The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Lorrie!’ I turn to see Helena, pink-faced and clearly harassed, peeling off her black jacket whilst hurrying towards me. ‘Delay on my train. Thank God it hasn’t started yet …’

  ‘No, you’re fine, don’t worry. Just take a few moments to calm down. Are you okay?’

  She exhales with relief as she looks around. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Who’s that guy Nuala’s talking to?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Jesus. This looks like a pretty big deal, doesn’t it?’

  I agree that it does, and watch with interest as Nuala and Mr Chiselled are joined by a bird-like woman in a knee-length red dress which clings to her tiny waist. Another two men in suits stride over and they all start bantering loudly. The woman in red throws back her head, her black bob swinging as if she’s in an advert, and laughs shrilly: ‘Oh Gerard, you crack me up!’ It’s as if there’s a private party going on that the rest of us haven’t been invited to. ‘Yep,’ she adds, ‘I’m ready. As ready as I’ll ever be, haha!’ With that, she tears herself away from the group and strides onto the stage, where she claps her hands sharply. ‘Could everyone please take their seats for the presentation?’

  Everyone swings round to face her. If that was me up there, I’d be worrying about looking sweaty or my pants working their way up my bottom. Clearly, though, she does this kind of thing all the time. She widens her eyes expectantly, and there’s a great deal of scurrying and scraping as forty-odd people settle into their chairs. Andi, Helena and I bag three seats together as a reverential hush descends on the room.

  ‘Hello everyone,’ the woman starts, ‘and welcome to our La Beauté conference. I’m Sonia Richardson and I’m the new CEO of La Beauté UK.’

  ‘New CEO?’ I mouth, aghast, at Helena. ‘What’s going on?’ We’ve never had one before. Claudine, Mimi and their own management team ran things from the offices in Grasse.

  She pulls a baffled face as I turn back to face the stage. So that’s what this is about: someone new put in place, perhaps due to Claudine and Mimi wishing to step back from the running of the business. Well, that’s understandable; our founder sisters are well into their seventies. I take a deep breath, trying to convince myself that everything’s going to be okay.

  Sonia Richardson’s smile lifts and widens. Her perfect teeth shine out at us, like a freshly painted gate. ‘It’s so good to see you all together,’ she continues, ‘for what promises to be an inspiring morning for all of us. And now, to kick things off, I have a very important announcement to make …’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Everyone sits bolt upright, faces turned to the new boss. Sonia smooths down the front of her red dress, then glances over her shoulder as the words A NEW WAY FORWARD flash up on the screen. ‘Right,’ she says briskly, ‘this is the focus of today’s conference – the reason you’ve all been invited here. I know you haven’t had much notice but it’s been important to keep these developments under wraps.’ Small pause for effect. ‘I’m here to tell you that La Beauté is under new ownership.’

  I gawp at her, wondering for a moment whether I’ve misheard. There are several audible gasps, and a collective murmur ripples across the room.

  ‘Who owns us now?’ Andi hisses, but all I can do is pull a no-idea face in return.

  ‘As you’re all aware,’ Sonia continues – we all quieten down immediately, like scolded children – ‘we have always been a niche brand that’s attracted an incredibly loyal following.’ She pauses. ‘So how do you think our customers would describe us right now? Please speak up. I’d like to hear your opinions.’

  The room is hushed. Mr Chiselled, who is hovering near the stage like Sonia’s minder, clears his throat. I should say something – of course I know how they’d describe us – to break the silence that’s stretching uncomfortably.

  At the end of our row, an eager-looking girl with a blonde crop shoots up her hand. ‘Er, we have a personal approach.’

  Sonia purses her lips. ‘Yes, very good,’ she remarks in a voice that says, That’s not very good, is it? ‘But then, I doubt whether there’s a successful brand who wouldn’t claim to have that. Of course it’s personal. We are selling beauty, not tile grouting. Could you expand a little, please?’

  I glance back at the girl who’s now shrunk into her beige stackable chair, twisting her hands together on her lap. ‘Um, well … I just think, er, that’s why our customers are so loyal, you know? They like coming to us, they enjoy the experience …’

  ‘Well, that’s a good start, isn’t it?’ Sonia’s tone is cruelly mocking.

