It was a crazy market to launch yourself at. One of the most difficult of all. Especially for someone like Faye who had no experience or platform in that area.
She was still seething after her recent failures, the meeting with Louise Widerström Bergh in Västerås and the lunch with Sophie Duval. The bill she’d been left with after the latter had stung, causing her to re-evaluate her priorities when it came to potential investors. She’d gone through her list and struck off anyone like Sophie; they only had fool’s gold to offer anyway.
Irene Ahrnell was infinitely more crucial when it came to Faye’s chances of success. With Irene’s backing anything would be possible, internationally as well as in the domestic market.
Faye had read up on Irene until she knew practically everything about her. Raised in an affluent family in Gothenburg, educated at Yale and Oxford. She was a generous donor to women’s organizations, and supported female entrepreneurs. She had an impressive network, stretching right across Europe and the USA. The fact that Faye had been granted a meeting presumably meant that Irene was curious about her after everything that had been written about her divorce from Jack.
Faye didn’t give a damn what the reason was, the thing that mattered was that she was being given a chance to enlist Irene’s support. It was all up to her now.
Ahrnell Invest was based on the fifth floor of a handsome building dating back to the early 1800s. The view across the water was magnificent. Faye was given coffee and shown into a meeting room.
There were six chairs round the table. She remained standing, unsure where she should sit. She had been planning a rather daring opening move, but wasn’t sure how Irene Ahrnell would react. There was a risk that it could be taken as unprofessional. But her meeting with Sophie had made her realize that she couldn’t afford to let herself be easily dismissed. She needed to open with fireworks and demand the attention she deserved. Not wait politely until anyone deigned to give it to her.
Faye could feel her back sweating. She was starting to do the very thing she needed to avoid, doubting and questioning herself and the whole idea.
Irene came into the room wearing a navy-blue trouser suit. A cream silk blouse poked out of the top, Faye guessed it was one of Vesna A’s tied blouses. She’d been hankering after one just like it, but couldn’t afford it until she had got her starting capital in place. She had borrowed the Stella McCartney suit she was wearing from Chris. A couple of months ago she wouldn’t have got the trousers over her knees, but now it fitted perfectly. She hadn’t dared ask Chris what it had cost.
Irene put a similar mug to the one Faye had been given down on the table and held out her hand.
‘Irene,’ she said in a neutral voice. ‘We’ve got ten minutes before I need to leave.’
Chair legs scraped the floor as they sat down opposite one another.
Faye took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Reminded herself of why she was doing this. Conjured up the image of Jack thrusting between Ylva’s legs in their home, in their bed.
‘How many times in your life have you been betrayed by a man?’ Faye asked, forcing herself to look Irene calmly in the eye.
The image of Jack was still etched onto her retina. Her pulse-rate slowed down. Her uncertainty vanished. The first shot had been fired.
Irene looked unsettled at first but quickly composed herself. Her expression switched from surprised to affronted.
‘I consider that too personal a question to answer in circumstances like this.’
She looked like she was about to stand up.
Faye kept her eyes on her. Refused to let herself be put off by Irene’s initial reaction. Her intention was to shock, and there was no doubt that she had caught the investment manager’s attention. She leaned forward, folding her hands together on the conference table.
‘The answer to that question is the basis of my business idea,’ Faye said. ‘But first, note that I didn’t ask if you’d been betrayed by a man. I took it for granted that you had been. And why is that so shameful, prompting you to react the way you did? You weren’t the one who did anything wrong.’
Irene straightened her neck and leaned forward. She looked simultaneously amused and slightly unnerved. She seemed to take a decision.
‘Twice,’ she murmured.
Her features relaxed for a moment before she composed herself again. Outside on Strandvägen some cars were blowing their horns angrily.
Faye nodded.
‘And you’re hardly alone in that. As women, no matter what our standing in society, we will almost all of us have been betrayed by a man at least once. Yet we’re the ones who feel the shame. Who are left wondering what we did wrong. Now, why is that the case?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’
Irene’s interest had definitely been piqued now. The door was ajar, and Faye needed to push through it. And be invited to stay.
‘Well, I’ve certainly had good reason to think about that,’ she said. ‘Because it’s humiliating to be abused and then rejected. Sometimes because our husbands find someone else they want to spend the rest of their lives with, sometimes because of a squalid fuck in a conference hotel in Örebro. All the love, children, time and effort we’ve invested. All that can be thrown away for a drunken shag in a conference centre. We’re replaceable. And they don’t appear to show any remorse. Or have the grace to feel ashamed. It’s as if it’s their right to trample all over us. And they have an invisible network that we can’t break into. Where they give each other advantages that aren’t offered to us. Because they regard us as inferior.’
Irene didn’t speak when Faye paused for breath. But the hard expression on her face had softened. She looked curious.
‘Have you ever dreamed of taking revenge on a man who betrayed you, walked all over you, treated you badly?’ Faye asked.
‘Of course, everyone has,’ Irene said, and her face suddenly looked naked and vulnerable.
