A Very Good Life (2 page)

“Absolutely!”

“Go get ’em, tiger,” Mark said, touching the side of Dana’s arm right below her shoulder. He walked away, turned back with a big smile and a thumbs-up, then disappeared.

Mark’s energy and enthusiasm, as well as his one-minute pep talk, were just what Dana needed to boost her confidence and keep her idea alive.

As Dana neared the far side of the store, she and Helen Kavanagh simultaneously approached the same elevator.

As always, Helen was impeccably dressed, and her carriage bespoke an elegant, stylish demeanor. She was in the later years of middle age, but she advanced towards the elevator briskly, her blond hair pulled severely back from her face and secured with an ever-present black velvet ribbon. Her face expressionless, she glanced at Dana, her pace unchanged. A signal had clearly been given. In point of fact, Helen truly admired Dana, but the young events coordinator was in her twenties, and there was a protocol in Helen’s universe that she didn’t believe needed to be articulated. Respect carried the day, with camaraderie offered in moderation, preferably outside of the workplace. Dana therefore halted just long enough to allow Helen to slip into the elevator before she followed, the doors closing behind her. The two women were alone as the elevator ascended to the executive suite of offices on the fifth floor.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Dana thought. Besides, Mark had literally gone out of his way to suggest that she approach Helen. Mark, of course, could be aggressive and disarming at the same time, so such a feat would naturally be far easier for
him
to accomplish. Still, she was quite aware that Mark had her best interests at heart. It was worth a try.

“Good morning, Helen.”

Helen nodded and smiled thinly. “Dana.”

“Helen, I was wondering if you shopped Biba when you were in London last month. They’re pulling in a million customers a week. A
million
!” Dana raised her eyebrows, her clear blue eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the elevator.

Helen tapped a silver ballpoint pen against the brown leather case holding her yellow legal pad. “Biba,” she said with frustration. “Biba is filled with non-paying customers who rush in before work to try on free makeup. Free, Dana. Are they running a business or having a party? Try it before you buy it? I don’t think so. They’re crazy. Excuse me—as the British say, they’re quite mad. They’ll be out of business in a year.”

Dana’s heart skipped a beat, but she wasn’t going to show any nervousness. Instead, she laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. Shows what I know!”

It was a self-effacing remark, but Dana knew when to back down.

Helen, who had been facing forward, turned and looked at Dana squarely. “And don’t even think of taking this to Bea.”

Dana smiled as the elevator door opened, but she said nothing.

The two women stepped onto the fifth floor, the rooms of which were a facsimile of the 1916 interiors of Benjamin Altman’s Fifth Avenue home. Dana and Helen walked through the reception area, which was a replica of Altman’s well-known Renaissance room. Fine art adorned the wood-paneled walls beyond the anteroom, with elaborately carved woodwork accenting the hallways. The President’s Room was a reproduction of Altman’s personal library, while the Board Room was a faithful rendering of his dining room. Oriental carpets lay on the polished parquet floor, and Dana never ceased to marvel at the rich interior of the executive suite and its expensive art collection no matter how many times she entered the area. It had the ambience of a corporate cathedral, and the first time she stepped onto the floor years earlier, she had unconsciously lifted her right hand for a split second, as if to dip her fingers in a holy water font.

Dana and Helen walked in the same direction for fifteen paces until it became obvious that they were both heading for Bea Savino’s office.

“I was told Bea wanted to see me,” Dana stated.

“I’m sure you were,” Helen said flatly. “But I need to see her first. That isn’t a problem, is it?”

“No. Of course not.”

It was another elevator moment. Dana gave Helen a politically correct smile and stepped back, allowing her to open Bea’s door and slip into the office.

Dana walked up and down the hall, admiring the landscapes hanging on the dark paneling. Miniature marble sculptures stood on pedestals and library tables with inlaid mother-of-pearl. She hoped Helen wouldn’t be long since she wanted to get back home, walk her dog, and double-check arrangements for the annual McGarry Christmas party, now only six days away. It was one o’clock, but if Bea called a special events meeting, Dana’s afternoon would be lost. She was overseeing the expansion of the adult programs, known as “department-store culture,” and she and Bea were still working out the details for the rollout in January. B. Altman was a pioneer for such a program, and Dana would be programming three events a week in the Charleston Garden restaurant that seated two hundred. A smaller third-floor community room was newly renovated for the expanded sessions that included mini-courses in art appreciation, cooking demonstrations, book signings, self-improvement, and current events.

