Chapter 35
Something was wrong, Janie knew. It was all too easy. She had just completed a nearly hour-long presentation to Madame Ramona and her marketing people, outlining Bliss & Penrod’s concepts for the holiday campaign for their entire product line, and all Madame said in response was, “Fine.”
“Great.” Janie had smiled, glancing around at the marketing staff. The three product managers and advertising director didn’t meet Janie’s gaze. The conference room on the fiftieth floor of the Ramona International Building felt suddenly airless, overbright, slightly unreal.
“Well…” Janie began again with a forced smile, “I’m sure you all have some suggestions for revisions—some alternate ideas and such. Perhaps it would be a good idea to run through them at this point so that we can incorporate them into the final copy. Madame?” Janie added, turning to the imposing woman at the head of the table when the silence seemed to lengthen intolerably. “What would you like to see changed?”
“What?” Madame demanded, slowly emerging from whatever mental fog had dulled her gaze and muffled her infamously unstoppable mouth throughout the meeting. Madame looked around the table, her gaze stopping at last on Janie. It was as if she was seeing her for the first time. “I’m sorry—what did you say?” Janie returned her look, realizing for the first time that something really was wrong—seriously wrong—with Madame Ramona. Her usually composed and perfectly made-up face looked haggard beneath the layers of foundation, matte finish, and blush. The pouches beneath her eyes were only accentuated by Ramona’s Constant Concealer Stick. Even her signature poppy red lipstick looked garish rather than glamorous today, like the thick fake smear of a circus clown.
“The, uh, the concepts for the campaign,” Janie said, gesturing to the raft of layouts that she had fanned out across the tabletop. “I was just asking for comments—revisions—whatever you’d like to suggest before we go forward with production. After all, this is our first total line-by-line campaign for you, Madame.” Janie added with a helpful smile, “Melina and I want you to be very happy with the end results.”
“Oh, please,” Madame replied caustically, “if Ms. Bliss were so concerned about my feelings, she would have made a minor effort to show up here today.”
“Madame,” Janie began patiently, “as I already explained, Melina deeply regrets her not being able to attend. But something very urgent intervened. And since this was mostly a creative presentation, we felt that I could run the show. Would you prefer to reschedule, perhaps,” Janie added as a last resort, “when Melina is available?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Madame retorted. “What’s the point of that now? I just want you to tell Melina for me that she better have the courage in the future to put in an appearance at these meetings.”
“Of course,” Janie replied smoothly. “I’m sure Melina has every intention of doing just that.” Courage? Janie asked herself. What in the world had Madame meant by that? There was a lot about Melina’s incredible coup in winning the entire Ramona account that Janie didn’t understand. It had all happened so quickly, Melina had explained. One day when Janie was still in France, Madame had simply phoned and announced in her usual imperious tone that she was going to switch agencies.
“Did she say why?” Janie had demanded. “I always thought she doted on Michael and Zach. In fact,” Janie had added, “I guess I’ve always been a little surprised that we even managed to get the home fragrances division.”
“Come on,” Melina had retorted. “Madame doesn’t really dote on anyone except those horrible little poodles of hers. I bet she just wanted a change. You know how impulsive and unpredictable she can be.”
“Well, you obviously know her better than I do,” Janie had responded. “I’d never have dreamed that we could pull this off, Melina. This one’s all yours.” All the more reason, Janie felt, that Melina should have rearranged her schedule to make today’s meeting. Madame’s decision to consolidate her account at Bliss & Penrod represented a tremendous vote of confidence for the fledgling agency. Since the news hit the advertising community—taking up Randall Rothenberg’s entire Advertising column the week before in the Times, as well as the lead story in Ad Week—they’d been averaging five calls a day asking for presentations. In fact, it was one such presentation to a national sportswear manufacturer that had kept Melina from the Ramona meeting. Madame was right to resent her absence, Janie felt. It was Ramona, after all, who helped put Bliss & Penrod on the map. They owed Madame their very best work and attention.
