by Jo Malone
Much would change further down the line – circumstances that I couldn’t foresee as we approached a new millennium – but I couldn’t have been more delighted at the time, as my published quotes from the time reveal: ‘I’m a very happy woman . . . I feel like a weight has been lifted and I am free to be creative again . . . I want to push the boundaries of this industry and make a difference in cosmetics and fragrances. I was reluctant to sell until I met Leonard. He’s an entrepreneur and a real kindred spirit. I know my business is safe in his hands.’
The morning after we’d signed the papers, I went for a quiet stroll around Central Park, wanting to be alone with my thoughts. It’s important for my well-being that I can step out of the city and into green, open space where I can feel grounded amid nature and collect myself, especially after such an intense period. As I crossed Madison Avenue towards the park, all I could smell was chestnuts – a smell that I’ll forever associate with the Big Apple.
I strolled through the park and headed to Bow Bridge where I stood at the centre of its hump, overlooking the lake. The sun was out and the wind was up, whipping across the water’s surface. I’m sure it wasn’t the case but it felt as if there was no one else around as I disappeared into my own zone, taking stock of what had just happened. I thought of Mum and Dad and wished that things could be different; that they could have been sharing this moment instead of being at arm’s length. Whatever had gone on between Mum and me couldn’t diminish the fact that only she could have known what it meant to be joining forces with Estée Lauder because, at one stage in our lives, Madame Lubatti was our Estée Lauder. I didn’t want to call her up and say, ‘Look what I’ve done . . . look at me.’ I wanted to call her up and feel her pride in me. I stood atop the highest mountain and realised that I had spent my whole life longing to hear Mum and Dad say how well I had done. Who knows, maybe that is precisely the reason why I was there.
The wind started to chill the back of my neck. Winter was on its way, and I smiled. I remembered me as a little girl, standing at my frosted window, not wanting to feel the cold and vowing never to live in struggle ever, ever again. And now, there I was, in a position where I would never have to worry about money again. I felt a huge swell of emotion, not only because I felt gratitude and happiness but because I felt my own pride in that little girl who had never given up on her dream – and maybe, in the end, that’s the only pride worth chasing.
NINETEEN
Leonard Lauder’s credo is that they are not a family business, but a family in business. This theme of ‘family’ was a golden thread that ran through the philosophy I heard in private, and the talks he gave in public. As chairman, he never lost sight of the fact that he was once his mother’s delivery boy. He also knew the value of people at the grass-roots level of any company, and that was why he, not an executive, flew to England to meet our staff and put them at ease about the future, wanting them to know that they still worked for Jo Malone London but were now also regarded as part of the family. I thought it spoke volumes about the man.
On the morning he arrived, I, too, wanted to provide a personal touch – bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea for everyone, including Steven Horn, who wanted to walk Leonard through the interior design. Our twenty-odd employees convened on the shop floor and Leonard, sartorially immaculate as ever, stood in front of the counter, thanked everyone for being there, and was about to commence his speech when the fire alarms started screeching. The bacon sizzling in the confined kitchen was giving off too much smoke.
Steven and I darted downstairs and, by wafting arms and tea towels, we managed to kill the alarm. We returned upstairs. ‘Sorry, Mr Lauder!’
‘Don’t you worry, Jo. So, as I was saying—’
But the alarms erupted again.
Everyone laughed uncomfortably. Leonard smiled politely. And Steven and I rushed back down again. ‘You begin, Leonard!’ And so the CEO and chairman delivered a speech that I didn’t get to hear because I was running around like a headless chicken, constantly wafting tea towels to prevent another rude interruption. When I heard applause, we returned upstairs only to be greeted by the sight of two fire brigade trucks rolling up outside, blue lights flashing. That was when I realised that our smoke detectors were monitored through the burglar alarm system. ‘Never a dull moment, is there?’ said Leonard.
‘Welcome to my world!’
