then.” He sighs. “Can you come back at two?”

  We walk to the elevator together, although I plan to take the stairs. “Where do you run?” I ask.

  “To the waterfront and around the harbor. Running is great,” he says. “Makes me feel so alive! You should try it sometime.”

  “I prefer to walk,” I reply. “I only run when I’m scared.”

  Adam’s face relaxes in a smile. “And not much scares you, does it, Lin?” The elevator doors open and he gets in. “I’ll see you at two.”

  It is true that not much scares me. When it comes to conflict, my first response is fight, not flight. I am not afraid of people, perhaps because I’ve never been physically hurt by anyone. While I wouldn’t claim my childhood was close and loving, I wasn’t beaten or abused, no stranger attacked me on the way home, and no date raped me in my room.

  My greatest fear is irrational—being enclosed in a small, tight space. I hate elevators, and you would never catch me canyoning, one of this country’s more adventurous sports. I much prefer to stick with the wide-open spaces. And so instead of joining Adam in the elevator, I walk down the stairs to the company’s kitchen on the first floor. The office provides a coffee machine, teabags, and, of course, fresh milk. The Kiwis are very precious about their milk, like the French about their baguettes. Not for Kiwis the white paint mix that Yanks use to color their coffee.

  I make myself a flat white, slide a coin into the chocolate machine, and smile at the workers sitting at the tables eating their packed lunches. Conversation stills for a moment, but then Helen shuffles along.

  “Join us, Lin.”

  I smile and sit beside her. Helen is eating a large bowl of pasta with walnuts, drowning in oil.

  “You like dressing?” I ask.

  She laughs. “It’s the Mediterranean diet. I make sure I have lots of nuts and olive oil every day.”

  The woman beside her opens her plastic container, which has two compartments, one holding pie and the other a stick of celery and a morsel of ham.

  “I’m on one of the fasting days for my five-to-two diet,” she says, her expression morose. She tilts her wrist to look at her watch. “But in another thirty-five minutes, I’m eating the pie.”

  They look at my Moro bar. “What diet is that?”

  “The I-left-too-early-to-make-lunch diet,” I reply. “Works for me.”

  When I arrive back at Adam’s office, Helen is still on her lunch break. His door is slightly ajar. I knock and enter the room. “Boss?”

  He is not in his chair. I look beyond the desk to the view over the harbor. The weather is mixed today. The sky is a pallid blue and a long cloud hovers over the hills. As usual, the wind is blowing. I can see yachts out on the water, their sails billowing in the breeze.

  On Adam’s desk are three photographs. A beautiful young Asian woman smiles out of one. Filipino, perhaps? The second is of Adam holding a baby wrapped in a long white shawl. I look closer at the third photograph, which shows Adam with the beautiful woman, this time dressed as the bridal couple. So it must be his baby then, not a grandchild.

  A common story: a rich and successful older man snaring, or snared by, a much younger woman. Did he dump a first Mrs. Challoner for this gorgeous Asian beauty? I wonder idly before turning to leave the office.

  I catch my breath. Adam lies curled on the floor behind the door, still in his running clothes. His head is twisted to one side, his face flattened against the pale carpet. His right eye stares blankly at me. I kneel down and take his wrist, feeling for a pulse. But there is none.

  I stretch out to brush the hair away from his face. Poor man. I am so sorry I couldn’t help you. Then I put my lips to his mouth and try to blow life into him, then I press his chest to make his heart beat again.

  “Helen!” I call out, hearing the bustle of her return. I sit over him, shielding her from him, or him from her, I don’t know. “Call an ambulance. Adam’s had a heart attack.”

  “Ohhh,” she says, covering her mouth with her hands. “Is he all right?”

  I press his chest again and shake my head.

  Chapter 12

  The funeral is held at Old St Paul’s Cathedral on Mulgrave Street. I pity the young widow sitting by herself in the front pew, veiled and silent. Afterward, when the casket has made its stately way down the aisle on the shoulders of Adam’s first family, she seems uncertain what she is supposed to do next. When I approach and introduce myself, she thanks me for trying to save him and starts crying. I look around desperately until Marion comes over and takes the sad girl into her kind arms.

