by Prue Leith
She paused, every eye upon her, then said, ‘Later, we will almost certainly need to take out some head office jobs.’
Mark’s head went down and Joanna addressed his bald patch. ‘And possibly outsource the ready-meal production.’
Mark’s head jerked up again. Joanna looked at him and said, ‘But I have not done the figures on those yet. I’ll need Mark’s help, and there was not time before today. So I have, for the moment, left the factory costs as they stand. But there could, and should, be further savings there.’
For a moment it looked as though Mark was going to protest, but he said nothing.
She went on. ‘You will see from the table at the top of the page that the bulk of savings will come from better buying. Our current growers are, I think we all agree, loyal and committed, but they just cannot compete with the big boys in the Eastern counties, or the produce from abroad. The supermarket contracts—’
Caroline, her chin forward and eyes narrowed, could not stand it any longer and interrupted.
‘So, we just chuck farmers who have stuck with us through thick and thin onto the scrapheap—’
Stewart cut her short. ‘Caro, if you could wait until we’ve heard what Joanna has to say? We can then discuss it. Go on Joanna.’
Caroline flung herself back in to the chair with a muttered ‘fine’. She crossed her arms and stared at Joanna, who remained cool. She had been here many times before and knew that founders of small enterprises were often unbusinesslike. Full of passion, vision and mission, often great inventors or innovators, they were generally lousy at people management and even worse at making that difficult transition from a niche business to a big one. Which was why Innovest had sent her in to sort them out.
Keeping her voice even and polite, she said, ‘If you turn to the next page, you will see that the average supermarket selling price of organic produce has been going down for four years. This has been driven by hard bargaining from the supermarkets, who buy increasingly from eastern Europe and the third world, but also by more efficient UK producers with large farms going into organics. The public’s increasing enthusiasm for ethical sourcing, their dislike of air miles and growing awareness of the need to support British farmers has meant that, for example, large poultry farms in East Anglia are converting to organic production.’
Caroline, her face flushed, interjected. ‘Poultry farms! You call them farms! They are bloody great factories! They may give the poor things organic feed, but it’s monoculture on a terrifying scale. Acres of birds—’
Again Stewart stopped her. ‘Caro, we must allow Joanna to finish. She is explaining the two options. We will debate their pros and cons in a minute.’
Stewart was the only person able to handle Caroline. His expression was tolerant and his voice low but there was no doubt of his authority. Joanna wondered if Stewart was once as passionate and difficult as his daughter. Probably.
Caroline, pouting childishly, muttered, ‘Well, it’s stupid. We all know where she’s going with this. She wants to destroy the business.’
Joanna ignored this and turned from Option A to Option B. She explained that Option B would mean withdrawing from the big supermarket contracts and returning to Greenfarms’ roots: buying from traditional organic suppliers; radically reducing their own ready-meal range; delivering vegetable boxes to domestic addresses; selling locally at farmers’ markets and to small stores and health food shops. And, crucially, selling through the internet.
She stood up to reach her computer, already hooked up to the AV system, and pressed it into life. She took them through the research, indicating with the laser wand which figure in a column or which line of a graph she wanted them to focus on. She covered the growth of local food markets and festivals, the explosion of ‘alternative’ lifestyle choices, the rise in spend on quality food products and the increase in healthy-eating publications.
She turned off the computer.
‘So … there is no doubt that there is an increasing market for ethically sourced organic food. But if we are to profit by it, and fill the hole left in our business by the loss of the supermarkets, we will need to build up direct sales via the internet very fast. Which, of course, will need considerable investment in the website and in marketing.’
She directed them back to her paper, saying briskly, ‘The financials are summarised on page ten.’
By the time they had been through them, Caroline was looking less truculent, and Joanna realised with dismay that she might have done too good a job on Option B. Almost all the board would be more comfortable with this option. Only Alasdair was shaking his head.
God, thought Joanna, it is truly astonishing how cowardly boards of directors can be, like a lot of ostriches with their heads in the sand. Surely it must be clear to them that Option B isn’t really an option at all? It’s there because the board needs to have an alternative to the obvious so they can tell themselves they – not I – are making the decision. I’m like a photographer giving the picture editor the one good pic he wants used and only supplying duds to compare it with.
She looked round the table, hoping to see some sense there. They must know it, she thought. They’ve read my paper. She had known the answer to the problems at Greenfarms ever since Innovest first asked her to look into the company. Indeed, they had invested the money on her advice with the intention of making just the changes she was now proposing. Joanna looked at Caroline and felt a wash of sympathy for her. Poor girl, she thought, the truth is staring her in the face, but she will not see it.
‘Is anyone unclear about anything?’ she continued.
Head-shaking all round. Stewart said, ‘Right, Caro, you wanted to say something?’
Caroline pushed the fingers of one hand into her hair and looked at her father. ‘Well, everyone knows where I stand. I’d sooner the than turn Greenfarms, which provides almost all the jobs in this village and a whole lot more in the factory, into Option A.’ She raked her hair back from her face and continued. ‘Companies should not be there just to make City investors rich.’ Her glance, full of fire, flicked towards Joanna. ‘They are there as part of the community, and they should bloody well be of benefit to that community.’ She turned towards Mark and Alasdair. ‘Christ, guys, what benefit would it be to local farmers and the people who live in this area if vegetables are grown in East Anglia? Sure, it will mean starvation wages for some poor seasonal workers from eastern Europe or illegal immigrants from somewhere else. But that doesn’t help Joe who grades our potatoes here, does it?’
