Chapter 8
I
walk somewhat steadily to Tia, waiting till Candi, a new administrative assistant with big teeth, clogs, and a green denim dress, rushes away, clogs clomping on the carpet. And
that
already has her MBA.
“Corrine-cula is going on vacation,” I whisper to Tia.
“Why are we whispering?” Tia whispers back. She nods her head at the scurrying MultiCorp robots. “We are not like them. We
talk
to each other.”
“This time we’re whispering, okay?”
She nods. “But this is cause for celebration. Lady Di is gone for a while.”
“Tia, um, a client wants to meet with Corrine at the Millennium Hotel right now,” I whisper, “and I can’t get her on the phone. She expressly told me not to call her for
any
reason.” Well, except for a crisis, but I’m handling it. “I, um, already answered the phone as her.”
Tia’s eyes bulge. “As her.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I told you that I’ve done it before, but never like this.”
“It sounds dangerous,” she whispers.
“Yeah. I’m, um, I want this, Tia. I want to get this client all by myself to prove to the upty-ups that you don’t need an MBA to do this job right.”
Tia smiles. “And this is your chance.”
“Yeah. They won’t let me into the JAE program, and I’m ten times more qualified than the Ivy League garbage they’re bringing in. Can you help a sister out?”
She nods. “Miss
Ross,
we must do
something
about your outfit for this important meeting.” She pulls out a drawer and holds up a handful of colorful scarves, putting several up to my sweater. “What kind of man is the client?”
“He’s country. He’s from Georgia.”
She looks at my boots. “The boots are okay then. Do you plan on wearing that raincoat?”
“It’s not a raincoat, Tia. It’s a North Face jacket.”
“It is a raincoat to me.” She takes her coat from her chair. “Use my jacket.”
“Why?” That jacket is as old as I am.
“It has fur on it, and it will make you look older. And you must switch shoes with me.”
“I am not wearing your shoes.” I’ll wear the coat. I will not wear another person’s shoes. I pose. “How do I look?”
She sighs. “You look ...”
“What?”
“Confused.”
I try to smile. “It’s my style, Tia.” And yes, I am confused. And hyperventilating.
She touches my arm. “You will be fine. You are my rock. You have something worked out in your head to say to this client?”
“Sort of. It’s probably just a meet and greet.” I hope. “I’m sure he just wants to measure me up, see if I can jump when he says jump.”
“And how do you feel, Miss Ross?” Tia asks.
I blow out a shaky breath. “Ready. Powerful.” And scared to death!
“I will pray for you,” she says.
I give her a little hug. “Thank you, Tia.”
As the sun sneaks through a few gray clouds, I sprint three blocks down Fulton till I get to St. Paul’s. I’m not Catholic, but I cross myself just the same. I zip in through the Millennium’s front entrance, taking the elevator to the third floor and the Church & Dey restaurant. Considering how I’m dressed, I’m relieved that the restaurant is not that fancy. It’s actually kind of ordinary, not intimidating at all. No good china, not too much silverware or too many glasses, lots of wood, paper not linen napkins. I look through the window at the World Trade Center site. We seem always to be rebuilding in this city, and now I’m rebuilding my life. I say a quick prayer—“Help me, Jesus!”—to the cross made of steel beams that survived 9-11. That cross is a survivor, too.
“I have a meeting with Mr. Peterson,” I say to the hostess, and I get goose bumps. I have a
meeting
. Whoo.
The hostess takes me to Mr. Peterson’s table, and I see kind of what I envisioned as I talked to him on the phone. He’s a good ol’ southern boy, about sixty, tall and wide and jowly. He has to be hating that light-blue pinstriped suit that billows out around him and that very seventies wide blue tie. I sneak a peek at his shoes and see cowboy boots.
I like this guy.
He stands and offers his hand. I’ve never done the shaking hands part before. Corrine just leaves her hand out there, expecting the client to take it, and they usually do because they probably want to see her breasts bounce.
I decide to shake his hand. I may be using her name, but I’m not her. “Mr. Peterson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He sits, I sit across from him, and I continue shaking in my boots. “You’re not what I expected, Miss Ross.”
“Oh?”
He waves a knife with his right hand while holding a biscuit in his other. A rib-eye steak oozing blood and a baked potato oozing butter fill his plate. He’s a meat-and-potatoes man. I can deal with that.
“Your getup,” he says. “Not what I expected.”
He has noticed my “new” outfit. I should have stuck to my North Face jacket. “It’s, um, it’s dress-down day. Friday, you know. We have a relaxed atmosphere at MultiCorp.” I just wish that I could relax.
“Well, I hope I don’t un-relax you,” he says. “You know my bikes?”
I’ve only seen pictures. “Yes sir. The Rolls-Royce of bicycles.”
He laughs. “That is a horrible slogan.”
I don’t disagree.
“I have a lot of iron and rubber to move quick, Miss Ross,” he says while buttering his biscuit. “You up to it?”
“Yes sir. What’s our time line?”
“I’ll need the works out the day before Thanksgiving.”
This just isn’t done! The works! He’s out of his mind! But I’m not going to tell him that. Why am I not breathing? Oh yeah. That will only give me twelve days, including weekends and Bryan, who is not going to be a happy camper, to
produce
all this. Dear Jesus, I know I’m wrong for impersonating Corrine, but could You maybe ease off a little? What Mr. Peterson’s asking is, well, tantamount to treason!
“Will y’all have enough time?” he asks.
“More than enough time, Mr. Peterson,” I say confidently while thinking
no freaking way!
“I’ve also given Harrison Hersey and Boulder the go-ahead to see what they can come up with. Just met with Tom Sexton not ten minutes ago. You just missed him.”
