by Wendy Wax
“I haven’t had a chance to read the report,” Ross said smoothly, “but assuming the research backs this up, it’s a very . . . novel approach . . . which is,” he cleared his throat, “of course what you’re looking for from an agency.”
Shelley began to unclench. It wasn’t exactly a rousing vote of approval, but it wasn’t a slap-down, either.
“I have every confidence in Ms. Schwartz’s ability to steer your account in a more profitable direction.”
He did?
“You do?” the tire man asked.
“I do. And, of course, no one at Schwartz and Associates operates in a vacuum. We have a team of creative and marketing people working on each client’s behalf. We’re, uh, just at the idea stage. The main thing right now is that we agree to proceed.”
“Well, now.” Haynes leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of the Coke she had fetched for him. “I suppose I’d be open to hearin’ more about this. I already figured we’d do some sort of grand openin’.” He shook his head, still at a loss. “But women?” He snorted. “I never would have thought of it.”
“No, me, either.” Ross squeezed out from behind her—a move she felt through the open back of the folding chair and in too many parts of her body—then placed a hand under her elbow to help her rise so that they were standing side by side in front of the desk. “But one thing Ms. Schwartz knows for sure is parties. She’ll give you a call when she has a plan and a budget ready.”
“Yes.” Shelley stuck out her hand to shake Wiley Haynes’s callused one and silently prayed that he was NOT going to call her “little lady” again. “Give me a couple weeks to put something together for you. Then maybe you could come in for lunch to discuss it when it’s ready?”
As they left the office, Shelley tried to decide whether she was relieved to be leaving with a positive outcome or pissed off that Ross Morgan had taken over so completely. In the end she decided there was no reason she couldn’t be both.
Morgan handed her into the passenger seat, and she pulled the door shut, laid her briefcase at her feet, and folded her arms across her chest. “You were just supposed to be an observer on this,” she pointed out as he slid into the driver’s seat. “But as usual you had to be the head sardine.”
“If you’d gone by yourself you’d still be running out for snacks.”
“Ha!”
“Do you realize what you proposed to that man?”
“I proposed a killer idea that’s going to set Tire World apart from every other tire store chain in Atlanta.”
“To Wiley Haynes, head of the unenlightened. You might as well have proposed that he hire all female technicians.”
“Hmmmm . . .” She looked at him to see if he’d been joking. “Maybe he could put a few women on that we could feature in the print ads . . .”
He snorted and slammed the car into gear. Shelley stared out the window, refusing to be soothed by the leather seats enveloping her or the purr of the engine. She tried to picture the meeting with Haynes minus Ross Morgan, and had to admit the image wasn’t a pretty one. Still, she was not going to thank him for interfering or put up with any more of it.
On the interstate, the Porsche cut smoothly through traffic. Ross drove with a light touch on the wheel, handling the car like he handled everything else: with a calm competence she didn’t want to admire.
A silence stretched out between them.
“I’ve been trying to figure out who you are today,” he said, finally, without taking his eyes off the lane of merging traffic ahead of them.
“Who I am?”
“Yes. Whenever I’m with you I feel like I’ve been plopped down in a fifties movie. It’s not just the cut of your suits, though, or what you’ve been doing to your hair. It’s the whole shoulders-back, chin-up, you-can’t-keep-a-good-woman-down thing.”
The man was much too observant. And obviously an old movie buff.
“It’s Hepburn again today, right?” His thigh muscle bunched—she just happened to notice this out of the corner of her eye—and the car accelerated as he changed lanes. “With a hint of, oh, I don’t know . . . Sophia Loren?”
Shelley studied him out of the same corner of her eye that had noted his thigh-bunching. She’d die before admitting to her dependence on film stars for inspiration and internal fortitude, or the time spent in front of her mirror each morning trying to imitate their easy confidence. Nor did Ross Morgan need to know that today she’d been unable to settle on an individual role model and was now, instead, channeling the combined presence of every strong movie heroine she could come up with. On the bright side, if he thought she was confining herself to fifties films, he was sorely underestimating the depths of her desperation.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s just me. Mortally offended, tired of being a second-class citizen, thinking about calling the National Organization for Women and reporting Wiley Haynes to them.”
“You can deny the movie influence all you want. Just promise you’ll let me know when I get it right.”
Not bloody likely. “Look, let’s not get off the subject.”
“Which is?”
“Your interference.”
He didn’t respond, but a small tic appeared in his jaw.
“I want you to keep your mouth shut at the next appointment.”
“You want me to remain silent?” His tone was incredulous.
“Yes, you can smile and nod but you can’t talk.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” She folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare straight ahead. “I’ve known Abe Mendelsohn since I was born and there’s no way he’s going to say no to me.” She turned to face Ross. “I don’t need or want you on this appointment. Either agree to keep quiet or let’s just skip the whole thing.”
“This is ridiculous. If I go in there and don’t talk, we’ll both look like imbeciles.”
“I mean it,” she said. “Promise me now, or I make my excuses to Abe and we go back to the office.”
