by Lilian Peake
Gayle came to her decision suddenly. If these people, for whom the whole department was styled, would not give her their patronage, she would find her own customers and cater for their needs. In doing so, she knew she would be defying the orders of the man at the top and putting her job in jeopardy too. But, she argued, she was the fashion buyer, she was in charge ... She would take that chance, a chance which she was convinced would eventually pay off.
An appointment to visit the firm called Goodbuy, recommended by Mr. Archibald, the sales representative, was fixed for the following day. That evening, as Rhoda joined Gayle and Herbert and pulled the curtains against the windswept late March evening, Gayle told her father of her plans.
“You’re not going against Mr. Pascall’s directive, love?”
Gayle nodded.
“But, Gayle,” Rhoda said, “you might get the sack. Then you’ll be out of a job. And think what it might do to your father.”
Gayle’s heart sank “You mean Mr. Pascall might get rid of Dad, too? But surely he’s not that ruthless? Dad,” she turned to him for confirmation, “he wouldn’t, would he?”
“I doubt it. I’ve been there so long it would look bad if he sacked me just because you’re my daughter. But it’s you I’m worried about. That man can get nasty, you know, dear. He’s a real businessman, as hard as the best of them. He got it from his father. Good man, his father, and he knew what he was about. But if anyone crossed him, disobeyed his ruling, they were out.”
“All the same,” Gayle persisted, “I’m going to this factory and I’m sure the returns on sales will prove I’m right.”
Mel came in and put his arm round Gayle. “Why so worried, love?”
“I’m not worried,” she tried to brazen it out. “It’s Dad who’s worried.” She explained the situation and Mel shook his head.
“Don’t do it. Too risky. If you lose your job, we wouldn’t be able to marry for a couple of years. Your money’s good, Gayle, don’t chuck it away for a hunch. What if it doesn’t work? You would have had it as a buyer in any other shop. If Pascall were asked for a reference on you, you can be sure he’d give a damaging one.”
But Gayle refused to alter her plans.
The factory she visited was modern, the sales representative attentive. “If there’s nothing here that appeals,” he said, “we’ve got fabrics you could choose from. We’d be willing to make you up a reasonable quantity of inexpensive dresses for a quick sale.”
Gayle inspected the cloth. It was floral, in a variety of shades and just right for summer wear. And it was cheap. “Specially reduced for you,” the man said with a smile.
“How soon could the goods be ready?”
He lifted a shoulder. “If we went flat out—well, you name the date, we’ll oblige. Simple design, tie belt, a limited number of sizes...”
And so it was arranged that the dresses would be made and delivered as soon as the firm could make them up.
Now that Mrs. Carrington had an assistant, Gayle found herself free to accept invitations to fashion displays. Well-known designers held receptions in scarlet and gold salons, vendeuses and assistants glided over the luxurious red carpeting, handing drinks and catalogues to newcomers. Buyers were treated with exaggerated courtesy, as if their patronage was cherished and precious.
Gayle came out into the everyday world—the traffic and the crowds—dazed and excited by her first encounter with the haute couture side of fashion. To her it was heady stuff, and although she had seen little amongst the fabulous dresses which, with her allowance as buyer she could afford to commission, there were, to the discerning, a number of indispensable pointers to the shape and line of clothes in the months to come. These, she knew, she must look out for in the samples submitted to her by the sales representative who came to see her.
But all was not well within the dress department at Pascall and Son. Sales had not picked tip as the winter had given way to spring. Early April saw a marginal increase in profit, but the weather was changeable and cool after a warm start and this was reflected by the low takings, the frighteningly small amount of cash in the till at the end of the day.
Gayle began to despair. She waited with increasing impatience for the delivery of the cheaper dresses. These, she was sure, would increase the department’s takings and save her from almost certain dismissal.
One morning she received a summons from Ewan Pascall. His secretary said, “As soon as you’re free, Miss Stuart...”