Estée Lauder acquired our business because, like us, they saw the potential for global development. But the wonderful thing about the transformation that would follow was how little it changed the essence of who we were. As promised. That was the beauty of what Lauder did at the time: they bought the DNA of an entrepreneur and the only tinkering that took place was to engineer a growth spurt that improved distribution, made the brand more visible, and prepared us for the world stage.
Leonard didn’t wish to change the way I worked personally, either. He recognised the individuality that had created my line of fragrances and so I was given the space to develop more with my chosen perfumers. I don’t think I could have felt happier. As I told one reporter in 2002: ‘The Lauders have allowed me not just to continue to be who I am, but they’ve given me the rein to be more than I ever thought I could be.’
Together, we put into action a five-year strategy, covering brand, tone, voice, finances, and projecting our growth through to 2005 – where the new domestic stores would be, what international presence we would have, and how we would build a website. Online and in-store, they wanted to take my concept of storytelling – the stories behind each fragrance – and use it store by store, country by country. Now, the inspirations I had shared with customers in Walton Street and Sloane Street would be written up and used as part of the worldwide marketing.
Gradually, year on year, we would see our small business grow rapidly into its own empire. Domestically, we would open in the Royal Exchange and Brook Street in London, followed by Edinburgh, Leeds, Glasgow, and Guildford; and then, via shop-in-shops in Europe, in Paris, Dublin, and Munich. In America, we would launch in Boston, Boca Raton, San Francisco, and Los Angeles via Saks of Fifth Avenue, and then Atlanta, Palm Beach, Houston and Dallas via another department store, Neiman Marcus. In February 2001, we would finally achieve our first free-standing site in New York, inside the Flatiron Building on Broadway at 23rd. And after that, we would push east to the other side of the world: Sydney, Australia; Tokyo, Japan; and, of course, ‘The Fragrant Harbour’ of Hong Kong.
This was the rocket fuel that Leonard had promised during our initial talks. ‘I know you can do this on your own,’ he said, ‘but we can make it happen faster.’
Whichever new shop or in-store site opened, Gary and I would ensure we were there for the launch. First and foremost, I was a facialist-turned-shopkeeper. Getting lost in a corporate labyrinth wasn’t me. I wanted to maintain a daily interaction with the customer. And while I couldn’t be in fifty places at once, I wanted to touch base with each location as much as I could.
We’d string together mini-tours because personal appearances and bottle signings were one way of ensuring I met as many customers as possible in one burst. At home, we’d do Edinburgh-Glasgow-Dublin-Leeds. In the States, we’d do an East Coast leg (Boston-New York-Palm Beach-Boca Raton) and then the West Coast (San Francisco-Los Angeles-Dallas-Houston).
I think a few people at Lauder wondered if Gary and I would eventually flag from the travelling, but how can you get tired of your own magic carpet ride? All these amazing things kept happening that we couldn’t quite believe were actually happening. I was doing the very thing I loved on a scale that I could never have dreamed of.
We also started noticing a difference in how we were treated: when dining at restaurants, management started referring to me as ‘Miss Malone’, and courses would arrive ‘compliments of the chef’; when checking in at hotels, we were automatically upgraded from an ordinary room to a suite; and when boarding aeroplanes, we started turning left. When you’ve grown up in the back of a bus, so
to speak, the appreciation of these perks wasn’t lost on us. Gary and I felt privileged and lucky, and took none of it for granted. I didn’t feel spoiled and didn’t feel that we were worthy, either. But, like Gary said, ‘We’ve earned it so let’s enjoy it.’
He and I had each other to keep ourselves anchored in reality; although there was one time when he couldn’t have been blamed if his feet temporarily lifted a few inches off the ground.