  Tom and I flee to the foyer to drink stewed tea and eat sweet, dry biscuits.

  Marion arrives ten minutes later.

  “Is she okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “She is lost without him.”

  “Adam’s child bride,” says Tom, and shakes his head as well.

  As I sip the harsh tea, I push away the memory of Adam’s dead eyes, and try instead to remember the photographs on his shelf, the beautiful bride and the baby wrapped in white.

  In them, he looked happy, before the stress built up and stopped his heart beating, leaving a young widow alone in a strange land and yet another child to grow up without a father.

  Now we sit in Tom’s office wondering what kind of leader the Board will choose to replace Adam. Ian flings his arms about like Laurence Olivier and talks of discussions with the agency over Hera’s brand. Fred sits at one end of the table and Deepak at the other, wearing matching worried frowns. Tom leans forward, his hands moving restlessly across the papers, but his dark eyes are hooded. Marion smiles her calm smile and nods as each person gives an update on the week’s work.

  I look down at my charts and worry about the time passing. We are in limbo. Nothing is going to get decided on the project while there is no chief executive.

  After an hour, the Board calls me in. The atmosphere is cool. All five men sit a yard apart from each other, faces unsmiling.

  “We need a fresh pair of eyes,” Robert says. “I’ve told them I think you’re an excellent judge of people. Tell us what you think of Hera’s executive team.”

  I gaze around the faces for a moment, reflecting on what I should say.

  “Ian is everything you need in a marketing director,” I tell them. “Imaginative, enthusiastic, optimistic. But he is only thirty and has limited experience in the rest of the business.”

  “Young,” says Dao. Hobb grunts in agreement.

  “Deepak has extensive business experience, and an exceptional grasp on how best to deploy money. I’ve found his judgment to be very sound. I guess if he has any fault it’s that he’s not forceful enough.”

  “Lacks confidence,” states Stanton.

  “He is a very courteous man. Marion is—”

  “I don’t think we’re interested in Mrs. King,” he interjects. “A good woman, no doubt, but har
dly of the stature we need to be chief executive.”

  “Fred is an excellent IT manager,” I continue. “The best I’ve worked with. But I doubt if he’d be remotely interested in taking on the CEO role. He is just too nice.”

  “And Heke?” asks Lane.

  “Tom is a very good operations manager,” I say. “He is confident, and he knows the technology very well.”

  “But?” asks Robert.

  I pause before replying. “I don’t think he is very good at making tough decisions. I think he is out of his depth in any project that requires a major leap into something new.”

  “But if he has Green for new ideas and Gupta for the financial analysis?” Lane asks.

  “And Lin to drive things along,” adds Robert.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I add. “Tom is a terrific manager and for any organization in a more stable situation he would be an outstanding chief executive. But I don’t think he is the best candidate when the role requires stepping outside of standard practice and into the unknown.”

  The men fall silent.

  “What about that woman who used to run the local telco?” asks Stewart Hobb.

  “Tania Gates? No,” says Stanton. His nose curls with disgust. “Too emotional.” He glances around the table. “I have several good candidates in mind. Men I know well.

  “Linnette, you can go now,” he says.

  “It’s Linnet.”

  “Whatever.”

  Tom, Ian, and Deepak are hovering around my desk.

  “Did they say anything about who will replace Adam?”

  “I think they’re looking at some mate of Stanton’s,” I reply.

  “Shit.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Blast.”

  “Yeah.”

  When the Board breaks for tea, Robert says he wants some fresh air and tells me to join him. We walk across to the civic center and find a coffee bar.

  “What did you decide?” I ask.

  “We haven’t,” he says. “Stanton’s mates will take too long to come on board. We can’t afford to be without a CEO for two months or more. It is too critical a period.”