My Story

by Jo Malone

  As for our brand imagery, no longer would plain white bags and plastic bottles with typed labels be enough; we now needed to make an impactful first impression on the public stage, and I must have obsessed about this one aspect more than any other. In this area, Gary’s savvy input would prove invaluable.

  He may have started out in life wanting to become a vicar before moving into construction, but this diversion into retail was when he flourished. I could make product all day long, but I would never have known how to run a business without him. Not only did he bring gusto to the operation, he brought a natural understanding of branding and the marketplace. ‘We’re building a brand,’ he said, ‘and we have to build it from the top; we can’t be shy, we can’t build from the bottom and hope to climb. You start high in the marketplace, establish yourself, then move down. Everything we do now from this point – the first impression we leave, the manners of our staff, the packaging we use, the style of the shop, the interviews we give – has to reflect the elegance of not only our product but our target audience.’

  He could still be the boy from Beckenham, and I the girl from Barnehurst, but the brand had to be in a different class. With that in mind, another client, and another unsung hero, stepped forward – Isy Ettedgui, the wife of Joseph, he of the eponymous fashion store and one of the greatest retailers of our time. If anyone understood minimalist branding and understated but arresting aesthetics while still managing to convey glamour, it was Isy.

  We sat down and brainstormed one Friday afternoon at the flat and she prompted and prodded my design preferences. ‘What do you like?’ she asked. ‘Let’s start there.’

  ‘Lines. Straight, sharp lines . . . and borders. Not too bold, though.’

  ‘What about colours?’

  ‘Nothing too loud. I like cream, black, gold.’

  Within the week, after engaging the help of a designer friend called David, she returned with a simple but striking design: cream box, pencil-thin, black borders with a parallel gold line running on the inside, and ‘Jo Malone London’ across the label. The whole look was clean, classical, understated, and devoid of embroidery. I loved it. Clearly, the customers loved it, too: more than twenty years later, Isy’s iconic design lives on.

  It would be a while before our production line required giant conveyor belts manned by ladies in blue outfits and white hairnets, so we found two decent-sized laboratories that were sufficient for a small business like ours: one in Hampshire, the other in Devon. Our suppliers, for ribbon to gift bags to plastic bottles to glass bottles to lids, were dotted around the south of England. There was nothing centralised about our operation and we faced a few logistical headaches in the initial weeks, which was one reason why Gary had to hire a van to pick up our bottles and then transport them to the manufacturer for our first batch of product. My biggest concern, now that the hand-made days were over, was ensuring the quality of the end product wasn’t affected by switching to a factory operation.

  On our first on-site meeting at the lab in Devon, where body lotions and bath oils would be made, I was impressed by the smooth-running set-up, though I’m not sure the manager could say the same. ‘So, all I need are your signatures and formulations and we’ll be good to go,’ he said.

  I looked at Gary. Gary looked at me. ‘Oh, I don’t have the formulations for my product written down,’ I said. ‘They’re all in my head.’

  I think he thought I was joking, because he half-laughed, half-frowned. ‘But you can’t get the same results with product if you don’t measure it out?!’

  ‘Oh, I do. Every time. I just pour until it feels right.’

  ‘So how many drops of juice do you use?’

  ‘I don’t really know – until it smells right.’

  I had never seen anyone look as dumbfounded, not then, not since.

  Only when we worked there and then on a couple of formulations did he believe it, having seen it with his own eyes. Over the next week, I undertook the laborious task of committing my recipes to paper for the first time. It took me hours but it was worth every minute when the first samples came back. This man’s team got it closer than I imagined anyone would. Not 100 per cent – some didn’t smell right, some were too thick, too thin, too waxy – but, after a few tweaks, the factories were soon delivering a consistent product with the most amazing texture.