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, obviously struggling to remain calm. ‘Of course I’m for Option B! That is how we started. I’m sick of dancing to the supermarkets’ tune. They are bloodsucking bastards who get you dependent on them and then screw you. They talk a lot about supporting small farmers, but it’s all crap.’
She was into her stride now, her face slightly flushed, her whole body tense with the strength of her conviction, her eyes wide and impassioned.
‘Our products fly out of Planet Organic and the Health Food shops. We can build up our wholesale sales on their expansion. We are not a tin-pot business, we win awards all over the place, we make the fastest-growing brand of baby food in the country—’
‘Only because it’s sold in the multiples,’ interrupted Alasdair.
Caroline jumped up, and for a moment Joanna wondered if she was going to assault her sales director. But she just glared at him.
‘We’ve got an amazing company here,’ she went on. ‘It is not just that we are good at food, we do things other companies don’t. We do the right thing by our suppliers, by the environment, in animal husbandry, for our local area. Do we really want to go from being loved for all these things to being hated as the bastards who sacked all the locals? If we decide to do that, I’m out of here.’
Joanna could feel them falling under her spell. Indeed she was in danger of doing so herself. Caroline was so passionate and sincere it was hard not to be seduced by her
. By the end of it, they were all looking at her, except Alasdair who leant back in his chair and studied his fingers.
Stewart’s eyes stayed on his daughter, who sat down slowly, still glaring around her.
God, he worships that girl, Joanna thought. This could go seriously wrong.
Stewart turned his gaze to his nephew. ‘Alasdair? A or B?’
‘I’m for A, I’m afraid. I’m sorry Caro, I know how hard this is for you, but personally I want to be part of a company that’s going places. Which we are. We’ve done well to get onto the supermarket shelves. We just need to stay there. If other companies can get their costs and prices down, so can we.’ He looked across at Mark, who said,
‘Yeah, easier said than done, mate, You …’
‘Mark,’ said Stewart, ‘let’s be businesslike about this. Are you for Option A or B?’
‘B. I agree with Caro.’ Mark looked defiantly at Alasdair who sighed and shook his head but did not rejoin the argument.
‘And Phyllis?’ asked Stewart.
‘I’m with Caro too,’ said Phyllis. ‘She’s built her business up before. I am sure she’ll do it again.’
‘Amin?’
‘Caroline, I am very sorry. I must look at this as an accountant. Our best option is to stay with the big retailers and get suppliers’ costs down. Option A.’
Stewart had been making notes. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘that looks like three for A (Joanna, Alasdair and Amin) and three for B (Mark, Phyllis and Caroline). I don’t like boardroom votes. I would far rather discuss the matter until we have a natural consensus. But in this instance, I don’t think anyone is going to change their position, and as chairman I have a casting vote.’
Joanna held her breath and looked at Caroline twisting her pencil in her fingers, round and round.
But Stewart seemed in no hurry. He tapped his gold fountain pen gently on the writing pad, eyes down, face serious.
Suddenly the pencil in Caroline’s hand snapped with a sharp crack. Everyone jumped, then smiled briefly, acknowledging the tension in the air.
‘C’mon, Dad,’ said Caroline, ‘I can’t bear it.’
Stewart looked to each of them in turn as he spoke.
‘I agree with Caro that swimming in the big seas with sharks is dangerous. But I don’t underestimate the effort it will take to crack the internet route either. Hygiene regulation and cost will mean we cannot send ready meals by mail. We will have to expand the bigger ticket items – meat and smoked produce. But on balance, if we think we can do it, we probably can. We need to examine the figures more carefully, but if they stack up, then I’m with the CEO.’
Joanna felt as though he’d thumped her in the solar plexus. She could not believe it. She kept perfectly still, her face carefully impassive as she watched Caroline jump to her feet then sit down again as suddenly.
‘Sorry, Joanna,’ Stewart continued. ‘I know you are convinced of the merits of Option A, but I’m afraid I am not. I favour a planned retreat from the supermarkets, an expansion of the bigger margin lines and the preservation of the brand’s reputation. ‘
Caroline said, ‘Thanks, Dad,’ and closed her eyes in relief. Her lower lip trembled but she bit it, holding it still between her teeth.
Stewart glanced at his watch and started to gather his papers into a neat pile, tapping them briskly on the table to line the edges up. He smiled. ‘Right, I’m afraid we’ve run a little late. Forgive me.’ He looked round the circle of faces. ‘Has anyone any other business?’
Joanna took a deep breath, looked him in the eye.
‘I’m sorry to do this, Chairman,’ she said. ‘It seems pedantic, but I’m afraid I have to object. It has just occurred to me that Phyllis is not, strictly speaking, a board member. Her vote is therefore invalid, which brings us back to a three–three situ—’
Caroline interrupted with a bark. ‘What rot, of course she’s a board member! Aren’t you Phyllis?’
