Armani Angels (9 page)

The car service limo sent by the IQPR New York office inched its way down West 39th Street. It seemed an age since they'd passed through the Long Island Expressway tunnel. Even arriving late Sunday, Manhattan traffic never ceased to amaze Gemma. The early summer had forced New Yorkers into tank tops and short skirts prematurely. Flip-flops replaced trainers. She reminded herself not to call them thongs while she was here. She'd done that once in a meeting, much to her embarrassment.

The New Yorker
lay unopened on her lap as she gazed from the rear window. The sheer cliff-like faces of the buildings rose on either side of the narrow street. The ever-present sirens, random bellows from outraged pedestrians and constant honking penetrated the Mercedes Benz's thick doors and yet soon became a mere backdrop to the busy landscape. Buses, delivery vans, piles of cardboard boxes and mini-skips lined the street.

The adrenaline and excitement of the city got her pulse racing and reminded her of what she loved about her job: the challenge, the drama, the deadlines. Her work made her feel dynamic and capable, and for all the drawbacks of the position she'd also had moments when she'd revelled in her temporary role as the CEO of IQPR Melbourne. She knew the CEO position was demanding as all hell, and didn't fit well with family life, but she'd still lobbied Peter for the permanent CEO role as Chantelle had suggested. But Peter had told her that their boss, Dirk Ciepielewski, had said the board would consider her too inexperienced for the position. Personally she felt she was butting her head against the PR industry glass ceiling.

The streetscape widened as they turned right into Sixth Avenue and drove a little faster past the rear of the New York Public Library.

She could have quit in a tantrum, but what would that have achieved? The bottom line was that she loved her company, she loved her job and creating waves wasn't going to help anyone. Her time would come. She just needed to sit tight.

Gemma had opted for the historic Algonquin Hotel this time. She'd had enough of the sleek grandness of the company's preferred Four Seasons Hotel, which, although closer to head office, wasn't as intimate and cosy as New York's oldest operating hotel. She was trying to follow her doctor's advice and take care of herself a bit more. She'd been back for her second appointment and Kerryn had been satisfied that depression wasn't the problem. Gemma's anxiety had calmed once she'd cut back on her caffeine intake, so hopefully she wouldn't have any repeat panic attacks.

She sighed to herself. She should focus on the first session of the conference tomorrow and her meeting with the board, but she was distracted by the chaos of the city outside her taxi window. The driver cursed in a rich Brooklyn accent as a bike courier whipped into their lane then out again to overtake a rubbish truck.

Gemma alighted from the car. A bellhop whisked her bag from the driver who was holding the rear door open as the doorman opened the ornate front door with a smile while Gemma handed US banknotes out left, right and centre. This was, after all, America.

While Gemma waited a brief moment for her turn at check-in, she gazed around at the elegant lobby, drinking in the historic surroundings. This place was the heart of the literary world. Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe had penned
My Fair Lady
here; Noel Coward and Dorothy Parker had exchanged witty jibes with like-minded scribes in the dining room; famous pithy quotes had been coined on this very floor, her best loved being Robert Benchley's, ‘Let's get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.' But the main reason that Gemma had always wanted to stay here was that the publication she most enjoyed,
The New Yorker
, had been spawned within these walls.

That night Gemma forced herself to stay in her room with her meeting papers and the stunning floral arrangement on the coffee table as her only company. Even though The Round Table restaurant with its ghosts of jovial past guests beckoned, she had to read up on tomorrow's session.

It was a three-day conference with all the heads of IQPR meeting to discuss a confidential merger with another large American PR firm, as well as giving each branch the opportunity to present its current position. After the passing of Chantelle's husband, Ed Portsmouth, Wally Robinson had been hired as head of the Australian branch. He'd lasted several years in the position, but Gemma knew he was no trailblazer and that the US head office was underwhelmed with his performance. After Wally had, thankfully, floated off into early retirement late last year, Gemma had been appointed temporary CEO until a replacement could be found. She had been able to handle the position with its increased responsibilities but she needed to let head office know that the position had to be filled and soon. She couldn't go on for much longer with the added workload.

She finally finished the meeting papers at one am, snapped off the light and, lying back, luxuriated in the softness of the famous Algonquin bed, the fragrant scent of tiger lilies filling her dreams.

Despite the burden of jet lag and the noises of the city that punctuated her dreams, Gemma awoke refreshed and leaped from bed excited about the day ahead.

She dressed in a charcoal Herve Leger bandage skirt and white pussycat-bow blouse teamed with a black lightweight Willow cropped jacket.

Scooping her papers, laptop and iPhone into her briefcase, she left the hotel and headed down West 44th Street and on towards Madison Avenue. Although it could easily have been a taxi ride, Gemma preferred walking in the warm summer morning and witnessing the start of a new day in the Big Apple.

By the time she'd arrived at East 53rd, Gemma was regretting her charcoal pumps and wished she'd done the New York thing and worn her trainers. But that was one Manhattan tradition she just couldn't get her head around. It always looked so unusual to see well-groomed women pounding the pavement in haute couture and high-tops.

She entered the IQPR New York building, which also housed the international head office, and zipped up to the fourteenth floor in the super-fast elevator. Entering the glistening foyer of the company took her breath away, as always.

Young chic executives bustled by, deep in conversation with other well-dressed colleagues or studying their smart phones intently. A stunning receptionist reigned over a curved stainless-steel desk in the centre of the space. Each time Gemma had been here a different young woman sat at the desk, but each looked as if she should be on
America's Next Top Model
.

‘Peter Blakely, please,' Gemma asked the beautiful girl.