Resolving to give her just that, even if she had to force it down Madame’s throat, Janie shuffled the papers in front of her and tried again, saying, “Now, perhaps we can go through these concepts one at a time? Let’s start with the perfume feature, okay?”
But despite Janie’s cajoling, it was next to impossible to get Madame—the ultimate perfectionist—to say more than “it’s fine” to each of the dozen ad concepts she held up for inspection. After a while Janie tried to enlist help from Madame’s marketing staff, almost begging for comments.
“Anna,” she asked the fragrance product manager, “do you think we should show the eau de toilette here or the perfume? There’s room for both, I suppose, but the labels are so similar I don’t think it’s necessary, do you?”
“Whatever you think is best,” Anna responded dully. A thin, raven-haired, impeccably dressed woman who had been with Madame for nearly a quarter century, Anna Harrod was usually bursting with energy and opinions.
“Well…” Janie said, looking around the silent table and again finding no one willing to meet her gaze, “I guess if nobody has anything to add, we’ll set up the photo session and get going on all this.” Janie began to gather the layouts together as Madame rose from the head of the table.
“Thank you, Madame,” Janie said, rising quickly as well and starting around the table toward her, assuming they’d at least shake hands. But Madame strode from the room without so much as a backward glance in Janie’s direction.
“Great,” Janie muttered under her breath, “I’m glad you’re so pleased.” The others in the room began to file silently out as Janie packed up her portfolio. It was eerie. It was all wrong. She had just been given the go-ahead on a half-million-dollar campaign, and yet she felt nobody was happy with what had been approved. Was it something she had done? The way, perhaps, she had presented the work? As she made her way down the hall and waited for the elevator, she tried to think back on how she had run the meeting, but could find no real fault in her performance. Troubled and preoccupied, she did not notice when someone fell into step beside her as she strode through the lobby. In fact, Janie was halfway down the block before some sixth sense made her glance at the person walking beside her on the crowded sidewalk.
“Anna?” She was wearing dark glasses, and her thin lips formed a tense, down-turning curve.
“Shhh,” Anna Harrod replied tersely. “I don’t want anyone to see us talking. Meet me in ten minutes at the coffee shop on Lex and Forty-fourth, okay? I’ll be in a back booth.” And with those cryptic instructions, Anna strode on ahead of Janie through the crowd.
It was a sultry afternoon, hot even for the end of June, the air tinged with that shade of yellow that usually foreshadowed thunderstorms. The portfolio was heavy, and it banged periodically against Janie’s legs and chafed against her damp palms as she made her way down Fifth Avenue. Halfway to the coffee shop Janie had to stop and take off her lime linen jacket when sweat began to trickle down her arms. Her short-sleeved white silk blouse was now thoroughly wrinkled and stuck to her back and sides. But neither her tense expression nor slightly wilted appearance kept nearly every man who saw her from turning back for a second look.
Janie was almost used to it now. The low, appreciative whistles. The louder and less subtle verbal compliments. Taxis now swerved around other potential fares to stop with a screech in front of Janie. Women’s eyes narrowed as she approached, taking quick mental in
ventory of her wardrobe and hairstyle, her makeup and jewelry. But the funny thing was, though Janie looked utterly transformed to everyone else, she felt pretty much as she always had to herself. Looking beautiful hadn’t really changed in any fundamental way how she felt.
No, that wasn’t entirely true, Janie admitted to herself now, as she stopped at a busy intersection on Madison. The change in her own looks had changed to a degree the way she looked at others. She now realized—firsthand—that appearances altered character very little. Of course, she had always been taught time and again as a child that beauty was only skin deep. But she’d never believed it. She’d always known, despite the weak assurances Faith had tried to give her, that her slim, tall, blond older sisters were better, more desirable people than she. Now she wasn’t so sure. Since her return from France, she began to realize that she wasn’t so sure about a lot of things. But between the new crush of work at the agency and Alain’s frequent whirlwind visits, she hadn’t had much time to dwell on her uncertainties. Odd, she thought, hurrying as best she could down Lexington as fat raindrops began to splatter the sidewalk, she had been in many ways surer of herself, her goals, and her dreams before her transformation. She swung through the doors of the coffee shop just as the first thunderclap sounded above the city.