She reversed direction and walked past Bea’s office, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. She turned around and decided to wait outside Bea’s inner sanctum to make sure Helen wouldn’t slip out unnoticed. Heart pounding, she stood near the open door and heard Helen expressing dismay.

“You know how I feel about having shoes in my department, Bea. Can’t you help me convince them to find somewhere else to put this Pappagallo shop? Shoes belong with shoes. It just doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to see them. Period.”

There was clear exasperation in the junior buyer’s voice.

“But it works for Ira and Dawn,” Bea responded calmly, “and they firmly believe in the merchandising potential for this young market. “Don’t quote me, but I heard Ira’s daughter will be working in the shop this summer. You gotta get on board, Helen. Think young. Think upbeat.” Her voice rose with sudden enthusiasm. “Think Biba!”

“Bea, if I hear that name Biba one more time!” Helen interrupted.

Bea ignored her. “The kids are all drinking espresso, and I’ll probably go down for a cup in the afternoon.”

“What are you talking about?” Helen asked. “You’re going to—”

“Helen,” Bea slowly responded, “Pappagallo stores have love seats and espresso machines. It’s that Southern hospitality. They were introduced in Atlanta. Anyway, we have no choice. Remember, Pappagallo is leasing the space.”

There was a noticeable silence inside Bea’s office.

“Breathe deeply, Helen,” Bea advised with a laugh. “You’re going to hyperventilate. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Espresso machine?” Helen repeated. “Love seats? Taking up selling space. I’m not putting up with this. Fine. Then they’ll just have to give me a larger department. I’m not giving up without getting something in return.”

Dana smiled. If Ira Neimark, the executive vice president and general merchandise manager of B. Altman, together with his hand-picked vice president and fashion director, Dawn Mello—Helen’s boss—were looking for ways to bring young people into the store, maybe the teen makeup department wasn’t a lost cause after all.

Helen came flying out the office, brushing past Dana by mere inches as she talked to herself under her breath. “B. Altman will be out of business before Biba. It’s all totally absurd.” She took no notice of the young events coordinator.

Dana moved forward and stood in the doorway. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Yes, Dana. Come in.”

Bea Savino was a tiny but feisty Italian woman with snow white hair, a chain-smoker with a no-nonsense approach to life and business. Bea had married five years ago, at the age of forty, and had no children, but she felt compelled to give her adopted young staff reality therapy every chance she could, believing they were too influenced by the soft dress-for-success career articles in fashion magazines. With Dana, Bea’s mantra was “Toughen up, for God’s sake!” When Dana had been passed over for an assignment and complained to her boss, Bea merely said, “It’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease, kiddo. I didn’t even know you were interested. Carol was in here every day, begging. Speak up, Dana.”

Bea lit a cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke, and laughed. “I think poor Helen is headed for a stroke. I saw you standing outside, so I know you heard our exchange. Ah well. She’ll get over it. She’s a tough old broad, God love her.” Bea shuffled some papers around her desk before finding the folder she was looking for. Her office was not a model of perfection and order, as were Helen’s and Dana’s.

Dana cringed at the term “broad.” The expression seemed out of place on the sacrosanct fifth floor, but she merely took a deep breath and remembered that Bea didn’t mince words. She decided to pitch her idea despite Helen’s warning.

“Bea, since Mr. Neimark and Ms. Mello are interested in the youth market, why can’t we go one step further than the Shop for Pappagallo and add a teen makeup section too? As I told Helen, Biba is pulling in a million customers a week.”

Bea leaned back in her chair and took another puff of her cigarette.

“You always tell me to speak up,” Dana said, her voice rising slightly as she shrugged her shoulders. “So . . . ?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Bea conceded as she surveyed her cluttered desk, “but it’s not going to happen, at least not now. One step at a time. Let Helen adjust to the intrusion of Pappagallo first. It’s too much at once.”