He shook his head, irritated. “You know, you were starting to actually make sense back there at Tire World. I mean, you were preaching to the wrong choir, but at least I could follow your line of thinking. This is just plain stupid.”
“I don’t care what you call it.” They were less than a block from the store. A few moments later he turned into the parking lot. “If you won’t agree we’ll just cancel the appointment.”
“But what if you get in trouble? What if—”
“No matter what,” she insisted.
“Fine!” He put the car in park and turned it off. “Have it your way. But don’t think you can change your mind midway through. If things start heading south, you’re on your own.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”
He pulled the key out of the ignition and reached for the door handle. Both car doors slammed as they exited and crossed the parking lot toward the building.
“Just remember,” he warned as they neared the entrance, “you’re the one who laid out this little scenario. These will be the last words you’ll hear from me until we’re finished. I’ll save the I-told-you-so’s for later.”
Abe Mendelsohn met them on the sales floor of the Northpointe Mendelsohn TV and Appliance store. A bear of a man with a shiny dome of a head and appraising brown eyes, he wrapped her in a great big hug, then shook hands with Ross.
Shelley had known the Mendelsohns since childhood, and had spent part of her formative years in the sandbox with their son, Paul. When she and Paul had hit their teens, their mothers had tried to matchmake, but even the most determined yenta couldn’t overcome the lack of chemistry between two people who had stuffed tadpoles in each other’s diapers.
Paul was married now and about to become a father—a fact her mother brought up often.
“You look great, pumpkin,” Abe said.
Ross’s eyebrow shot up at the reference to her childhood roundness.
“
I haven’t seen your father since he got home from the hospital. How is he?”
“Good,” she answered. “He’s taking it easy.”
“Yeah, I heard he and Miriam were planning a trip.” Abe smiled down at her. “Your mother called yesterday to ask if Paul had any unmarried friends.”
Shelley sighed.
“Parents want to see their children settled down and producing grandchildren.” Abe pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Have you seen the sonogram?” Abe’s chest puffed out with pride. “This is my future grandson.”
Shelley studied the grainy black-and-white radar-looking picture, trying to make out the body parts. “Oh, my God, is that his—”
“It’s his arm.” Abe chortled. “Everybody thinks that first thing.”
Something resembling a laugh escaped from Ross Morgan, but when she turned to check, he’d clamped his mouth shut again. Remembering the purpose of their visit, she handed the sonogram back to Abe and began the introductions. “This is Ross Morgan, Uncle Abe. He was our director of Account Services, but is now president. He’s buying Daddy out.”
Ross nodded and smiled. He stuck out his hand and the two men shook, but Ross didn’t say anything, which under the circumstances felt pretty strange. Nothing she’d said to him in the car should have precluded a simple greeting.
Shelley shot him a look then stepped into the silence. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”
“Of course.” Abe led them up the stairs to his second-floor office and motioned them toward the far end, where a small conference table with chairs overlooked the sales floor.
“I’ve been given the opportunity to review your account, Uncle Abe,” she said when they were seated. “And I, um,” she cleared her throat, “noticed that it’s been somewhat . . . inactive . . . for the last few years.”
She turned to Ross for confirmation, but he just nodded politely. When Abe looked the other way he made a zipper motion over his lips.
Shelley’s mouth went dry. She could have asked Wiley Haynes for the moon, but asking for money from someone who’d once removed a frog from your diaper suddenly seemed infinitely more difficult. “And, I, uh, think we need to do something about that,” she concluded lamely.
Abe pointed down to the sales floor, which overflowed with appliances and electronic equipment. “Do you see what’s going on down there?” he asked.
Shelley and Ross looked. Two salesmen leaned against a flat panel TV and talked. A lone maintenance worker swabbed at an already shiny floor.
“Nothing’s going on down there,” Abe said. “The big chains are squeezing us out. Best Buy, Circuit City, HiFi Buys.” Abe shook his head. “I don’t have enough locations to place big enough orders to match their prices. This used to be my busiest store.”
This would have been the perfect time for the president of the agency to step in and discuss the basic tenets of advertising. Except, of course, that she’d commanded him not to speak. Mr. Mum shot her a look that said he knew just how difficult this was for her and expected her to deal with it anyway. Or fall on her face.
“I’m, uh, sure Dad explained to you that advertising is even more important in, uh, slow times than it is during good ones.”
Abe looked back at the empty sales floor and sighed. “Yeah, but what’s the point? How big a difference can a few more ads make? I’m dying here.”
And so was she. She’d bragged that Abe would never say no to her, but if she didn’t actually present or ask for something, there’d be nothing for him to say yes to.
Shelley straightened and folded her hands in front of her on the table. “Uncle Abe,” she said firmly, “I understand your concern and your reluctance. But you can’t just let them push you under without a fight. You’ve got to advertise, and it’s got to be done the right way. You’ve got to make potential buyers understand why they should shop with you instead of the big chains.”
“Honey, that’s very nice, but people today shop for price. They’ll come in here and put my salespeople through hoops, touching, trying, feeling, and then they’ll go order it from the Internet or some mail-order catalogue. They’ll spend two hours in research to save five bucks. I’m tired to death of all of that. There’s no customer loyalty anymore.”
