Hostile Makeover (12 page)

Shelley sighed.

“Parents want to see their children settled down and producing grandchildren.” Abe pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Have you seen the sonogram?” Abe’s chest puffed out with pride. “This is my future grandson.”

Shelley studied the grainy black-and-white radar-looking picture, trying to make out the body parts. “Oh, my God, is that his—”

“It’s his arm.” Abe chortled. “Everybody thinks that first thing.”

Something resembling a laugh escaped from Ross Morgan, but when she turned to check, he’d clamped his mouth shut again. Remembering the purpose of their visit, she handed the sonogram back to Abe and began the introductions. “This is Ross Morgan, Uncle Abe. He was our director of Account Services, but is now president. He’s buying Daddy out.”

Ross nodded and smiled. He stuck out his hand and the two men shook, but Ross didn’t say anything, which under the circumstances felt pretty strange. Nothing she’d said to him in the car should have precluded a simple greeting.

Shelley shot him a look then stepped into the silence. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

“Of course.” Abe led them up the stairs to his second-floor office and motioned them toward the far end, where a small conference table with chairs overlooked the sales floor.

“I’ve been given the opportunity to review your account, Uncle Abe,” she said when they were seated. “And I, um,” she cleared her throat, “noticed that it’s been somewhat . . . inactive . . . for the last few years.”

She turned to Ross for confirmation, but he just nodded politely. When Abe looked the other way he made a zipper motion over his lips.

Shelley’s mouth went dry. She could have asked Wiley Haynes for the moon, but asking for money from someone who’d once removed a frog from your diaper suddenly seemed infinitely more difficult. “And, I, uh, think we need to do something about that,” she concluded lamely.

Abe pointed down to the sales floor, which overflowed with appliances and electronic equipment. “Do you see what’s going on down there?” he asked.

Shelley and Ross looked. Two salesmen leaned against a flat panel TV and talked. A lone maintenance worker swabbed at an already shiny floor.

“Nothing’s going on down there,” Abe said. “The big chains are squeezing us out. Best Buy, Circuit City, HiFi Buys.” Abe shook his head. “I don’t have enough locations to place big enough orders to match their prices. This used to be my busiest store.”

This would have been the perfect time for the president of the agency to step in and discuss the basic tenets of advertising. Except, of course, that she’d commanded him not to speak. Mr. Mum shot her a look that said he knew just how difficult this was for her and expected her to deal with it anyway. Or fall on her face.

“I’m, uh, sure Dad explained to you that advertising is even more important in, uh, slow times than it is during good ones.”

Abe looked back at the empty sales floor and sighed. “Yeah, but what’s the point? How big a difference can a few more ads make? I’m dying here.”

And so was she. She’d bragged that Abe would never say no to her, but if she didn’t actually present or ask for something, there’d be nothing for him to say yes to.

Shelley straightened and folded her hands in front of her on the table. “Uncle Abe,” she said firmly, “I understand your concern and your reluctance. But you can’t just let them push you under without a fight. You’ve got to advertise, and it’s got to be done the right way. You’ve got to make potential buyers understand why they should shop with you instead of the big chains.”

“Honey, that’s very nice, but people today shop for price. They’ll come in here and put my salespeople through hoops, touching, trying, feeling, and then they’ll go order it from the Internet or some mail-order catalogue. They’ll spend two hours in research to save five bucks. I’m tired to death of all of that. There’s no customer loyalty anymore.”

“But research indicates people want service and a personal touch. I’ve started working on a campaign for you that will highlight what a family-owned enterprise can do that a chain can’t.”

He studied her closely, then looked back down at the empty sales floor.

“Dad once said he believed you could sell ice to Eskimos. I want to put you on the air and give you a chance to do that.” She let that sink in for a moment. “You’re no quitter,” she added quietly. “Give me a chance to show you what we can do for you.”

Abe looked briefly at the still-silent Ross Morgan then back to Shelley, who was holding her breath.

“What would it cost to do what you’re suggesting?”

“I need to crunch some more numbers,” she said carefully. “And I want to sit down with the Creative Department to put a formal presentation together.”