Faye guessed she was seeing images in her mind. The sort of images you had to live with for the rest of your life, like war-wounds, but in your heart rather than on your skin.
‘And did you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Irene reflected. ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘My ex-husband, Jack Adelheim, was unfaithful to me for years. I have no idea how many women he slept with. This spring I walked in on him while he was having sex with his finance director, Ylva Lehndorf, in our bed. And that’s only part of the betrayal. The less important part, really. I helped him build up his business empire. I can tell you the whole story some other time, over a few glasses of wine. But the short version is that he has me to thank for a lot of what he’s got now. Yet he wasn’t just unfaithful to me; when he discarded me, he left me high and dry. And you know what, Irene? I begged and pleaded with him to be allowed to forgive him so that everything could go back to normal. That was how desperate I was to save our family. Even though he had taken everything – my career, my home, my security, my self-respect. In the end, I decided that enough was enough.’
‘And now …?’
‘Now I’m going to take it all back. Plus a bit extra.’
‘How?’
They had switched roles. Suddenly, Irene was the one asking the questions. A sure sign that she was interested. She leaned closer to Faye, intrigued.
‘By refusing to feel ashamed,’ Faye said, pushing a sketch of the Revenge packaging across the table. ‘And by tapping into an enormous target market. Smart marketing needs to press a button that no one has pressed before. Personalized marketing, taken to its extreme. Storytelling combined with good products.’
Irene held the sketch up and inspected it carefully.
‘What does the R stand for?’
‘Revenge.’
‘I see,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘What do you need me for?’
‘Distribution and advertising campaigns through the department stores you have shares in. I’ll do the rest. I’m going to
bring in as many successful women into the project as I can, and I’ve worked out a campaign strategy that’s unlike anything that’s been done before. Particularly when it comes to this type of product. I’m not asking you to invest as some sort of ideological gesture. I’m explaining my thinking so that you appreciate the immense potential of this project. The target market for our products isn’t just women, but women who are fed up of being let down by men.’
There was a twinkle in Irene’s eyes. She picked up the sketch again and looked at it thoughtfully.
Faye sat in silence. Let her think.
She had decided not to make Irene an offer but to let her raise the subject instead. Irene’s share would be larger than the one per cent she had been planning to offer the women who invested. Irene would get more. Faye had already given Kerstin five per cent of the business. She had offered her ten, but Kerstin had refused saying it was too much.
‘I want ten per cent,’ Irene said.
‘Five,’ Faye said. Her heart was thudding in her chest.
‘Seven.’
‘Deal.’
She had to make a real effort not to let out a shriek and dance with joy. Instead she got to her feet and Irene did the same. They met in the middle of the room and shook hands.
Irene fished a card from her handbag.
‘Call me, whenever you need anything. This is my direct number. You don’t have to go through my secretary.’
When Faye emerged onto the street her mobile buzzed. She didn’t want to be disturbed, she wanted to savour this moment, but when she saw it was Chris she answered.
‘She’s on board, Chris! Irene fucking Ahrnell is on board!’
‘Brilliant!’ Chris said enthusiastically. ‘So you’re quite pleased, then?’
‘Pleased?’ Faye said as she set off towards Stureplan. ‘I’m over the moon! Revenge is going to be available in all her stores. And she’s promised to use her international contacts if the Swedish launch is successful. Have you any idea how fantastic that is?’
‘Yes, I have. But we’ll have to celebrate later. Right now I’ve got two people who want to talk to you.’
‘OK?’ Faye said uncertainly.
‘Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker.’
‘Hi Faye, my name is Paulina Dafman,’ a hoarse voice said. ‘I’m sitting here with my friend Olga Niklasson. Have you got a minute?’
Faye’s heart skipped a beat. Olga Niklasson and Paulina Dafman were two of the biggest Instagram profiles in Sweden. Between them they had three million followers.
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘We’re sitting in the Grand Hôtel drinking cava with Chris. And we loooove Chris! And she told us about what had happened to you, about that treacherous bastard, and about your business idea, and we’re very interested. Is there any chance that we could get involved and help you with this?’
‘You want to get involved?’
‘Absolutely!’ they said in chorus. ‘And I’m sure we can bring in a few more girls with good accounts. We know everyone who’s anyone, you know.’
‘They really do,’ Chris said. ‘They know me, for instance …’
Faye stifled a giggle.
She was skipping with joy when she hung up. An older woman with a dachshund in her arms looked at her in surprise. Faye smiled broadly at her and the woman hurried on.
Faye paused to study her reflection in the plate-glass window of Svenskt Tenn, and knew she was looking at a winner.
PART 3
A fan was whirring far too loudly somewhere, detracting from the luxurious impression the law firm was trying to convey.
Jack had asked to see her while he was in custody. Faye’s solicitor snorted and shook her head when she told her.
‘I can’t understand how he’s got the nerve to ask to see you. How can he possibly imagine that you’d want to, after what he’s done?’