I blink. He just met with ... Tom. How could I have just missed Tom when he’s supposedly on a plane to Detroit? Or did I just pass him while I was coming here? Was he ever even going to get on a plane? He’s obviously still in the city. What is he up to? I stealthily look around the restaurant just in case, which is stupid because I don’t even know what Tom looks like!
“So it’s kind of like a competition,” Mr. Peterson says. “You like competition, Miss Ross?”
“Yes sir.” Just not competitions with no chance of winning. Harrison Hersey and Boulder is Goliath and I’m David. And now that Tom is involved, geez, I’m compromised! He’s my friend! Who
lied
to me today. What’s up with that?
“I don’t normally do business this way, you understand,” he says, “but the missus thinks that with our retirements coming up, we need to protect ourselves, capitalize a little more on our investments before we hand over the company to our sons.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Peterson. It’s always wise to keep your options open.”
He takes a bite of his steak and chews for a moment. “I’m kind of taking bids for service,” he says
while
he’s chewing.
Corrine would have a cow and call Mr. Peterson “a dreadful, nasty man.”
“I’m not afraid to spend money to make money, you know,” Mr. Peterson continues, “but if MultiCorp can sell my bikes better than Harrison Hersey and Boulder and cheaper—and on time—why, I’ll be very happy, you understand?”
“I understand completely.” He wants bang for his buck.
A waitress comes over. “May I get you anything, ma’am?” “No, thank you,” I say. I couldn’t eat a thing right now!
“It’s on me, Miss Ross.”
I shake my head. “I’ve already eaten.” On a whim, I say, “So I’ll be fussing with Tom Sexton.” I can’t believe I just said “fussing”! It has to be Mr. Peterson’s accent. I always let my hair down in the presence of good, southern English.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Salem, Virginia.” Oh shoot. If he checks up on Corrine’s background, I’ll be sunk!
“Thought I heard a little twang in your voice.” He takes a sip of iced tea. “Yep, you’ll be going up against Tom Sexton. Ever hear of him?”
I blink. “Um, yes sir.” But Tom’s supposed to be on a plane to Detroit and then he’s supposed to get on another plane to Australia to go scuba diving with Corrine. Wait a minute. Tom was just here, maybe in this very chair, so he obviously has no intention of going to Detroit. Or he
is
going to Detroit only later today. What was he calling to tell Corrine? And why didn’t he tell her about this?
“Miss Ross?”
Oh yeah. I have a meeting. I look up. “I know him well, Mr. Peterson.” Okay, not as well as I’d like to know him. I mean, we’ve only been talking together on the phone for five years! “He’s very good at what he does.” And I sometimes unwittingly help him because I let my ideas just ... go. And what about that? I just helped him with something he needed for Detroit, so maybe he doesn’t have to go to Detroit? What is going on?
“They say he’s a tough nut, a real sharpie,” Mr. Peterson says. “I hope you’re sharper than he is.”
I just hope I don’t run into him! “I won’t let you down, Mr. Peterson. How should we proceed?”
“Well, I’ll be back up here two days before Thanksgiving.” He smiles. “Freda, that’s my wife, she’ll be accompanying me. She’s always wanted to visit here. Never got around to taking her. And then, you and Mr. Sexton will put on a show for us. Mr. Sexton has already graciously offered one of the conference rooms at Harrison Hersey and Boulder for the meeting. Is that acceptable?”
That isn’t fair! But you just can’t shout something like “That isn’t fair!” to a potential client. “I could also make the same offer, Mr. Peterson.” Which isn’t going to happen because I don’t have that kind of power. Think! “Why don’t we meet at a neutral location, a hotel conference room, perhaps ... here.” Corrine and I pitched Jamaica and Kmart,
my
two wins, right here at the Millennium! “I’ve used the presidential suite here at the Millennium before. It’s on the fifty-fifth floor, and it has an amazing view of the city.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know I’m staying here, right?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Lucky guess?
He points at his steak with his fork. “This is the best rib eye I’ve had in years. My wife would like it here, too. Not too fancy. Great views, like you said. Sure. I’d agree to a meeting here. Why don’t you set that up? I’ll let Harrison Hersey and Boulder know.”
Because I can’t! Corrine had to set up the meetings we had here before. “Perhaps you could set up the meeting for us, Mr. Peterson.”
He squints. “You want my business, right?”
Oops. What did I say? “Yes sir.”
“And yet you want me to do a little legwork for you?”
Oh. That’s what I said without saying it. Never put the client to work. Hmm. “Yes. If you set up the meeting, this will show both parties your impartiality before we go to war.”
Mr. Peterson smiles, and it’s a genuine smile. I haven’t seen many of those around here lately. “I like your style, Miss Ross. But what if that other outfit doesn’t like it?”
Then I’ve already won a small battle in the war, Mr. Peterson. “A neutral location evens the odds a little.” I smile. “I, um, I don’t wear a suit or drive an expensive car.”
He laughs. “I see your point.”
He’s warming up to me. What does Corrine do next? Oh yeah. She travels. My legs start shaking again. I am about to go a lot further than I’ve ever gone before. “I will also be touring your plant in Georgia early next week. What day suits you?”
“You’re coming down my way. What for?”
“I want to immerse myself in your product, Mr. Peterson.” Wow. I’ve just used one of Corrine’s standard lines. “If I’m going to sell it, I have to know it from the tires up to the handlebars. Would Monday be acceptable?”
He smiles. “Sure. Monday’s just fine. In fact, I think Monday would be the best possible day for you to visit.”
I stand. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Mr. Peterson. I need to get further along on this project.” Hey, my legs are sturdier than they were before. I’m doing this! “How can I reach you should I need to know more of the particulars?”