“But—”

“Go whine to Bob. I know you two are thick as thieves. I asked you here to discuss something else.”

Bob Campbell was the store’s vice president and general manager. He was Dana’s unofficial mentor, a fact that often irritated Bea to no end. It was she, not Bob, who was the young woman’s immediate boss.

Dana clasped her hands behind her back, squeezing her right fist in frustration. Was she supposed to toughen up and be vocal or remain silent? Bea’s mixed messages could be infuriating. Dana was advocating the same teen strategy that the general merchandise manager and fashion director of the store apparently believed in, and she couldn’t help but think that she was being penalized for her youth. Or maybe it was because Helen might pitch a fit. Either way, Andrew had been right: Bea was a moveable feast.

“Bob has chosen the winner for this year’s teen contest. You’ll announce the results next week at the Sugar Plum Ball. It’s a favor for a friend of Mr. Campbell. His friend’s daughter, Kim Sullivan, will be this year’s winner.” Bea sighed deeply and crushed her cigarette in a large glass ashtray on her desk. “Have a good weekend, Dana,” Bea said, summarily dismissing the figure standing before her.

Dana was speechless. The contest involved getting the best and brightest teens to write essays, make brief speeches, and model clothes, and they were down to the five finalists. She’d run the contest for three years, but the idea that the contest was rigged this year—and by Bob Campbell of all people—left Dana dazed and temporarily unable to move. The Sugar Plum Ball was the annual December benefit for the Children’s Aid Society. The idea of committing fraud was bad enough, but she would also have to disappoint the girls who would be competing in good faith. Did such a prestigious charity event have to be marred by dishonesty?

Bea looked up, glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Is anything the matter, Dana? You look positively pale.”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

Everything was most decidedly
not
fine. Dana had the ear of Bob Campbell, and she would use her access to the general manager to express how odious the idea seemed. One way or another, she’d find a way to avoid making the contest into a sham.

Feeling manipulated, Dana turned and left Bea’s office. Her normally fair complexion was red with anger, and her breath came in quick, short bursts. She marched down to the Writing and Rest Room for Women, a beautifully carpeted room with chairs upholstered in blue velvet. The mahogany walls and soft lighting made this one of the most elaborate rest areas in any store, and Dana sometimes came here because of the quiet and repose it offered. Today the room was, not surprisingly, filled with shoppers taking a moment to compose themselves. She hurried to her office in the General Offices section of the fifth floor, retrieved her purse, and tried to calm down.

Regaining her composure proved impossible, however. She took a deep breath and decided that she would have no peace for the rest of the day until she spoke with Bob Campbell. Bea must have been mistaken. Bob would never rig the yearly teen contest.

Dana got up from her desk, hoping to get a few minutes with the general manager. She walked back to the executive suite, ready to make her case.

B
rett McGarry walked confidently into the offices of Davis, Konen and Wright on the thirty-seventh floor of 80 Broad Street. The address was in the heart of New York’s financial district, a suitable home for the powerhouse corporate law firm where Brett hoped to soon make partner. The imposing limestone edifice of the Art Deco building, with its many tiers of set-back facades, was near Battery Park, the Staten Island Ferry, the New York Stock Exchange, and other famous landmarks in lower Manhattan. Brett felt at ease in the financial district, and whenever he entered the area, he felt a spring in his step. This was where he belonged, and when it was time to have a drink with colleagues, he could walk to Fraunces Tavern, the Georgian-style building on nearby Pearl Street where General George Washington had bid the officers of the Continental Army a fond farewell at a dinner in his honor. On any given evening, one could find newsworthy faces at the tavern, and for Brett, scotch neat went down that much easier when at Fraunces.

He turned the corner of one of the quiet corridors of the firm, hitting his stride. He had every reason to believe he was on the fast track to partnership, so the light snow and gray skies outside hadn’t dampened his spirit. On the contrary, he felt invigorated by the cold air, with gray skies matching the venerable gray buildings on Wall Street.