“But research indicates people want service and a personal touch. I’ve started working on a campaign for you that will highlight what a family-owned enterprise can do that a chain can’t.”
He studied her closely, then looked back down at the empty sales floor.
“Dad once said he believed you could sell ice to Eskimos. I want to put you on the air and give you a chance to do that.” She let that sink in for a moment. “You’re no quitter,” she added quietly. “Give me a chance to show you what we can do for you.”
Abe looked briefly at the still-silent Ross Morgan then back to Shelley, who was holding her breath.
“What would it cost to do what you’re suggesting?”
“I need to crunch some more numbers,” she said carefully. “And I want to sit down with the Creative Department to put a formal presentation together.”
He ran a hand over the bald dome of his head. He was tempted, she could tell. He wanted to believe, but he needed a final inducement; that thing that would push him off the fence and squarely onto her side.
“I can have a presentation ready for you next week,” she said, “and I’ll tell you something else I can do.”
Abe and Ross both sat up straighter. She could feel Abe teetering toward yes. Ross looked like he was bracing himself somehow, which was kind of weird because she didn’t even know exactly what was going to come out of her mouth before she said it.
“I’ll make a presentation just like I would for any new account,” she said, “with storyboards and projections and a complete budget.”
“Okay,” Abe said cautiously. “And if we go along with this plan and it doesn’t pick up my business . . .”
Ross Morgan’s eyes got really really big. Kind of like saucers or maybe more like . . . tahrs. But Abe looked cautiously intrigued.
“If we don’t create noticeable results for you,” Shelley said, “then . . .” She paused and considered what Abe Mendelsohn would be unable to resist. “Then I’ll refund every penny above our out-of-pocket expenses, which would make our work for you pro bono. As in absolutely free.”
Abe perked up at that. And Shelley felt pretty good herself. It was the right offer to the right person at the right time. She knew before Abe said yes that she had set the hook and could go ahead and reel him in.
Ross made the first sound of any kind he’d made since they’d arrived. Unfortunately it was a choking sound. Or maybe it was more of a growl.
He scraped his chair back from the table. Shelley and Abe turned to watch him stand.
“Excuse me,” he said, taking Shelley by the elbow and pulling her up next to him. “But we’re late for our next appointment. Shelley will have to get back to you with details.”
“But . . .”
He didn’t give her or Abe a chance to protest. There were no handshakes, no drawn-out good-byes, just Ross Morgan’s hand clamped around her upper arm speed-walking her down the stairs, through the showroom, and out of the building at a pace that had her struggling to keep her shoes on her feet.
chapter 12
The drive back to the office was many things, but silent wasn’t one of them.
They were barely out of the parking lot before Ross let loose all the words he’d been holding back. “Never, in all my years of advertising, have I ever heard anyone make such a ridiculous promise.”
He accelerated too quickly and raced toward the interstate with a shifting of gears and gnashing of teeth. At the on-ramp he cut off a semi. The blare of the trucker’s horn followed them onto the expressway, loud and indignant.
“This was supposed to be a SALES call, Shelley. The term ‘SALES’ connotes an exchange of services for MONEY. ‘Money’ being the operative wor
d.”
He didn’t raise his voice but she could tell, just from his tone, which words belonged in capitals. His driving became both more controlled and more aggressive until the Porsche felt like a guided missile hurtling toward some unseen target.
“NOW,” he continued, “would be a really good time to explain what in the HELL you were thinking. If, in fact, you were THINKING at all.”
Ross downshifted as they approached the toll on 400 South then tossed coins in the basket of the tollbooth, barely waiting for the barrier to go up before roaring forward. If they’d been on the Cartoon Network, steam would be pouring out of his ears and a plume of smoke would be coming out of the car’s exhaust pipe.
Shelley was feeling pretty steamy herself. “You don’t believe I was thinking? Well, maybe I wasn’t. Not everyone’s a cold, calculating automaton.” She left off the “like you,” but it rang between them in the car, loud and clear.
His hands clenched the wheel more tightly and the tic in his cheek . . . ticked, but she didn’t give him a chance to respond.
“Sometimes—especially in this business—you have to trust your gut. And my gut told me that Abe Mendelsohn was not going to put up a penny without some sort of guarantee.”
“Your GUT?” Ross cut across two lanes of traffic and zoomed into the exit lane. A little old lady in a Volkswagen Beetle gave them the finger.
“Yes. I may not be the most . . . structured . . . employee, but I learned this business from one of the best. And advertising is not just numbers. It’s guts and intuition and creativity, too. And my GUT told me how to handle that meeting.”
He snorted in dismissal and whipped into the office parking lot, where he screeched to a halt in the president’s parking space.
“If my GUT told me to work for FREE, I’d have it ripped out,” he said.
Shelley turned in her seat so that she could look him in the eye. “We only work for free if he gets no results, and I don’t intend to let that happen. Don’t you have any faith in this agency? Don’t you believe we can deliver enough for Abe Mendelsohn to want to pay us? Or is it just ME you don’t believe in?”