  As all the necessary pieces of our operation dropped into place and the shop continued to take shape, I found myself dashing from the flat to Walton Street whenever time allowed, because I didn’t want to miss a thing. I snatched glimpses of every extra touch and new addition, from the shelving, to the cream-coloured cupboards, to the round table for the middle of the floor, to the glass desk for the tills, to the spotlights for our street-facing window. The highlight, though, was watching the awning go up.

  I was unpacking product one late afternoon when Gary rushed in, grabbed my hand and led me outside. ‘You’re not missing this!’ he said.

  From the opposite side of the street, we watched as our little shop – with the door to the left of the main window – was christened with the words ‘JO MALONE’ in black on cream. No matter the number of times this name-above-the-door moment would be repeated over the years, it would never feel as special as that ‘first’ in Walton Street.

  Gary squeezed my hand. I could see what it meant to him because he had tears in his eyes, which started me off, which, in turn, started him off some more. We stood there, half-crying, half-laughing, feeling elated. It felt like we were staking our flag into a personal summit, bringing value to every ounce of struggle, doubt, worry, fear and exhaustion.

  I was going to love being a shopkeeper.

  Deborah Bennett proved as good as her word on the PR front, lining up a piece in the Financial Times, in the ‘FT Weekend’ section, which was some start as far as we were concerned. Its associate editor, Lucia van der Post, widely regarded as the ‘style queen’, only features the creme de la creme of the luxury goods industry in the ‘How to Spend It’ pages, so it felt like a bit of a coup. Indeed, her article couldn’t have been more supportive or positive. But this silver cloud had one dark lining: the opening date was mistakenly printed as Monday 17 October – two days early, and two days away.

  As anyone in retail will confirm, the week prior to opening can be frantic. For as long as there is a date circled on a calendar – and ours was 19 October – perfectionists like me will utilise every second up to the sixtieth minute of the eleventh hour. So it is perhaps understandable why I felt a cold, clammy sweat creep up my back as I read that one typo. We still had interior alterations to complete, walls to paint, and stock to transfer from a rented office we were using as our mini-warehouse at the Old Imperial Laundry in Battersea. In the ensuing crisis call with Deborah, she effectively said, ‘Stunning piece of publicity, one big error, and you now have no choice but to open on Monday to avoid customers turning up to an unfinished shop.’

  For the next mad forty-eight hours, and with the help of friends who answered our SOS, we worked with the speed of whirling dervishes, fuelled by nothing but adrenaline, from Saturday mid-morning into the wee hours of Monday. Brian Turner supplied meals for the sustenance of our team as we painted the walls and then stood there with turbo hairdryers, trying to accelerate the drying process.

  We finished around 3 a.m. but, as exhausted as we were, the place looked amazing, with the meticulously displayed collection of product in every corner, on every wall, and in the window: face creams, body lotions, bath oils and the new addition of shower gels, together with small huddles of fragrances in their glass bottles, with polished silver tops glinting under the spotlights. We had gone to the wire, we’d made it and we’d be opening in seven hours, at 10 a.m. sharp.

  In daylight, the shop looked and smelled magnificent. Different pockets of scents emanated from the assorted fragrances which, overnight, and together with the orange and cinnamon potpourri on the tables, had combined to mask the whiff of fresh paint: jasmine, lavend
er, vetiver, lime, mandarin, ginger, basil, rosé, and coriander – it was like walking into the sweetest-smelling orchard.

  We had by now employed two shop assistants – both called Amanda – and I had purchased a uniform of navy Armani suits, a splurge shaped by my husband’s sound advice that every first impression made had to speak to the class of the brand. I was standing there, near the till, soaking up the ambience when an overeager customer started banging on the door, forty-five minutes before opening. She couldn’t wait until ten so asked if she could buy some bath oil. Not one to turn away a customer, I went to grab a bottle but it wouldn’t budge from the shelf. I tugged harder and, with a kind of gloopy, sucking sound, it came free . . . but not without leaving a print of paint on the bottom of the bottle.