He ran a hand over the bald dome of his head. He was tempted, she could tell. He wanted to believe, but he needed a final inducement; that thing that would push him off the fence and squarely onto her side.

“I can have a presentation ready for you next week,” she said, “and I’ll tell you something else I can do.”

Abe and Ross both sat up straighter. She could feel Abe teetering toward yes. Ross looked like he was bracing himself somehow, which was kind of weird because she didn’t even know exactly what was going to come out of her mouth before she said it.

“I’ll make a presentation just like I would for any new account,” she said, “with storyboards and projections and a complete budget.”

“Okay,” Abe said cautiously. “And if we go along with this plan and it doesn’t pick up my business . . .”

Ross Morgan’s eyes got really really big. Kind of like saucers or maybe more like . . . tahrs. But Abe looked cautiously intrigued.

“If we don’t create noticeable results for you,” Shelley said, “then . . .” She paused and considered what Abe Mendelsohn would be unable to resist. “Then I’ll refund every penny above our out-of-pocket expenses, which would make our work for you pro bono. As in absolutely free.”

Abe perked up at that. And Shelley felt pretty good herself. It was the right offer to the right person at the right time. She knew before Abe said yes that she had set the hook and could go ahead and reel him in.

Ross made the first sound of any kind he’d made since they’d arrived. Unfortunately it was a choking sound. Or maybe it was more of a growl.

He scraped his chair back from the table. Shelley and Abe turned to watch him stand.

“Excuse me,” he said, taking Shelley by the elbow and pulling her up next to him. “But we’re late for our next appointment. Shelley will have to get back to you with details.”

“But . . .”

He didn’t give her or Abe a chance to protest. There were no handshakes, no drawn-out good-byes, just Ross Morgan’s hand clamped around her upper arm speed-walking her down the stairs, through the showroom, and out of the building at a pace that had her struggling to keep her shoes on her feet.

chapter
12

T
he drive back to the office was many things, but silent wasn’t one of them.

They were barely out of the parking lot before Ross let loose all the words he’d been holding back. “Never, in all my years of advertising, have I ever heard anyone make such a ridiculous promise.”

He accelerated too quickly and raced toward the interstate with a shifting of gears and gnashing of teeth. At the on-ramp he cut off a semi. The blare of the trucker’s horn followed them onto the expressway, loud and indignant.

“This was supposed to be a SALES call, Shelley. The term ‘SALES’ connotes an exchange of services for MONEY. ‘Money’ being the operative word.”

He didn’t raise his voice but she could tell, just from his tone, which words belonged in capitals. His driving became both more controlled and more aggressive until the Porsche felt like a guided missile hurtling toward some unseen target.

“NOW,” he continued, “would be a really good time to explain what in the HELL you were thinking. If, in fact, you were THINKING at all.”

Ross downshifted as they approached the toll on 400 South then tossed coins in the basket of the tollbooth, barely waiting for the barrier to go up before roaring forward. If they’d been on the Cartoon Network, steam would be pouring out of his ears and a plume of smoke would be coming out of the car’s exhaust pipe.

Shelley was feeling pretty steamy herself. “You don’t believe I was thinking? Well, maybe I wasn’t. Not everyone’s a cold, calculating automaton.” She left off the “like you,” but it rang between them in the car, loud and clear.

His hands clenched the wheel more tightly and the tic in his cheek . . . ticked, but she didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“Sometimes—especially in this business—you have to trust your gut. And my gut told me that Abe Mendelsohn was not going to put up a penny without some sort of guarantee.”

“Your GUT?” Ross cut across two lanes of traffic and zoomed into the exit lane. A little old lady in a Volkswagen Beetle gave them the finger.

“Yes. I may not be the most . . . structured . . . employee, but I learned this business from one of the best. And advertising is not just numbers. It’s guts and intuition and creativity, too. And my GUT told me how to handle that meeting.”

He snorted in dismissal and whipped into the office parking lot, where he screeched to a halt in the president’s parking space.

“If my GUT told me to work for FREE, I’d have it ripped out,” he said.

