by Lynn Steward
“Ah, a good convent girl. Taught by the nuns, I suspect.”
“No convent. Maybe nuns, though. I forget. I take it you’re not Catholic.”
“Lapsed, as they say. I don’t believe in all that superstition and ritual.”
She returned the picture to the table as she tossed her head to the side and faced Brett, her hair fanning out before again settling on her shoulders.
Brett leaned forward and clasped his hands. “As for our meeting tomorrow—”
“I hear you’ve been chosen by Mr. Patterson to give me a makeover,” Janice interrupted.
“Does that bother you?”
Brett had indeed been given such an assignment by the managing partner, who hadn’t seen Janice’s navy suit since her interview. The partners were complaining, and her short skirts had embarrassed Brett on more than one occasion in court.
Janice shook her head and smiled. “Me bothered? Not at all. I clean up well. And I know how to take directions . . . from the right person, that is.”
To Brett, the halls now seemed especially quiet. He and Janice had never had such an intimate, isolated conversation before.
“You’re not concerned that we might be cramping your style?” he asked.
Janice smiled broadly and approached the desk. “So you think I have style?”
Brett knew he’d been trapped. This was exactly how Janice handled individuals on the witness stand. She asked leading questions, and Brett had taken the bait.
“I’ve really got to be going,” Janice said abruptly, preventing Brett from giving a reply. She had, in a manner of speaking, withdrawn her question for the witness. She stretched out her arms and yawned, forcing her chest forward.
“It’s cold out there,” Brett remarked, trying to avert his gaze from Janice’s tight sweater. “You should be wearing a coat.”
Janice winked and turned to leave. “I’ll be fine for now, counselor. Maybe you can pick out a coat when you do my makeover. I assume the firm is picking up the tab.”
And then she was gone.
Brett picked up a second honey bun, furrowed his brows, and then dropped the pastry into the bag. He knew when he was being flirted with, although he didn’t think Janice was seriously interested in him. For her, it was just sport—so very California. He wasn’t overly concerned, but he made a mental note to handle Janice a bit more firmly the following day if need be. He knew he was being closely watched, and even a suspicion of impropriety by one of the firm’s partners could blow his career out of the water. And wouldn’t Janice like that turn of events?
Still, it was nice to receive the attention of a rather stunning blond. In fact, he secretly liked her blasé shoot-from-the-hip attitude, although he would never confess that to anyone he knew. She was a refreshing change from his politically correct world. He stood, and his reflection in the window overlooking the skyline of lower Manhattan stared back at him with a grin. Yep, he was in damn fine shape. He could understand why women were attracted to him.
And that included Dana. He looked down at the picture of his wife that Janice had examined in such a cavalier manner. Yes, he’d picked the perfect wife— pretty but not threatening. She was discreet, and the partners loved her. More importantly, so did their wives. Brett knew he was on the path to partnership when Patterson’s wife had sponsored Dana for membership at the Colony Club.
“Good move, Dana,” he said aloud. “You’re a lucky girl. Your husband is about to be the next partner of Davis, Konen and Wright!”
He was on top of his game.
Chapter Three
Dana entered the executive suite with determination while trying her best to avoid being seen by Bea. If Bob Campbell indeed reversed his position on Kim Sullivan winning the teen contest, Bea would be furious, but she’d worry about her boss’ notoriously short fuse when and if it became necessary. But did she really stand any chance at all of changing the mind of the store’s vice president and general manager? Dana thought a well-placed word might convince him she was right because she’d known Bob for many years outside the store, meeting him at summer events at the Garden City Country Club on Long Island. Dana and her parents, Phil and Virginia Martignetti, were frequently invited to the club by their good friend, John Cirone, owner and president of the House of Cirone, a manufacturer of ladies eveningwear and a B. Altman vendor. When John entertained Bob and his family at the club, the Martignettis were often invited, and it was during one of his dinner parties—the summer before Dana’s senior year at Cabrini—that Bob offered her a job at B. Altman during the holiday season.