  I tried another – same thing. Then another, and my heart sank. ‘The bottles, Gary!’ I screamed. ‘They’ve all stuck to the paint!’

  There’s nothing quite like a last-minute hitch to get the blood pumping. I looked at the time: 9.15 a.m. Gary and I rushed around every newly painted surface and used palette knives to slide under each bottle and flick them free, accepting that the resulting marks on the shelves were flaws we’d have to live with on day one.

  We made it with five minutes to spare, at which point Gary opened the front door, took a strip of black grosgrain ribbon – the type we’d use for gift wrapping – and tied it to either side of the frame, leaving it taut across the entrance.

  As we started to count down to opening, the latest edition of Tatler was hitting the news-stands, announcing our arrival to a wider audience, courtesy of Deborah Bennett’s continued efforts. ‘Scenter of the Universe’, said the headline in a two-page spread written by the magazine’s fashion director Kathy Phillips, and I couldn’t have asked for a better write-up: ‘Jo Malone’s discreet labels are already seen in the smartest bathroom cabinets. Now, with a new shop in Walton Street, her delicate, natural unguents will be making a splash all over . . . You might feel you know her name already. It has been whispered among media, fashion, society and even royal households for some time. Seen through the keyhole, bottles bearing the discreet Jo Malone label have long adorned the bathrooms of the ladies who latch on to the latest good thing . . .’

  In the coming weeks, that article would help turn word of mouth into a media buzz that would lead to a demand that, on the first sedate morning, we couldn’t possibly have imagined. Outside, on an unremarkable day, the skies were London grey and the pavements damp. No locals turned out. No press. No fanfare. But, in front of a handful of friends and our two shop assistants, the occasion felt momentous in its own small way.

  Gary stood beside me and presented the scissors. As the clock struck ten, I cut the ribbon to inaugurate the opening of our little shop in a little quiet street in our own backyard.

  SIXTEEN

  On our first morning of business, we had taken a team photo before the ribbon cutting. The two shop assistants and I posed by the central table filled with product, and we wore our biggest smiles and Armani suits. I wish I could find that picture today because, while it depicted the giddiness of a debutant shopkeeper embarking on an adventure, it also captured a naiveté that I miss. There is something magical about beginnings, about the challenges that come with territory not yet conquered, about being the underdog. I think I’d far rather stand at the beginning of something, looking up, rather than at a summit, looking down.

  In that first week, we held a celebration party at Mosimann’s in Halkin Street, inviting not only our friends but all my clients. There must have been more than four hundred people present, and we shared such a magical evening. It was the first time I had ever given a speech in public and I remember saying that none of us knew what the journey would entail. What’s more, we didn’t need to know. Our strategy, as I told everyone, was to put one foot in front of the other, take it day by day, and enjoy every moment.

  Having already built a sturdy client base, we launched from a stronger position than most, but, above and beyond our modest revenues, we couldn’t know how long it would take for sales to take off. But Gary had crunched the numbers and he reckoned that we’d be doing well if, with the increased overheads, we broke even in the second year. That was our realistic hope as we opened on that wet October morning.

  What we certainly weren’t expecting was an offer for the business.

  Five hours into the opening day.

  I had spotted the diminutive gentleman walk in as I boxed and bowed one woman’s fragrance. Dressed in a dark navy, pinstriped suit, he was suave but looked out of place as he dawdled around the shop, giving the lotions and bath oils a cursory glance. He then brought a big, fat cigar to his lips and prepared to light it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as I finished serving the customer, ‘you can’t smoke in here.’

  He apologised and approached the till. He was American; his accent East Coast. ‘I’d like to speak with Jo Malone.’

  ‘You’re speaking with her,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Congratulations on the shop.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s been a lot of hard work.’

  ‘I bet,’ he said, taking a beat before adding, ‘I’d like to take you to lunch.’

  Initially, I thought he was flirting. ‘I’m sorry, we’re busy, so thank you but—’

  ‘I am acting on the instructions of a client who wishes to make you an offer for your company.’ He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, ‘I’m serious.’