  ‘… Because we don’t just thrust the latest product at them. We take the time to chat, to get to know them a little, ask about their jobs, their lives, their families …’ My heart goes out to the girl as she struggles on.

  ‘Yes, excellent.’ Sonia’s eyes are already scanning the room. ‘Anyone else like to contribute?’

  No more hands are raised. Now there’s a surprise.

  She waits, one hand resting on the lectern, the other plonked on her bony hip. ‘Yes?’ Her gaze lands on someone in the row behind me. I glance round to see Zara, the counter manager from the Knightsbridge store.

  ‘Well, it’s all about trust,’ she begins.

  ‘Yes, of course they trust us when we’re recommending products for their face.’

  I shift uncomfortably and adjust the waistband of my trousers. Sonia is pacing the stage, face set hard, in the manner of a stern GP. What does she know about our business, and our relationship with customers? Bet she didn’t start on the shop floor.

  ‘I mean, we are not hard sell and never have been,’ Zara adds. ‘It’s just not our way.’

  ‘But we are in the beauty business,’ Sonia says, now addressing the room, ‘and I’m here to tell you that’s how things are going to change. We are putting the word business first.’ She jabs a remote control, and up it flashes on the screen in fat black type: THE BUSINESS BEAUTY. What? Someone’s made a mistake. The words are in the wrong order. It’s like saying, ‘I fancy a sandwich cheese.’

  ‘Yes, loyalty and trust were – are – important,’ Sonia goes on, ‘but La Beauté is no longer a family-owned company. As of yesterday, the brand was taken over by Geddes and Cox which, as I’m sure all of you know, is one of the biggest companies in Britain and probably the most diverse, product-wise.’ I glance at Andi, who pulls an alarmed face. ‘… And what Geddes and Cox are extremely keen on – in fact, what is required of us now – is to boost sales to a level where we are out-performing the big guns. We are talking major expansion and a whole new, highly-driven approach.’ Sonia pauses again, allowing this information to sink in.

  Big guns? We are talking about a touchy-feely company, started by two sisters over forty years ago, who concocted all-natural lotions and face creams using wild flowers from their own garden.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Helena whispers.

  ‘… which might seem like a huge undertaking,’ Sonia goes on in strident tones, ‘and, well … yes, it is!’ She beams around at us as if rallying us for battle and flicks her remote control.

  AGGRESSIVE GROWTH appears on the screen.

  Christ, it sounds like cancer.

  Then:

  What does this mean?

  NPC = zero sale. zero commission. zero growth

  NO! to the NPC.

  Sonia glances at Mr Chiselled who nods approvingly. ‘Now, who is familiar with the NPC?’ Silence. A waitress stops tidying up the ravaged croissant display and glances towards the stage. ‘Really?’ Sonia prompts us. ‘Hasn’t anyone heard of this term?’

  A sea of blank looks. Sonia juts out her chin and smiles curtly. ‘The Non-Purchasing Customer, of course. She’s a waste of time and resources and something we must learn to manage if we are to achieve our goals.’

  What? I refuse to think of someone like Jane – the knackered mum who was grateful to be looked after while her little boy defaced our colouring book – as a waste of anything. She’ll come back and buy so
mething one day – but even if she doesn’t, so what? What difference does it make really?

  Sonia turns to the screen, flicking her remote control again with a dramatic flourish, as if it will now cause the dreary conference room walls to slide apart to reveal a swimming pool.

  A new message appears: Maximising profits through minimising stool time.

  What? So they’re planning to limit how often we go to the loo? This is crazy. I won’t be treated like a naughty child …

  ‘… The focus will move firmly towards rapid gains in market share,’ Sonia drones on. ‘We’ll be implementing measures to assess competitors’ promotional drives and retaliate with our own aggressive strategies …’

  My stomach feels leaden. This is definitely no longer our delightful company, with Claudine and Mimi at the helm, who sent me a handwritten condolence letter after David died: Please take as much time as you require with assurance that you will be paid in full. We are sending you much love from Grasse. They even followed it up with a spa voucher – never used, but a kind gesture – six months later, plus an open invitation to visit them with my children any time I needed a break. That’s what’s so special about working here. Despite being a global brand it’s always had that family feel.

  ‘What’s the company approach to stool time right now?’ asks Sonia with an arched brow, scanning the room for a raised hand.