Bob and Dana had therefore been on a first-name basis for years, and when Dana had begun working at B. Altman, Bob spread a protective wing over someone he regarded as his third daughter. He knew she was bright, energetic, and ambitious, and he’d been eager to help a good friend of John Cirone get a leg up in an industry for which she clearly had both passion and talent.
After making discreet inquiries, Dana learned that Helen had left for the day, while Bea was in a closed-door meeting with other executives. Bob Campbell, she was told, was alone in the board room, having just finished an impromptu meeting. Dana tapped lightly on the door, and entered.
“Dana!” Bob exclaimed, rising from one of the fourteen hand-carved chairs. “A belated Happy Thanksgiving! How is your family?”
Dana smiled as she summoned her courage. “They’re fine. Thanks, Bob. I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”
In his late fifties, Bob Campbell was dressed in a gray suit, although his coat was draped over the back of a chair, white shirt sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms. His wavy gray hair looked very stylish and mature, and he had a warm, paternal smile. He walked around the ten-foot-long mahogany table and put his arm on Dana’s shoulder. “Come have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind,” Bob said, sensing a note of concern in Dana’s voice.
The regal board room had dark wood paneling, with a Waterford crystal chandelier hanging over the center of the table. Dana slumped into a chair near Bob, who sat at the table’s head. He shuffled some papers around and closed a manila folder, his attention focused solely on Dana.
“Bob,” Dana began, “I feel like my voice just isn’t being heard. I’ve been working here for seven years—I’m not just some kid out of college. Mr. Neimark and Ms. Mello are both behind the Shop for Pappagallo in order to pull in the youth market. It’s a terrific concept, so I urged Helen and Bea to consider a teen makeup section as well, and Helen thought it was the most ridiculous idea she’d ever heard. She also thinks Biba is going to go under because the kids, as she terms them, are taking over the store. Bea’s more open to the suggestion but thinks Helen needs to be given a wide berth. If that’s the case, I’d gladly shoulder the burden personally.” Dana paused. “And then, out of the blue, Bea hits me with an order to announce Kim Sullivan as the winner for this year’s teen contest. She claims that it’s coming straight from you.” Dana sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes, feeling emotionally drained.
Bob nodded patiently and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “Dana, trust me when I say that I know how you’re feeling. It’s not easy to work with powerhouse women like Helen and Bea. I’m sure they can be intimidating—even overbearing—at times. But they’re smart as hell or they wouldn’t be here, just like you. The problem is that there are a lot of changes happening at the store right now, and change isn’t easy for them. In fact, it’s not easy for anyone, especially when the status quo is working. All the buyers are currently dealing with many pressures you’re not aware of, and they’re all looking over their shoulders. Ira is here to make B. Altman more competitive in mainstream retailing, and these changes are happening fast. Everybody wants to get it right, but most are more than a little intimidated.
“But that’s my point,” Dana continued. “I can handle the pressure, and I want to be part of these new changes. I could make a real difference, but they’re shutting me down. That teen makeup
section would be great for this store. If Bea would sign on, I’m willing to bet that Mr. Neimark and Ms. Mello would, too.”
“I don’t dispute that you’ve got a solid idea,” Bob countered, “but I can’t do an end run around Bea or Helen. It wouldn’t be fair. They’re not just good at their jobs—they’re good people, period. If I gave a nod to your teen makeup section over their objections, they would have every right to be furious. They need time to adjust to the many changes already occurring store-wide before committing to new ones.”
Dana tilted her head back, gazing at the chandelier. “So good ideas—money-making ideas—have to take a back seat to seniority?”
Bob rose from his seat and, hands in his pockets, began to pace slowly around the room. He pursed his lips, a pensive look on his face. “Not necessarily, Dana. Older women at B. Altman like Bea and Helen—and many others, for that matter—were all where you are now, and all had great ideas shot down at one time or another. But they didn’t give up.”