  He said no more than that and offered no business card, but he had my attention and it was obvious he wanted somewhere discreet to talk. ‘I’m nipping out for a coffee,’ I said to shop assistant Amanda Lacey. ‘Won’t be long.’

  Joe’s, the café owned by Joseph, was my coffee spot in those days and where I’d do press interviews, just around the corner in Draycott Avenue. The American gentleman bought two cappuccinos. We sat at a small square table facing one another and, after the exchange of a few pleasantries, he didn’t beat about the bush. ‘My instructions today are to offer you one million dollars for your company.’

  ‘One. Million. Dollars?’ I said, making sure I’d heard him correctly.

  He nodded. ‘And should you agree, our condition is that you walk away without any further involvement in the business.’

  ‘Can I ask who your client is?’

  ‘I can’t divulge that, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  If it sounds bizarre now, then that’s because it sounded bizarre then. As he kept a straight face, awaiting my response, I wondered if someone was setting me up, and yet everything about this man’s appearance and demeanour smacked of a professional.

  I stirred my coffee, buying a few seconds, trying to work him out in the way Dad used to work out if a poker opponent was bluffing, but I couldn’t get a good read on this guy: he was expressionless. The first thought that came into my head was the piece of blue foam that Gary and I no longer slept on, presumably my mind’s way of contrasting the years of blood, sweat and tears with the easy way out. When you’ve come from nothing and you hear the word ‘million’, human instinct is to lean in, however briefly. But faced with the value of an experience yet to begin versus the value of the first offer that comes along, I knew my answer.

  I looked up. ‘Thank you very much. I’m flattered but not interested.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Can I change your mind?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be making this offer again.’

  I stood, shook the man’s hand and bid him a polite farewell before walking back to the shop, never to see or hear from him again. I didn’t know how serious or credible he was – fifteen minutes in his company hardly constituted due diligence – or whether he represented some unknown rival who didn’t want my business to take off. That night, Gary and I laughed about the ridiculousness of it all. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know your value now!’ We agreed that the only time we ever wanted to hear the words ‘one million’ again would be the day w
e turned over six figures. But the prospect of that happening seemed many moons away.

  That November, I was looking forward to my thirty-first birthday, mainly because it would be the first time in a long time that I’d get to mark the occasion properly, instead of being elbow-deep in plastic jugs and face creams. Gary had the night planned out: take in the fireworks at Battersea Park, then grab a bite to eat afterwards.

  During lunch hour, and in between treatments, I had nipped over to the shop. He was out back, unpacking a consignment of bath oil before pouring it into 200ml cubic glass decanters.

  ‘Remember, don’t overfill them,’ I said. ‘Don’t go all the way to the glass stopper. Fill only to the bottom of the neck.’ If I had learned one thing from working with a formulator, it was this: oil expands and creates gasses in heat and therefore pressure, so it’s important to leave air in the bottle neck, just in case.

  I watched him fill the first decanter a little too generously. ‘Too much, Gary!’

  ‘Jo, we’re charging people a lot of money for these – we’ve got to give value for money.’

  Moreover, he cited our compliance with ‘weights and measures’ regulations which meant if we promised 200ml of bath oil, ‘then we better sell 200ml of bath oil or we’ll be in trouble’. I left to do another treatment, trusting him to strike the balance.

  By the time I returned for the final hour of business, Gary had filled dozens of the decanters and placed them on one of the high shelves. He had gone to run some errands, leaving Amanda Lacey in charge, which we often did – that girl was not only a grafter but could sell ice to an Eskimo. I took over from Amanda around 4 p.m. because the lovely Mya Waters, the PA to Giorgio Armani, was picking up a collection of product that her boss was buying to give as corporate gifts.

  She can’t have been in the shop for longer than a couple of minutes when we heard a loud WHOOSH! followed by a crashing sound.