  ‘Erm, I’m sorry,’ murmurs someone at the back, ‘but I don’t think we know what it is. I mean, I’ve never heard it before—’

  ‘Really? Well, that is a surprise!’ Sonia emits a small, mirthless laugh. ‘It means the time a customer takes up when she’s sitting on one of our stools, basically eating up our resources and profits. So, what’s the maximum allocation at present?’

  ‘We, uh, don’t have one,’ the girl replies.

  ‘Well,’ Sonia announces, ‘that will certainly have to change …’ And now the screen fills with a shouty directive:

  STOOL TIME FOR MAXIMUM SALES POTENTIAL: 3 minutes 27 seconds.

  The world has gone mad. My armpits are sweaty and, as the room has grown warmer, my feet seem to have expanded in the glossy black shoes which normally fit me perfectly.

  ‘This,’ Sonia announces, ‘isn’t just a figure plucked from the air. In the run-up to the acquisition, we conducted an enormous amount of research to demonstrate how long we need to assign valuable stool time to a customer in order to maximise the possibility of a sale.’

  Three minutes, twenty-seven seconds? Will we be issued with stop watches? And what are we supposed to do if a customer lingers a little longer? Push her off the stool, or attack her with a sharpened lip pencil?

  ‘So you see,’ Sonia concludes, ‘we are seriously changing the way we operate and I think – I hope – you’ll all embrace our new approach and give your all to what promises to be an exciting future for every one of us.’ She stops and looks round, as if anticipating whoops and cheers. The room remains deathly silent. ‘And now,’ she adds, ‘we’ll break for coffee – just fifteen minutes – after which one of our top salespeople will give a talk on how we plan to move seamlessly into this, our new, thrilling phase.’ Her gaze hits the centre of my forehead like a laser. ‘Lorrie Foster, I’ve heard excellent things about your performance and management skills. Straight up here after the break, okay?’

  ‘Sorry?’ A sharp stab of pain shoots up from my left toe.

  She smiles pertly and strides off the stage, at the precise moment that a cluster of young waitresses glide in with trolleys bearing more pots of coffee and tea.

  I glance round and see Zara striding towards me.

  ‘So you knew all about this?’ she barks. A clear message beams from her almond-shaped brown eyes: traitor.

  ‘No, of course I didn’t! I had absolutely no idea.’

  ‘But you’ve prepared a talk about how we’re all going to move forward?’ She widens her eyes expectantly. Some of her team have gathered around us. They loom over me as if they might kick me in the shins, or at the very least burn my furry pencil case with a cigarette lighter.

  ‘Honestly, I didn’t know any more than you did. This has been totally sprung on me—’

  ‘Nuala popped in a couple of days ago and said some of us might be asked to talk,’ chips in Helena, ever the ally. ‘It just sounded like a casual thing. No one knew about the acquisition.’

  Zara’s coterie glare at me, clearly still disbelieving, as if I must have known all along about Geddes and Cox and their stool-time rule. Hotness surges up my chest as we all make our way to the refreshments table.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s an honour to be asked to address us all,’ snaps Cleo, who works at the Notting Hill store. She flares a nostril at me and snatches a biscuit from a tray.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I murmur. I pour a coffee I don’t want, and clutch the too-small cup with the clumsy saucer as hostility radiates all around me.

  ‘Who made that up?’ someone mutters. ‘That non-paying NPC thing?’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s a standardly used term,’ booms Mr Chiselled, who seems to have sidled over without anyone noticing.

  ‘But used where?’ Zara counters.

  ‘In the beauty industry of course.’

  ‘So what other beauty brands do Geddes and Cox have?’ someone else pipes up.

  ‘Um, none at the moment,’ he says without a trace of humility, ‘but with this acquisition we’re serious about grabbing a major market share.’

  Sensing my lifeblood ebbing away, I step back from the hubbub and lean against a wall which bears a smattering of drawing pin holes and Blu-tack smears. All these awful, unfriendly phrases: minimising stool time … aggressive growth … and, the corker, The Business Beauty. It’s only my job, I remind myself, trying to keep things in perspective by thinking of non-work matters: like Antoine, on Sunday night! What about that? I have a date. No, no not a date. A casual drink with a friend from the past. Christ. The very thought of it, coupled with the gallon of coffee I must have consumed today – on an otherwise empty stomach – does nothing to quell my anxiety.