Dana suddenly had the sinking feeling that she was being administered a patronizing pep talk.
“You’ve got to be creative,” Bob advised. “Think outside the box. Be diplomatic, but be persistent. Look for an opening. You know the old saying—there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Dana clasped her hands, sighed deeply, and looked at Bob. “I don’t suppose you’d care to be more specific. Creativity—sure—but I don’t know what it is you expect me to do.”
“There’s no formula for getting your ideas off the ground. Every problem is unique and therefore has a unique solution. All I can tell you is that I can’t wave a magic wand without causing a firestorm. Tensions are already high, and if I mandated certain changes, they would be regarded as unwelcome interference. I’d come off as a tyrant.”
“You’re telling me to be a team player while looking for an opportunity to become a maverick who breaks the mold. It sounds contradictory.”
Bob raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes, I guess, in a manner of speaking, I am. I used to see you down by two sets on the court, but you hung in there and found a way to win the match.”
Dana knew that Bob was throwing down the gauntlet. She also knew that she’d been foolish. The general manager wasn’t going to ignore the opinions of Bea or Helen about a teen makeup section proposed by a twenty-nine-year-old events coordinator.
“Okay, Bob, but Kim Sullivan is another matter altogether. How can we penalize the other finalists who are working so hard? It just seems so wrong, Bob.”
Bob turned his head to the side and stared at a cart holding a silver tea service. “That’s a sticky situation, Dana. Believe me when I say that I agonized about the contestants and didn’t make the decision lightly.”
“But—”
“Hear me out,” Bob said. “Kim’s going through an especially difficult time. Her parents, both surgeons who weren’t around the home very much, are now divorcing, and Kim—an only child, I might add—is caught in the middle. Her father thinks that winning the contest will give her a boost, and I tend to agree. Kids in a divorce can feel like such losers.”
“Divorce is a tragedy,” Dana retorted, “but is Kim’s welfare more important than the other girls? I’m sure they all have their own stories.”
“To paraphrase Shakespeare’s Polonius, you sometimes have to get your hands a little dirty to set things straight.”
Dana’s frown indicated that she wasn’t following.
“Ever read Hamlet? Hamlet sees his father’s ghost, who tells him that his uncle murdered him. The answer? Kill the uncle, who is the illegitimate king of Denmark. It’s not your everyday solution, but the melancholy Dane does it. The message? Life demands that we make some unpleasant choices. It isn’t always fair, Dana.”
“Apples and oranges, Bob. You’re saying the ends justify the means.”
Bob looked at Dana with steady gray eyes. The expression on his face was that of a boss, not a longtime friend who had cheered for her and his daughters when they competed on the tennis court. “I’m saying that my decision is going to have to stand. For what it’s worth, the matter rests entirely on my shoulders. No need to feel guilty.” He paused. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Dana forced a weak smile and rose from her chair. “No. Thanks for listening, though.”
Choking back tears, Dana returned to her office, picked up her purse and then took an elevator to the main floor. As she waded through shoppers to get to the doors on the far side of the building, she spied Andrew talking with a fellow employee near the fragrance counters. Normally, Andrew would be the first person she’d seek out in order to release her pent-up emotions. She shared everything with Andrew, from her growing realization that Brett seemed to be totally absent in spirit from their marriage to the frustration she felt when the executives at B. Altman ignored her creativity. Andrew always listened patiently, whether he was absorbed in making fresh pasta in his kitchen while Dana sipped chardonnay or whether he was giving the McGarry library a new look with a fresh coat of terra cotta. He could always intuitively sense his friend’s saddest moments or when it was time to offer her a hug.
Dana needed one of those hugs right now, but Andrew was absorbed in conversation, and she needed to get home so she could walk Wills, their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. The magic and balance she’d experienced that morning in front of the display window had disappeared, and the long green garlands festooning the main floor now looked like little more than decorations taken out of storage once a year to boost sales.