She found Anna in a back booth. Despite the darkness at the rear of the coffee shop, Anna hadn’t removed her glasses. She sat erect and tense, her hands clenched in a tight ball in front of her on the table.
“What is all this about?” Janie demanded, sliding into the banquette opposite her. “Why this cloak and dagger routine?”
“I will be fired,” Anna replied tersely, “if Madame finds out I’ve been talking to you privately. We were strictly forbidden to speak with anyone from your office without Madame’s direct approval.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Janie exclaimed. “We’re going to be doing a great deal of business together. We’ll need continuous phone contact with any number of people on your side. Madame’s crazy to put such a straitjacket on you. And why in the world would she want to?”
“I was hoping,” Anna replied, biting her lower lip, “that you could tell me that.” They both ordered coffee which neither had any interest in drinking.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of anything,” Janie admitted, folding down a corner of her paper napkin. “I was in France when Madame awarded us the account.”
“Oh, yes,” Anna said, a brief smile lighting her face, “with Alain Chanson. I meant to congratulate you before, my dear. On your new look—and your new man. Who can blame you for not paying much attention to business with all that’s happening in your life?”
“But I have been paying attention,” Janie corrected Anna quickly. “I’ve been very much involved. The presentation you saw today was my work, Anna.”
“Yes.” Anna nodded. “I thought so. It was quite good really. But surely, Janie, even you can sense something is missing. Something is terribly wrong. And do you know what it is?”
“Of course not!” Janie retorted. “I tried most of the afternoon, for heaven’s sake, for someone to tell me just that. I practically begged for criticism, Anna. You were there. You didn’t say a word.”
“I couldn’t,” Anna told her simply. “Because Madame wouldn’t. Janie, dear, let me explain something to you. Ramona International, as you know, is a tremendously profitable, multibillion-dollar company. We have offices in London, Paris, Tokyo, and West Berlin. We have over fifteen hundred employees. And yet, Janie, despite the size and scope, despite the tremendous details involved with managing such an organization, only one person makes the decisions. Madame. She approves everything from the design for the least important statement stuffer, to the list of hors d’oeuvres to be served at the regional buyers’ luncheon. She knows what is going on behind the counter at our bigger retail outlets … and in the remotest corner of our Philippine plant. And she has opinions—very definite opinions—about each and every aspect of this enormous enterprise.”
“In other words,” Janie cut in, “you are saying that Madame would not have sat there today, saying nothing, unless something was wrong.”
“Correct,” Anna agreed, at last taking off her dark glasses and looking Janie directly in the eye.
“But she approved the entire campaign,” Janie pointed out.
“Without one—even minor—change,” Anna added. “You see? Something is terribly amiss. And that thing is tied in with you—your agency. Madame remains her old tyrannical self about everything else, believe me. In many ways, she’s even grown more difficult since the Bliss & Penrod change. But when it comes to your work, to anything related to your agency, she just shuts her mouth and closes her eyes. It’s … weird.”
“And, it’s wrong,” Janie added. “Without Madame’s special perspective, without her direction and personality, the advertising will ultimately fail. Surely she must know that. But why, indeed, would she call up Melina and hand over the account if she was planning on abdicating this way?”
“But she never called Melina,” Anna asserted. “That I know. Melina came up to the office unannounced one afternoon and demanded a private session with Madame.”
“That’s not true,” Janie asserted. “Melina told me that Madame called her, spur of the moment, and gave us the account.”