“I’ll come at once,” Gayle said, anxiety making her cross her fingers as she approached Ewan’s office.
It was a few days since she had seen him. Her eyes sought his and her heart turned over. There was no welcome there, none of the kindly encouragement with which he had looked at her that evening she had dined with him.
And there was something about the man which disturbed her to her depths, that made her want to please him, to hear his praise and admiration. Of what? she asked herself irritably. Her performance as a fashion buyer, her success in running her department—or of her attractions as a woman?
She told herself not to be stupid, that he was an engaged man, that he could only ever look upon her as an employee and as her father’s daughter. And how could she look upon him? As her employer, as the fiancé of a famous fashion model whom he himself had described as ‘breathtakingly beautiful’? For heaven’s sake, she asked herself desperately, how else?
CHAPTER FOUR
One of them had to break the cold silence. “You—you wanted to see me, Mr. Pascall?”
“I’m worried, Miss Stuart.” His voice was formal, cool—and chilling. He was leaning back, his elbows resting on the padded arms of his chair and his hands were clasped across him. “It has been brought to my attention that your sales are falling. Heaven knows, they were low enough before, but now they’re close on disastrous.”
Was this the end? He had warned her. A big turnover in buyers, he’d said. Was she the next on the list to go?
“I know, Mr. Pascall,” she replied, her face pale, her voice low. “I’m sorry.”
“Being sorry doesn’t help, Miss Stuart. I think an explanation is due, don’t you?” She had nothing to say. He turned over a pile of sales sheets. “What I cannot understand is why they’ve declined so badly since Miss Grierson left. Her takings were far above yours, yet the goods you’re offering are—correct me if I’m wrong—what she ordered before she left, since a buyer has to order some months in advance?”
Gayle nodded, but she could not remain silent. It was necessary to offer some explanation, even if by doing so she was merely delaying her own dismissal. “It may have been Miss Grierson’s technique,” she said bleakly. “Do you mind if I speak plainly?” He shrugged noncommittally. “Miss Grierson pressurised customers.” His casual attitude dropped away and his eyebrows flicked up. “She—she persuaded them to buy things against their will. She talked them into buying things they couldn’t really afford.”
The eyebrows stayed up. “Sour grapes, Miss Stuart?”
The colour rose in her cheeks. “Meaning that I’m jealous of her sales expertise? No, Mr. Pascall I resent your accusation.”
“I made no accusation. I merely—”
”Implied it. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” She did not care that she had no right to speak to the owner of Pascall’s department store in such a tone. He could dismiss her for insubordination if he liked—this was merely a preliminary to firing her anyway—but she would speak her mind, even if it was for the last time.
He settled back in his chair and fixed her with his eyes. He was calm, detached and apparently uninvolved. He seemed to be willing to let her have a run for her money.
“Miss Grierson was quite unscrupulous in, her dealings with the customers,” Gayle blurted out. “She praised the clothes they tried on even if they looked hideous in them.”
“Isn’t that what sales technique is all about?” he asked, with a lazy smile.
“No, no! I couldn’t be so d
ishonest as to tell a customer She looked fine in something that was utterly wrong for her size, her colouring or her age. I tell customers the truth, even if it means that they leave empty-handed.”
“Ah,” his eyes half-closed, his mouth half-smiled, “now I know it all.” He was silent for a few musing moments. “If all my employees were like you, Pascalls would soon become bankrupt and have to close down.”
It was such an obvious truth that it silenced her momentarily. Then, wearily, “In that case, since I can’t change my personality, you’d better cross me off your pay-roll, hadn’t you?”
“Not yet. There’s a time for everything.” He smiled sardonically and assumed the expression of someone who can hardly wait to turn the page of an exciting book. “Tell me more. From the look of you I’m sure there’s a lot more to tell. You know what I mean, the undercover activities, the hitherto undiscovered ghosts in Miss Grierson’s cupboard.”