  I dump my cup and saucer on the table. Spotting Nuala looking stranded by the skincare display, I make my way over to her.

  ‘Hi, Lorrie,’ she says dully. ‘This is all very, um, interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that. So how long have you known?’

  ‘Only since Tuesday and I couldn’t say anything. I wish I could but, honestly, I’d have lost my job …’

  I nod, feeling sorry for her now. She’s not a stool-time type either. ‘Did you put my name forward to do a speech?’

  She pushes her shiny dark hair behind her ears. ‘Yes, but only because you’re the best.’

  ‘Glad you think so,’ I murmur, ‘but what should I say? I had no idea any of this was happening—’

  ‘Just relax, be yourself …’ She pats my arm as if I am seven and about to perform a wobbly solo on a recorder at the school concert, and beetles away.

  Hell, coffee break must be almost over. I sneak out into the corridor, away from the sly glances from Zara and the others, in an attempt to collect my thoughts. As well as my feet puffing up, the waistband of my trousers is now pinching into me like cheese wire. Must be nerves, filling me up with wind. Pre-public-speaking bloat, is that a thing? A girl with a mousy ponytail lumbers past me, dragging a vacuum cleaner. I tug at my waistband and try to rearrange my expression to show that I am calm, just taking a moment.

  The door to the conference room opens. The blonde woman who greeted us at the start of the day steps out into the corridor. ‘Ah, Lorrie, here you are! We’re all ready for you now.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keep calm, I tell myself as I walk towards the stage. They’re only people. People who pick their noses and do all the normal stuff – even Mr Chiselled sits on the loo with his trousers down. I glance at him, trying to imagine the scenario, and he flashes a joyless smile.

  Beside him sits Sonia, back r
od-straight, hands placed loosely on her lap. Clearly, her outfit doesn’t threaten to slice her through the middle when she sits down. She’s just a young thing, I reflect as I step up onto the stage. Early thirties, at a guess, possibly even younger. She might come across as intimidating but I bet she’d have a full-on meltdown if her boiler broke.

  The blonde woman hurries towards me and clips a tiny microphone onto the front of my tunic. I cough to test it. The noise ricochets like a thunder clap across the room. One of the besuited men flinches and throws Sonia a concerned look.

  I take a deep breath, picturing Amy’s face now, my clever and confident daughter who was her team’s top scorer last season and regards the beauty business – the business beauty – as a load of old tosh, or rather, tosh a load of. She’s probably right.

  My caffeinated heart hammers away as I gaze at the sea of faces before me. ‘Erm, hello,’ I start. ‘I’m Lorrie Foster and I’m a counter manager for La Beauté …’ Breathe, don’t forget to breathe. My throat is sandpaper dry and it feels as if a small radiator has been strapped to my chest. ‘Well, it’s very interesting, seeing the new direction the company is going to take,’ I continue, aware of the wobble in my voice. ‘And of course, selling products is important because without that, none of us would be here.’ My gaze sweeps the rows of blank faces. Zara and her team, all lined up at the back, are gazing dispassionately as if tolerating a dreary talk by someone trying to flog timeshare apartments.

  My mouth has completely dried up now – my tongue feels desiccated – as I try to figure out what to say that’ll be relevant to Sonia’s speech. Are they expecting me to enthuse about limited stool time and how we might deal with those dastardly customers who just want to browse? My brain has emptied itself of coherent thoughts. ‘So,’ I mutter, ‘I think maybe we need to address the issue of the NCP.’

  There’s a small flurry of laughter. ‘That’s the car park company,’ Sonia trills. ‘NCP car parks. I think you mean NPC?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ My heartbeat accelerates and I catch Helena’s eye. She smiles encouragingly. Andi raises her brows, willing me to go on, to get this over with so we can hurry back to work and somehow struggle through the afternoon in our lovely fragrant store. ‘The NPC,’ I repeat carefully. ‘Well, this is very new to us, isn’t it? Thinking of our customers in this way?’ I scan the room again and register the odd tentative nod. ‘Because to me,’ I add, my voice a little stronger now, ‘it seems to go against everything La Beauté stands for.’