Phyllis, her hand over her mouth, shook her head. ‘No, Joanna’s right. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise that was a formal vote. We’ve never had to actually vote on anything before. Stewart has always treated me as one of you for discussion, and I thought he was asking my opinion, so I gave it. If I had realised it was a vote, I’d have reminded you that I am only “in attendance” at the board, not a member of it.’
Stewart, for once, looked nonplussed, but before he could rally his thoughts, Joanna fired her last volley. She had known all along she would have to do this if they rejected her recommendation, but she had hoped to get them to vote for the medicine and not have to force it down their throats. She braced herself.
‘I’ve one more thing, Chairman. Before we confirm the decision, or reverse it, the board needs to know that Innovest favours Option A. If the board decides on that, then they are prepared to continue to back the company and provide the funds for restructuring. However, if we go for B, they are not. Venture capitalists, as you know, are interested in companies able to grow at a pace that will provide the highest returns for their investors.’
She knew Stewart would have got it before she had completed the first sentence, but he waited for her to finish.
‘So they’d turn off the tap if we don’t follow your recommendation?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And in that event, what about their equity?’
Joanna had been hoping to avoid this question. Even though she was used to it, she did not enjoy destruction.
‘Innovest would liquidate their investment in Greenfarms. Of course if you could find an alternative buyer for the shares
…’
‘It would be a miracle,’ snapped Stewart. ‘And if Innovest cashes in its chips, we go bust.’ He looked, not at Joanna, but at Caroline, her mouth open in disbelief, her face ashen. ‘Well, that’s clearly understood,’ he went on. ‘If we don’t agree with you, you not only turn off the investment tap, you pull the plug and hang us out to dry. We lose the business.’
He looked round the table, and came back to Caroline. ‘And Caro, you lose your farm and house too. It’s part of the business. And you all lose your jobs. Not much of a choice is it?’
Chapter Eleven
The Porchester Baths had been taken over by some private company. They had added a gym and made a half-hearted attempt at a spa, but the place still had a whiff of public facility about it. Rebecca had asked the girl at the desk why they put so much chlorine in the water.
‘Trust me,’ she’d replied, ‘you don’t want to know.’
Rebecca had shuddered. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry I asked.’
She’d have liked to walk out and enrol at the Langton Club further down the Grove, but she could not afford the fees: not with paying so much for Pilates and a personal trainer.
Now, as she rolled over to do backstroke for the next length, she felt a little glow of pride at her flab-free belly and firm upper arms. Since she’d met Nelson she’d been trying hard, and the months of swimming and working out had paid off. The things I do to look good in a bikini, she thought. Pity there’s no one to see. And then she went into a little fantasy about Nelson walking in and watching her.
Nelson had occupied rather too much of Rebecca’s mind over the long summer. The memory of his muscular arms conducting his singers, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his deep voice with the exaggerated afro-accent, his spooning a taste of jambalaya into her mouth, his wet back visible through the glass in his shower – these images kept invading her thoughts, unbidden.
She’d resolved to stick with the singing – and stick with Nelson. Of course she was side-tracking from her sensible mission to find a husband, but she reckoned a little fun on the way couldn’t do her any harm.
The truth was she had been lonelier than she thought she would be when Angelica went off to university. She was grateful to Joanna and Lucy. They’d all become friendly over their semi-private sessions with Nelson, and she and Joanna had been to Lucy’s big stone house in the country and wa
lked the Cotswold Way. It had been surprisingly enjoyable and they’d got mildly tiddly in the pub, swapping confidences about men. Or, rather, she’d told them about her chequered past and about Nelson, and Lucy had talked of David and had cried a bit. Only Joanna was reticent, saying that she was happy to be single.
In London Rebecca missed her daughter’s presence and her bevy of clever, interesting school friends. Angelica was a mystery to her mother, like a changeling. How could she have a daughter who was so sensible, so even-tempered? But Rebecca was as proud as punch of Angelica’s achievements: her straight As at A level, her History scholarship to Edinburgh, the way Angelica was so together, not all over the place like she’d been at her age. Still was now, come to think of it.
Rebecca liked to think that she and Angelica were more like sisters than mother and daughter: they did things together, movies and musicals, went shopping, had lunch. Though Angelica could be too grown up. Last month when Angelica was home for a weekend and Rebecca was reading the pop music reviews, she had proposed they go to a Prophets concert at Wembley,
‘Mum, you cannot want to see that lot. They’re rubbish!’
‘No they aren’t! And anyway, I like the atmosphere, the excitement, being part of it. You should come, darling. Loosen up a bit.’
‘You mean scream your head off with a bunch of teenagers. No thanks.’ Angelica put her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Come on, Mum, grow up. I’ll take you to a proper concert. Mozart and Brahms. Or Bach. You like classical music, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. You know how many CDs I’ve got. Stacks.’ Rebecca had dropped the magazine and changed the subject. She didn’t want Angelica pointing out that she seldom listened to those CDs, but sometimes left them lying around to impress her friends, or put one on just before her guests arrived.