‘Of course, please have a seat and I shall call him for you,' the receptionist said, indicating the lush seating area with the sweep of one elegant hand.

‘Hey there, Aussie girl!' Peter was there in less than a minute.

Gemma stood and put out her hand in greeting. ‘Peter, so great to see you again. Wow, you look so well!'

Peter Blakely was a legend in the industry. He'd become the head of IQPR New York after having left the broadcast industry completely burned out. The unforgiving demands of network television had cost him his marriage, his health and, according to him, very nearly his sanity. Yet he'd bounced back and taken on the role of head here in NYC on the insistence of an old college buddy who worked at international head office.

Peter was a tall man, and up until recently, his largeness had been in both girth and height. But thanks to a regime with a personal trainer and a new-found love of tai chi and holistic life choices, he'd trimmed down considerably since Gemma had last seen him at the IQPR Down Under conference. He seemed even taller in his new svelte frame, Gemma thought as she smiled into his brown eyes.

‘Yep, living the pure life,' Peter said.

‘Not too pure, I hope,' Gemma teased.

‘Well, I must admit, my body's more of a church-on-Sundays than a temple,' he joked.

They walked towards conference room number one on the east side of the building. ‘So, are you all prepared?' he asked.

‘Yes, a bit nervous. Although I've been acting head for about six months, I haven't met with the other CEOs in this capacity. I know most of them of course, from when we hosted this conference last year.'

‘Oh, yeah,' Peter guffawed at the memory. ‘The big Down-Under-Three-Dayer. Man, is that ever a long flight.'

‘It sure is.' Gemma walked into the room ahead of Peter. Another attractive young woman was directing a male junior in the finishing touches of the set-up. They were fiddling with the projector.

‘But what a glorious country. Every time I go I can't believe how good you guys have it.'

A large mahogany table loomed in the centre of the room and was surrounded by black leather chairs. Gemma placed her briefcase on the table at her assigned seat. ‘It was a pretty intense time. Those southern states of yours know how to party,' she said.

‘Sure, but how about that Mr Morioka? He'd been so staid during the day but when he suggested we all hit that karaoke bar, he sure came out of his shell.' Peter grinned at the memory.

‘Oh, yes, he's a sweetie. We deal with Tokyo office a lot because of the Samsung account.'

‘Now today's session runs until three pm, as you know. Are you still okay to meet with me directly afterwards prior to meeting with the board?' Peter looked at her quizzically.

‘Yes, of course. I still don't quite know why I have to meet with the directors of the board, though. Surely the replacement can't be that far away.' Gemma unpacked her laptop and phone and laid them on the table.

‘Well, it's just that they need to know who's been responsible for IQPR Down Under having had such a successful past quarter.' Peter winked at her. ‘They like to put a face to the name.'

‘Who are the applicants?' Gemma asked.

‘There are three contenders. One guy, Mark Meriton from San Diego, an English guy who is 2IC from the Taiwan office and of course your arch-nemesis, Ronald Banks.'

‘What?' Gemma said in surprise, looking up into Peter's tanned face. ‘I knew about the other two but when did Ron come to the party?'

‘When he heard you were still second-in-command.' He grinned.

Ronald Banks was a try-hard Texan who delighted in rubbing Gemma up the wrong way whenever they met.

She glared at Peter as he continued to chuckle. ‘Oh, stop looking so offended. Where's that good old Aussie laid-back attitude? He's
applied
for the position. He hasn't got a hope in hell. We want the Melbourne office to keep doing well, not for them to kill their boss within a week.'

Gemma smiled in return and immediately relaxed. ‘Well, that's okay then. I could handle either of the other two.' She forced herself to swallow the familiar welling annoyance that she hadn't even been considered for the role.

‘Excuse me, sir,' a soft Southern twang came from the door. Gemma turned and experienced an unexpected surge of jealousy as Peter turned, beamed and walked towards yet another striking blonde woman. What was with this place? They were all gorgeous.

‘Mr Morioka is here,' she announced, and she stepped back to admit the Tokyo CEO.

‘A, Morioka-san, ohayou gozaimasu,' Peter said and bowed deeply, his head nearly touching his knees.

‘A, Mr Blakely, ohayou gozaimasu,' the Japanese man returned and bowed in kind.

‘Mr Morioka, ohayou,' Gemma also bowed deeply. All three straightened and smiled.

‘Howdy, Jiro,' Peter said and offered his hand.

‘Howdy, Pete,' Jiro Morioka responded. ‘And gudday, Gemma!' He smiled and offered his hand to her.

‘G'day to you too, Jiro.' Gemma returned the handshake.

The IQPR team had a custom of using all cultures' greetings. It was lengthy but fun. And now Gemma knew how to greet people in a dozen different languages.

The young blonde assistant was offering refreshments. ‘Green tea, sir?' she asked Mr Morioka.

‘You know, I'd kill for an espresso. You got a Starbucks downstairs?' he replied.

The first day of the conference had been a success with each office presenting its annual budgets, its forecasts and client movements of the preceding six months. Gemma was very proud to be able to say Australia was way ahead of budget. She knew that their revenue wasn't anywhere near the stratospheric heights of the other countries and was grateful that they talked in percentages not dollars.

She was also proud to inform the team that they hadn't lost any clients and had, in fact, taken on three more, one an enormous blue-chip company. Of course, Australia had survived the recent recession much better than the US so she couldn't take total credit.

After the session it was time to go and see Peter and to confirm what qualities she felt the new Melbourne CEO should bring to the role. As she relaxed into a leather armchair in Peter's office, Gemma reflected on how comfortable she felt in his presence. He was such an impressive manager. It was no wonder he led his team so effectively and commanded such respect.