Faye didn’t answer. She slowly stirred her tea as she sat in the meeting room. She stared almost hypnotized at the ripples in the red-bush tea, the maelstrom in the middle that seemed to swallow everything.
Her solicitor put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
‘The prosecutor is going to press for life. There’s no chance he’ll get anything less, given the evidence. You’ll never have to see him again after the trial.’
‘But is it going to be possible to prove anything? Without her …’ Faye’s voice cracked. ‘Without her body?’
‘There’s enough evidence besides that. And then there’s his abuse of you. Believe me, he won’t be getting out for a very long time.’
Faye stopped stirring. She put the spoon on a white napkin and cautiously raised the cup to her lips. The tea burned her tongue but she welcomed the pain. These days it was her friend. The pain lived in the murky waters where she kept all her secrets.
Ingrid Hansson, the reporter from Dagens Industri, was picking at a Caesar salad. Faye was making do with green tea. The Dictaphone was between them, its recording light flashing.
‘It really is a remarkable journey that you’ve been on with Revenge,’ Ingrid Hansson said. ‘After your divorce from Jack Adelheim you went from being a housewife to the owner and managing director of a company that’s expected to reach a turnover of one and half billion kronor this year. What’s the secret?’
Faye raised the cup to her lips and took a sip.
‘Hard work, I’d say. And knowledgeable and engaged investors.’
‘But it all started with your divorce?’
Faye nodded.
‘When Jack and I separated I hadn’t a clue what to do with my life. I started a dog-walking business and spent my days doing that. In the evenings I worked on my business plan.’
‘Was it a messy divorce, given the name of your company? Revenge?’
The question was posed in a neutral way, but she knew it was a landmine. Faye was familiar with the whole media game by now. The worst ones were always the journalists who pretended to be your friend, who tried to play on sympathy. The ones who liked to hang around once they’d put the tape-recorder away to chat ‘off the record’.
In the world of the media there was no such thing as ‘off the record’, nor ‘you mustn’t use this’. They were merciless. But Faye knew how to exploit them. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands together on her lap. She could afford an expensive wardrobe of her own now, she saw it as a uniform, armour. She used her clothes to signal power and success. Today she had chosen an Isabel Marant jacket and a Chanel skirt. But the blouse was a bargain from Zara. She liked mixing things up, not dressing from head to toe in expensive designer gear.
‘Messy, no. But it was difficult. Like all divorces.’
‘How would you describe your relationship today?’
‘We have a daughter, and we shared more than ten years of our lives. If Compare does end up being floated on the stock market, I’ll probably buy a few shares.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I was involved in the early years. Naturally I want to support the company now.’
Ingrid Hansson wiped her mouth.
‘So the name Revenge has nothing to do with your divorce?’ she asked. ‘I’ve heard a lot of rumours about how you sold the idea to your backers.’
Faye laughed.
‘Every good product comes with a good story. Stories that take flight and spread across the internet and social media. I can’t exactly claim that that’s been a disadvantage. It’s simply good business to find something that an awful lot of women have in common.’
Ingrid nodded and changed the subject to performance indicators, the most recent accounts, international expansion and the prestigious awards Revenge had won for its marketing. Also a fair number of questions about Faye’s private investments, primarily in property, which had made such a significant contribution to her own personal fortune. Faye was happy to share information and advice. She had nothing to hide. Not when it came to her finances, anyway.
Half an hour later the inter
view was over. Ingrid Hansson left Faye’s office in a prestigious building on Birger Jarlsgatan. Faye looked on thoughtfully as the reporter left, leaning against the wall in the window alcove as she granted herself a few rare minutes of peace.
Once the merry-go-round started to spin everything had happened at breakneck speed. The three years that had passed since the divorce had exceeded all expectations. Revenge was a huge success, bigger than she could ever have dreamed of. She had underestimated the impact her marketing campaign and products would have. Women had loved the company’s angle and, after only six months, shops in France and Britain had bought licences to sell her products. And they had recently signed a contract with one of the biggest retailers in the USA.
The big breakthrough had come about thanks to Instagram. The influence wielded by Paulina Dafman, Olga Niklasson and their friends over a new, young generation of women turned out to be greater than she had ever dared hope. For hundreds of thousands of women in Sweden, they were the new ideal. The 2010s Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor. Whatever they wore, other women wanted to wear. Whatever they bought, other women wanted to buy it. As ambassadors for Revenge they had written inspirational posts about girl power and had been happy to advertise products that fitted in perfectly with the feminist winds that were blowing through Sweden. Revenge couldn’t have been more perfectly timed.
In her more cynical moments Faye wondered where the feminist message lay in adverts featuring well-toned women in bikinis turning their pert backsides to the camera to sell Revenge diet tea. But Chris had pointed out rather bluntly that you had to take whatever feminism was on offer, and that the path was never going to be perfectly straight. Besides, the net was crawling with their male equivalents taking pictures of their bare torsos and advertising protein shakes. And was there any real difference, when it came to it?
The Gilded Cage Page 19