Gayle frowned, opened her mouth, closed it and shook her head.
“Loyalty, Miss Stuart, to your predecessor? Surely not! Miss Grierson has left the firm. She’s far away on the Continent. I can’t fire her!” The emphasis was not lost on Gayle. It implied that he could, of course, fire the girl to whom he was talking.
“All right,” she rushed on, “since you want to know, I’ll tell you. It wasn’t only your mother she selected for special treatment. She had her pet customers. She wouldn’t let me serve them. They weren’t interested in the stuff on the racks. They wanted exclusive models which she, and only she, because of her contacts with the fashion world, could get for them. Clothes advertised in glossy magazines, or from foreign countries and made by famous designers. They cost a fortune, but the customers paid up cheerfully because they were exclusive. All the money they handed over was recorded as ‘sales’ by Miss Grierson. That’s why she was able to show such a profit. Mr. Pascall.”
Gayle rose. “I’m sorry to have told you the truth about your fiancée, but you did force me to.” She waited, hands clasped, cheeks burning.
He looked up at her idly. “What are you waiting for?”
“My dismissal.”
He smiled. “You could resign instead. It’s more—shall we say—dignified?”
She drew in her lips. “I’ll write my letter of resignation and hand it in this evening.”
He got up and walked slowly round the desk, leant back against it, hands in pockets, and looked straight at her. “And I shall tear it up.”
“Then I’ll write another.”
“Miss Stuart,” there was a weary patience in his voice, “in appointing you as buyer, I was not acting on impulse. There’s no place for such a thing in business. Long before Miss Grierson left I had you under surveillance.”
So, she thought furiously, every time he had come to see Carla he had been secretly watching Carla’s assistant?
“I can tell what you’re thinking by the indignation,” his voice grew soft and taunting, “oh, so self-righteous, in those give-away eyes of yours.” He smiled. “Placid you might appear to be on the surface, but it doesn’t take much to arouse you, does it?” Disconcertingly his eyes inspected her like a man studying a relief map and calculating how much effort must be expended in order to reach the heights.
He dwelt on her shapeliness, which could not be hidden even by the simple deep-blue top she was wearing. “An exciting prospect for your boy-friend.” In a whisper, “Lucky boyfriend.” His words and his change of tone replaced her indignation with an immensely more disturbing feeling.
Their eyes came together, and it was as if he were reaching out towards her with his mind. There was a long, puzzling silence, then he said, his voice even and now undisturbed, “I was not spying on you, Miss Stuart, if that’s what you’re thinking. Without your knowing it, I was assessing your intelligence and your aptitude for learning. I know your father. He’s a stable and reliable man. I could see in you a great resemblance to him. I hoped that these qualities of his had been passed down.”
He straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “I phoned the agency for whom you worked before coming here for their opinion of you. I even consulted the head teacher of your last school although it was five years since you left it. I discovered that not only did they think highly of you as a pupil, but that you had passed all your examinations. I might add that the head teacher was very disappointed to learn that with your ability, you had finished up merely as a shop assistant. Now do you see that I left nothing to chance?”
He came to stand in front of her, so close that she could feel his breath on her face. She was conscious of the height of him, of his broad straight shoulders, the strength of his face, his dark compelling eyes.
If he asked me to go with him to the ends of the earth, I would go without question. The words came, unbidden and terrifyingly, into her mind. With a convulsive movement—she must get away from him at all costs—she turned to go, but his hand came out and tugged her back.
“I haven’t finished with you yet.” He was calm and collected as he said, “You’re not opting out, Gayle. Difficulties are made to be overcome. You will continue to be employed in this store. You will continue as buyer of dresses, and you will succeed. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Pascall.” Her voice was cracked and dry.
“Right. Now you can go.”
And she went, as fast as her legs would take her.
Mel was waiting to take Gayle out. He had come in as she was telling her father about her conversation with Ewan Pascall.