Shelley turned in her seat so that she could look him in the eye. “We only work for free if he gets no results, and I don’t intend to let that happen. Don’t you have any faith in this agency? Don’t you believe we can deliver enough for Abe Mendelsohn to want to pay us? Or is it just ME you don’t believe in?”

They got out of the car, slammed their respective doors, and stalked—side by side—through the parking lot. In the lobby they made a beeline for the elevator, barely waiting for the doors to close before lighting into each other.

“I just laid a bet on Schwartz and Associates,” Shelley ground out. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure we win it.”

At the fourth floor, they stormed off the elevator and whipped around to face each other. Afternoon sun poured through the huge industrial window and spilled over them like a stage spotlight.

The receptionist’s greeting died on her lips. People froze in the hallway while Shelley and Ross squared off.

“You’d BETTER win it,” Ross said in that infuriatingly dead-calm tone. “Or those fees he doesn’t pay will come out of your salary. Not your BUDGET. Your salary.”

“FINE!” she said, putting all of her anger into the capitalization process, determined to appear as icily calm as he did. “I have no problem with that.” She turned and took in the audience surrounding them. “I believe in these people.” She turned back to face him and held him with her eyes. “Letting people know you expect them to succeed can be a great motivator. You should try it sometime.”

And then she turned on her heel and stalked away from him, down the hallway to her office, where she slammed the door as hard as she could.

It wasn’t quite as satisfying as shouting, but it came damned close.

Shelley vibrated with unreleased anger for hours. Unable to get back to work and too upset to eat a late lunch, she went to the health club and worked out until some of her anger began to dissipate. Then she sat in the sauna, trying to sweat the rest of it out of her skin while she pictured Ross Morgan evaporating into a puff of steam and disappearing into the air.

By three o’clock, when she’d showered and dressed and applied a fresh coat of makeup, she knew she couldn’t go back to the office. Without conscious thought, she headed toward her parents’, only remembering when she saw the cars parked in the drive that Monday meant mah-jongg in her mother’s world, and that it must be her turn to host the game.

Just what she needed—a whole living room of Jewish mothers.

“Come, let me have a look at you.”

“I think she’s lost weight, don’t you think she’s lost weight, Sarah?”

“What, aren’t you eating, little one?”

Her mother’s mah-jongg group sat around a card table set up in the living room, their tile-holders in front of them, the pool of discarded mah-jongg tiles spread across the center of the table. Bowls of snacks sat within a hand’s reach, provided—in addition to the lunch they’d consumed before starting—in case anyone should grow faint from hunger.

Their voices and the clack of tiles transported Shelley back to girlhood, when she’d come home from school on her mother’s Monday and find the women in the midst of their game, happily dissecting each other’s lives, and the lives of their all-important children.

“One bam, three crack.”

Her mother had been playing mahj with these same women, with occasional substitutions due to arguments or travel, for the last forty years. Her father played a regular Saturday morning golf game with their husbands. Like the Mendelsohns, they’d always been “Aunt” and “Uncle” to Shelley and Judy. And every one of them was as concerned about Shelley’s unmarried state and eating habits as they were about their own offsprings’. But she’d been a child then. Now she was an adult on a mission.

Shelley came up behind Sally Casselbaum and plucked a chocolate-covered peanut from the glass bowl on the snack tray beside her, and hugged Myra Kurtz, whose last bout with cancer had left her with bony shoulders and a platinum wig. “Hi, kiddo,” Myra said. “I gave my nephew Jared your number. A friend of his is moving to town.” She smiled and threw out a tile. “Two crack,” she said. “He’s relocating with Goldman Sachs.” Her smile broadened. “An investment banker.”

The other women nodded approvingly. Shelley sighed. Myra was fighting off cancer and still had the time and energy to arrange a fix-up.

“That is, unless you’re seeing someone?” Myra said.

Shelley would have mentioned Trey, whom she’d been seeing now for almost six months, except Trey wouldn’t count for these women. “Seeing someone” required at least one Jewish parent and acceptability—in their minds—as a marriage partner. A buff body was not required.

“There’s tuna salad in the kitchen if you’re hungry,” her mother said from over her tiles. “Judy’s our fifth today; she’s back in the den with your father.”