“Janie, listen to me!” Anna said. “I know this must be hard for you to hear, but Melina is lying. I know for a fact that Madame was having her hair styled when Melina burst into the room and said she had to see her—alone. I’m certain of this, my dear, because the woman who arranges Madame’s coiffure came to me after. Yes, Melina demanded this private meeting, and when Madame ordered her out, Melina said something about some Piedmont person, and suddenly Madame changed her mind. About the meeting. About who should handle advertising. About what that advertising should be.”
“So you’re saying?” Janie prompted, trying to put all the pieces together in her head.
“I’m not saying anything,” Anna replied. “I’m suggesting it’s time you talked to your partner Melina, and see what she has to say. And I suggest you do that soon. For all our sakes.”
Chapter 36
“Café, Monsieur Chanson?” The flight attendant smiled at Alain and cocked her pretty head toward the coffee cart.
“Oui, merci,” Alain replied, smiling in return. “Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.” He had intended to return to the business papers spread out across his two spacious first-class seats after his lunch was cleared. Instead, sipping his coffee, he let his gaze drift across the sea of rolling clouds below … and let his thoughts wander toward the one subject of which he never seemed to tire: Jane.
“But who is this woman?” his father had demanded the night before when Alain had dined at his parents’ luxurious Paris apartment. “She’s nobody we know, is she, Martine?” Guillaume Chanson, Alain’s father, was nearing eighty and growing deaf. His uncertainty about what was being said around him made him querulous and increasingly dependent upon Martine—always the stronger of the couple anyway—to interpret and intervene for him when necessary.
“She’s an absolutely lovely girl, Guillaume,” Martine told her husband severely. “I already told you about her, darling, don’t you remember? I met her at the chateau last month during Alain’s visit.”
“But … no,” Guillaume muttered, “I don’t remember. American, you say? I can’t imagine, Alain, you marrying some foreign girl. I just can’t abide their…”
“Her family’s very well placed.” Martine cut her husband’s words off and gave him a sharp, dismissing look. They were having cocktails in the second floor library overlooking the garden. A row of tall double windows were open to the smells of freshly trimmed box hedges and neatly groomed flower beds. As always when Martine entertained, even though this was just an informal family dinner, everything was perfect. A sterling silver bowl of glistening black caviar, ringed with circles of minced eg
g and onion and edged with toast points was passed from Alain to Guillaume by a maid in a starched uniform. Crystal flutes of pink champagne followed.
“I believe a toast is in order,” Martine began, lifting her glass. “To Alain and his Jane. To their happiness.”
“You mean,” Guillaume broke in, “he’s really going to marry this girl, Martine?”
“Yes, Father,” Alain replied, “I am. Once you meet her, you will see why. She is perfect for me.”
“But I haven’t yet met her,” Guillaume retorted peevishly. “I haven’t given my approval to any of this. Martine, I absolutely forbid…”
“Of course, darling,” Martine cut in gently. “Of course, you’ve yet to meet her. That’s a very important point. Nothing is official. We’re just celebrating—well—we’re celebrating the happy fact that Alain has fallen in love. How is that?” Martine smiled at Guillaume and then at Alain, giving him a secret wink. “Now, shall we toast, gentlemen?”
“Thank you,” Alain said, impressed as always with his mother’s ability to maneuver around his father. For as long as he could remember, it was Martine who decided the important issues in the family … and Guillaume who got all the credit for it. With care, and no doubt with love, she molded Guillaume to her will. So long as his pride remained intact, Alain’s father never seemed to mind that he was being manipulated. In fact, Alain was quite sure that he enjoyed it. That was, Alain had long ago decided, the way every successful marriage operated. Like a good dance team, one partner led, the other followed. And that was yet another reason why Janie—so modest and so willing to learn—was going to be the ideal wife.
“And the wedding itself, Alain?” Martine prodded, carefully topping off her husband’s champagne flute. She repositioned the napkin on Guillaume’s knee so that it covered more of his expensively tailored trouser leg. “Have you decided on where? And when? If not, I had the most marvelous idea…”
Changes of Heart Page 28