We were in Tokyo, one of the most amazing, vibrant cities I have ever visited, and our hosts threw a dinner in our honour as we negotiated a deal to launch in Japan. The hilarious thing was that as we entered the private room in a restaurant, Gary was swept away to the top of the longest table by all the bigwigs, while I was left to take my place at the other end, sitting with two men who were in charge of the stockroom and boxing product. I didn’t mind that. I had a great evening, talking to each of them, listening to how they had started and the passion they had for their respective jobs. But I kept a beady eye on my husband as he lapped up the attention, sitting like a king at the top table, holding court, clinking glasses and making everyone laugh. At the end of the night, one of our hosts came up to me and said: ‘Jo Malone – you are married to an amazing, talented man!’
How true, I thought. Gary, standing right behind him, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as if to say, ‘I don’t even know what is happening.’ We both managed to hold our laughter until we got into the car, but I think it’s fair to say that Gary loves Japan even more than I do.
The external trappings of success are all well and good – you’ll never hear me moan about being able to lie flat in a bed on a transatlantic flight – but none of it changes you on the inside. For any entrepreneur, it is important to remember who you are, in the same way that you mustn’t lose sight of your brand values. If you are true to yourself, and if your feet are on the ground in the first place, you can’t be fooled or sucked in by the privileges, as nice as they might be.
The switch in lifestyle wasn’t always easy to grow accustomed to, either. Once, when I was the guest of a client in the Far East, staying in the grounds of a royal palace, I had my own guest cottage, surrounded by the most spectacular gardens. On arrival, I was greeted by a man who I assumed was the bellboy, there to collect my luggage, but he didn’t leave – it turned out he was my personal butler for the week. He couldn’t have been nicer and he probably hadn’t had a house guest who was so willing to muck in alongside him. I just didn’t feel comfortable with him doing everything. It was bad enough that he stood the whole time; butlers never sit when on duty, I was told. Anyway, at the end of my first day, I bid him goodnight and went to bed. I woke around 4 a.m., feeling thirsty, so I went into the kitchen – and this kindest of gentlemen was still standing there, with a pleasing smile on his face.
‘Wh-wh-what are you still doing here? Why haven’t you gone home?!’
‘You didn’t dismiss me, ma’am.’
I was absolutely mortified, not only because the poor man was still ‘on duty’ but by the very notion that I had to ‘dismiss’ him. Unless you’re in the armed services, how do you dismiss anyone?
‘Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?’
‘Yes, you can go home and get some sleep. I’m so, so sorry!’
I didn’t let him work another evening for the rest of my stay.
From the start of the millennium life became very different. The bank balance changed and the zeroes increased, but the part of the past carved into the psyche – the psyche that remembers struggle and worry – wouldn’t be so easy to unknot. I thanked God more times than I can remember for how fortunate we were, but that wouldn’t stop me checking my daily balance to make sure it was all there, that it wouldn’t be taken away, that it wouldn’t be squandered by some unknown force. The need to be responsible without being frugal would be constant. I had seen my parents be frivolous with hard-earned money and it was not a pattern I had any intention of repeating.
Ultimately, all wealth brings is the power of choice: where to sit on the plane, what holidays to experience, what fashionable clothes to buy. But it doesn’t make you a better person, and it doesn’t guarantee happiness. And the most important realisation for me? I’d be doing facials and fragrances even if the riches weren’t there. I was one of those people who pursued a vocation and followed my passion, and that had manifested money. There are so many ‘think and get rich’ books out there, attempting to show entrepreneurs the way towards wealth. But, based on my experience and that of other successful people I have come across, the best advice seems to be: ‘Follow your heart.’ If you wake up each morning with a drive rooted in the passion of what you do, rather than a passion for the money you can make, I’d say you’re on a wise path.
One bonus of our change in fortunes was the ability to help out family, whether that meant buying one relative a house or, as I did with my parents, paying off their debts. By now, Mum was living in Norfolk with Tracey, and Dad remained in Barnehurst on his own. We might hardly have had any contact in previous years, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care. I wanted them to be happy. Love doesn’t cease just because contact stops. Our only other big expenditure was the purchase of a new home. We remained in London but moved to a beautiful, light-filled apartment. We moved because we needed more space, not only for ourselves but for our baby son – in the spring of 2000, at the age of thirty-six, I found out that I was pregnant.