Dana exited B. Altman on Madison Avenue and began walking the five blocks to her apartment at 77 Park Avenue.
“Hey, lady, look where you’re going!” said a gruff voice.
Dana, her eyes not focused on the stream of pedestrians flowing past her, had bumped into a gray-bearded man who scowled at her and then resumed walking.
Dana continued on, her mind absorbed by the conversations she’d had at work. Regardless of Bob Campbell’s reasoning, there was no way to rationalize throwing the contest. And yet she was being told to do so. Bob could claim responsibility all he wanted, but Dana was the one who had to do the dirty work. She would have to coordinate the contestants’ efforts, knowing that their hard work was in vain. She was the one, not Bob, who would have to look them in the eye every day for the next week, knowing their hope had been misplaced.
As for the teen makeup section, everyone knew it was a good idea—probably even Helen—but it all boiled down to store politics. B. Altman would, of course, one day create such a section—it was inevitable—but would she get the credit? Given her youth, it seemed unlikely.
Dana couldn’t help but think of her parents, Phil and Virginia Martignetti, as she walked along. Her father would have reminded her that she had a great career ahead of her, a career that would only come to fruition with patience. Things always worked out in the end. You do a great job, Dana. Go home and clear your head. Go out to dinner with Brett and enjoy the evening.
Phil was an easygoing man, someone who his wife said was as soft spoken and calm as Mr. C himself, the very relaxed and reassuring Perry Como. An executive with IBM, Phil was always appropriately dressed, politically correct, and at home in a conservative corporate culture. People liked him immediately. He was kind, made everyone feel important, and never rocked the boat. Rarely would he disagree with other employees, let alone argue. Above all, he desired peace and harmony in any situation.
Dana knew that her father was very much a part of her soul. Like him, she’d always tried to be gracious and thoughtful, and most people sensed and appreciated her kind but professional demeanor. It was these attributes that allowed her to succeed in her public relations role at B. Altman, and she was very aware that top executives thought that such a deferential style boded well for her future at the store. Why not just go along for the ride? Why blow a promising career over teen cosmetics?
But she also carr
ied her mother’s DNA, and Virginia had a streak of independence that made her unflinching when her mind was made up. Like her mother, she was an achiever at heart, although Virginia wasn’t shy about letting her drive be known. Attempts to persuade Helen, Bea, and Bob—all on the same day—had definitely mirrored her mother’s more aggressive style. She and Virginia loved a good challenge—loved to win, in fact—but at present, Dana was still learning how to balance the different styles of her parents. She knew with some certainty what Virginia would tell her. Speak up, Dana. They still can’t hear you. You won’t get ahead being good. It’s your great ideas that will succeed.
Dana continued walking, eyes cast down. Her legs moved with a steady rhythm, one foot in front of the other. That’s how the entire day had been: one step at a time in order to hold body and soul together while people had alternately tried to warn or pacify her.
Earlier in the day, she had followed the instincts she’d inherited from Virginia. She’d disobeyed Helen and spoken her mind, first to Bea and then to Bob, but she’d taken it on the chin and stepped back in line. She would have to follow orders as well as stifle all her creative energies.
She’d only gone one block when her thoughts, more melancholy with each successive step, turned to Brett. Where was he? Where was her partner, her friend who shared her dreams? After almost eight years of working and planning for the life they wanted, it was all coming together, and yet at the same time it seemed to be flying apart. They’d done everything right—made all the right moves—and had usually been in agreement about the path of their lives together. But something was different in their relationship. Sometimes she felt as if she were a ghost inside her own home. Was he so self-absorbed that he didn’t see or hear her when she walked through a room or offered an opinion? She listened attentively whenever he spoke of the firm, but she wondered how much he knew or cared about her activities at B. Altman. Then again, maybe he was very aware of her but no longer liked what he heard or saw.