“You’ll have to do something about those falling sales,” Herbert warned. “He was quite right to ask you about them, dear. I know it’s hard, but if you want to keep that job you must put aside some of your principles and follow Miss Grierson’s example. A buyer must keep her profits high, or leave the firm. The management hasn’t any sympathy or sentiment. They have no compunction when it comes to replacing a buyer who fails to make the grade with someone who will.”
Gayle sighed. “I know, Dad. Mr. Pascall’s warned me enough. But, she brightened, “I’m certain profits will increase once those dresses come in.”
“What dresses?” Mel asked. “You haven’t ordered those cheap ones? But, Gayle, that’s going against the boss’s orders Suppose he finds out?”
“He won’t,” she answered confidently. Mel, she thought sadly, always was one to conform, to do what was expected of him. All Mr. Pascall will discover is that my profits have gone up.”
“You’re taking a risk, lass, an awful risk.”
“I’ve been cautious all my life, Dad,” she answered with feeling. “It’s about time I took a few risks. Sometimes they pay off.”
“And sometimes they don’t,” Mel said.
Gayle grew a little irritated. Mel was never impulsive. For such a young man, when it came to trying out new methods or taking chances of any kind, he was too restrained and careful. It was almost as though before carrying out every action, he calculated to the last degree the possible results of such an action.
In her life with him Gayle knew there would be no element of uncertainty, no flinging caution to the winds and doing something simply for the excitement, the experience.
A few days later Mr. Hardy, manager of the marking-off room, informed Gayle that her consignment of dresses had arrived and were being price-tagged according to her instructions. Next day they were hanging on a special rail in the dress department. The bright colours of the new arrivals made them stand out clearly from the more restrained shades of the expensive summer-wear which Carla had ordered before she left the store.
Gayle, standing in her office doorway, watched customers walk through the dress section. Many of them paused and their eyes caught first by the colours, then by the lower prices, turned back to search eagerly through the new stock. By the end of the day the rack was nearly empty and the department’s takings higher than they had been since Gayle had been put in charge of it.
Mrs. Carrington was excited at their success and sug
gested that Gayle should order another delivery. “We’ve sold more of those dresses in a day than we sell of the quality stuff in a week,” she said.
So another order was placed with the firm and delivery promised as soon as the garments came off the production line.
On her desk one morning Gayle found a letter marked ‘confidential.’ When she opened it and saw the signature, her heart plunged. A letter from the store’s owner could only mean trouble, serious trouble.
But the words her eyes were reading spelt out a very different message from the one she was expecting. The letter contained an invitation for her to dine at Mr. Ewan Pascall’s residence the following week.
Mrs. Carrington, who had come in, asked, “Anything wrong, Miss Stuart? You look quite pale.”
Gayle managed a smile. “A shock, that’s all. I’ve been asked to have dinner with the boss next week.” She showed her assistant the letter.
“Oh, that’s nothing unusual. Mr. Pascall entertains his buyers to dinner about twice a year. You know, part shop, part informal. When his fiancée was here she used to act as hostess. I suppose his mother will do that now his lady love’s away.”
“Oh, dear,” said Gayle, “that’s awkward. Mrs. Pascall and I aren’t on the best of terms. I doubt if she’s forgotten what I did to her precious model gown.” She slipped the letter into its envelope. “The answer will be ‘Thank you kindly, but I’ve got another engagement.’ “
Mrs. Carrington looked horrified. “You can’t turn that invitation down, dear! It’s almost a royal command.”
“You mean he may have ‘asked me nicely’ but it’s really an order? All the same, I’m not going.” The phone rang. “Gayle Stuart here.” On hearing the voice at the other end she made a face at Mrs. Carrington.
“Talk of the devil?” Mrs. Carrington whispered.
Gayle nodded and Mrs. Carrington crept out.
“Yes, I did get your invitation, Mr. Pascall, but I—I’m afraid I can’t accept. It was kind of you to ask me, though.”