I half-suspected I was expecting after being overcome with nausea within seconds of walking into the shop. The mere whiff of a candle or a fragrance made me want to throw up, and it kept happening, even with food – I couldn’t keep anything down. I wish I could say that it was a mere bout of morning sickness but I had inherited the condition that Mum suffered from – hyperemesis gravidarum.
From the fifth week of the first trimester, right through to the delivery date, I was in and out of hospital. It felt like I was vomiting on the hour, every day, for eight months. Anyone who has had this condition will understand what I went through during this horrendous time: everyone else will just have to imagine having the worst hangover and food poisoning for more than two hundred days straight. I spent most of those eight months on my back because every time I stood up, I threw up. As if my poor body wasn’t going through enough, I decided to cause further confusion by living on a junk diet of Mars bars, pizza and diluted cola. But instead of gaining weight, I dropped from eight and a half stone to seven stone two as I entered my third trimester. And throughout those torrid months, I was still trying to get used to the idea of becoming a mum.
As a career woman who had dedicated every waking hour to the growth and development of the business and fragrances, I had never yearned for motherhood. I can’t remember ever experiencing a single pang, so I felt nervous for numerous reasons: I not only worried about my capability but also the impact on the business, my creativity, my focus. I worried about how much would change at a time when life was on such an even keel. I struggled to see where we had the room to fit in a baby. But how the head rationalises our fear isn’t necessarily in alignment with our destiny and our capability to be parents. Our son Josh would be the single biggest achievement and blessing of our lives, even if I wouldn’t realise it straightaway.
The nearer we approached my delivery date in early 2001, the more I felt scared that I wouldn’t be the mum that my boy would need me to be. In all the pregnancy ‘bibles’, they don’t tell you enough about how crazy-making the hormones can be, and how they infiltrate the mind and, sometimes, make you question who you are. They don’t warn you that doubts become fears become truths become borderline insanity. Within this hormonal cocktail of irrationality, I managed to convince myself that I’d be an inadequate parent doomed to fail. Yes, Gary and I could now provide financial security, but would I be able to provide emotional stability? It is scary when, after the thrill of finding out you’re pregnant, you then quickly start to dread the very thing that excited you. I felt unable to distingui
sh between a true thought and an insane one.
By the time I went into labour in hospital, I wanted the sickness and maddening thoughts to be over. I was physically, mentally and emotionally drained, and didn’t know where I was going to find the strength to give birth. My amazing obstetrician took my hand and said, ‘Together, we will do this, and you are going to give birth to a healthy, perfectly fine son.’
After twelve hours of labour, she was right – Josh Willcox was born.
And I felt nothing but emptiness.
I was spent, with nothing left to give, even when they placed him in my arms. I could see Gary’s face drop as he registered my indifference, so he leaned in, scooped up Josh and did my job for me. I stared at father and son bonding instantly and thought, ‘I cannot deal with this.’ I turned my head away from all the expectation, wanting everyone to leave the room. Someone asked if there was anything I needed. I said, ‘Yes – scrambled egg and sausage.’ The moment Josh was born, the sickness ended instantly, replaced by a ravenous hunger. Scrambled eggs and sausage was all I could think about.
Later that night, attached to a drip and alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling and mapped the days ahead. I had everything worked out: I was going to go home, pack a bag, buy a ticket anywhere, divorce Gary, and go live in a city where no one would find me. I didn’t want to run, I wanted to sprint. And the frightening thing? I felt completely sane while entertaining such thoughts. I cannot be a good mother. I cannot love this child. Gary and Josh will be better off without me. Look at how they looked at each other. They don’t need me . . .
The craziness only stopped when I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I still felt the same.
A nurse came to see me. ‘Morning, Jo! Ready to see your son?’
‘No, thanks.’
She didn’t react; she didn’t judge. ‘Okay. Would you like a cup of tea?’