Guilty Pleasures. Tasmina Perry

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      ‘Honey,’ she asked, ‘when do you think we can move in?’

      Roger squeezed her fingers and gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. He wished he could give this beautiful woman everything she wanted. From the second he had met her in Annabel’s nightclub in Mayfair, he had wanted nothing else. Sure, he had known what she was – a two-bit model who had never had the breaks to make it into the big league, a beautiful hustler charming her way around the elite nightclubs of London – but he had pulled her up to his level and turned her into the creature in front of him; poised, elegant and respectable. She looked like the Lady of the Manor. He glanced out of the window towards the gates of Winterfold.

      ‘Soon, my darling. As soon as we get it all sorted we’ll be moving straight into Winterfold.’

      I’ll make sure of it, she thought biting her lip so hard she drew blood.

      The Milford offices were in Byron House, a converted Regency villa a mile outside of Chilcot village. It was a striking building on its own with tall, thin windows and fluted columns either side of the entrance but Byron was all the more remarkable for the adjoining factory building. Built from glass and concrete in the early 1930s in the then-futuristic Art Deco style, it should have been an architectural disaster, but somehow the juxtaposition worked, each styles complementing the other. The same principle of mixing the old with the new was visible in the company’s boardroom, situated on the top floor of the old house. It was a truly magnificent space. Silk wallpaper lined the walls, a huge chandelier hung regally above a long mahogany table with tapered dress-legs and twelve toffee-coloured leather chairs. It was more like the dining room in a palace than a corporate meeting room, but offsetting the grandeur was a modernist steel and glass bar stocked with the finest spirits and champagne and a state-of-the-art audio-visual system set into the far wall, on which Bloomberg, the business channels and ticker-tape information was constantly beamed in from the world’s money markets. Emma winced as she entered: this was clearly where Saul had spent Milford’s wafer-thin profits. She walked around the room, trailing her fingertips along the table, gazing up at the dancing crystals in the chandelier, thinking of her Uncle Saul, putting off the moment: the moment when she’d have to sit in his chair.

      It felt too big, and she felt an impostor sitting there at the head of the table, but she forced herself: the rest of the shareholders would be arriving at any moment and they would expect her to sit there. Emma could feel her nerves getting the better of her. She had tried to look the part of confident businesswoman, but she wasn’t even sure if she could pull that off. Her red dress was an old stand-by for when she had to speak at conferences or in front of company directors. Back then it was like armour; confident and bold, but here at Milford HQ, it felt false and showy. Her hair had been blow-dried and she’d taken extra care with her make-up; not so much that she looked overdone but the tinted moisturizer and glossy lips made her feel ready for the day. It’s not what you look like, but what you say, she scolded herself as people began to file in, smiling and murmuring a few words of greeting. Emma’s mother and her Aunt Julia sat to her left halfway down the table. Julia gave Emma an encouraging smile, her mother looked down, playing with her wedding ring. Slowly the room filled: Anthony Collins, Saul’s solicitor, then Ruan McCormack who was Milford’s Head of Merchandising, followed by Abby Ferguson who looked after marketing. There was a hum of pleasant conversation and cordialities. And finally, in came Roger, his gaze lingering on Emma sitting at the head of the table. Emma felt her palms tingle with sweat and she played nervously with the gold bangle on her wrist. Since her first day at Harvard business school it had been Emma’s dream to run a company one day. But as she prepared to address her board of directors, it wasn’t a wave of euphoria she felt, but a rush of nausea.

      ‘Hello, everyone,’ she began, hoping they wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. ‘Thank you all for coming. Can I begin by saying that it was a great honour – although an enormous surprise – when Uncle Saul left me his shareholding. My first response was that the company didn’t belong to me, that I had a life elsewhere, that I didn’t belong here. So I felt that I should offer to sell my 70 per cent stake to the other shareholders.’

      Emma could feel the tension and anticipation around the room pressing in towards her. She glanced at Roger who was looking at his hands and nodding cautiously.

      ‘But I have been thinking about this long and hard. Uncle Saul gave me those shares for a reason and I want to make him proud. We all want to make him proud. This company has a wonderful heritage and enormous potential.’

      She took a deep breath.

      ‘That’s why I have decided to keep the shareholding and take the post of Chief Executive.’ Emma paused momentarily, waiting for a reaction. She was greeted by silence. It was as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing.

      ‘Well, I think there are various formalities and paperwork we’ll need to deal with to authorize it, but…’

      She looked at Anthony and the solicitor nodded.

      ‘But the directors choose the CEO!’ interrupted Julia suddenly. She turned to Roger. ‘Isn’t that right?’

      Emma didn’t wait for an answer.

      ‘As 70 per cent shareholder I effectively control membership of the board,’ she said.

      ‘What she means, Julia,’ said Roger, ‘is that she can get rid of us in a heartbeat if we don’t go along with what she says.’ His lips were set in a thin line, his gaze stony. ‘Is that not correct, Emma?’

      Emma steeled herself. She’d hadn’t expected this to be easy. You have to be tough, you have to be tough. She had spoken in front of CEOs of Forbes listed companies before now, but this audience, particularly Roger, who always intimated her even as a child, was making her feel sick. Emma leaned forward and put her hands on the table.

      ‘I know this may come as a surprise, Roger,’ she began, as levelly as she could. ‘And I know some of you might not even think I should be here. But I think I can bring a lot to Milford. Yes, I don’t know the company as intimately as most people in this room, but perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe we need to start thinking out of the box if Milford is going to recover.’

      ‘Spare us your management consultancy,’ said Roger tartly.

      ‘And what do you mean by recover?’ asked her mother, who had a cold look of disapproval.

      Emma sat up in her chair, grateful for the opportunity to show them what she was good at.

      ‘Since my arrival in England I’ve spent time getting up to speed with the company and where the luxury goods industry is, at large.’ She opened a folder and passed some charts around the table.

      ‘I’ve prepared these for you to look at. Milford’s market share in the luxury leather goods is now, well, negligible. In the early 1980s we were competing with Gucci. I hardly need to point out that they and many other companies have now eclipsed Milford by a country mile. We have to modernize quickly if we’re to survive but I really believe we can recapture some of our old glory.’

      ‘Perhaps we haven’t had the best couple of years,’ interrupted Roger, looking around for support. ‘But the new Autumn/Winter line is strong. At our last meeting Saul talked about increasing the marketing budget and we all agreed that that was the way forward.’

      Emma noticed that Virginia and Julia were nodding, while Ruan and Abby looked less convinced.

      ‘Unfortunately I think the problem runs a little deeper than that,’ said Emma. She leant СКАЧАТЬ