“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Listen, Anne, I just got off the phone with Ted Weiss.”
Anne tensed. Ted was her chief financial officer. “I know, John, we lost money last quarter. But wasn’t that projected?”
“It was. But not to this extent.”
“Sales are incredible, it’s costs that are killing us, but we’re getting them down. I think it would be insane to compromise our standards; in the end they’re what sets us apart.”
“Anne, companies that don’t make money can’t stay in business.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve got five million dollars invested in you, and now Ted Weiss tells me you need three million more. There comes a time when one has to cut one’s losses.”
“John, please, Home wasn’t expected to turn a profit until next spring. We’re a little behind where we want to be, but we’re establishing a name for ourselves. So many exciting things are happening. Let me put together a presentation and I’ll fly up tomorrow.”
“Anne, you’re a very talented and attractive woman and I’m always happy to see you, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Anne punched mute.
“Driver, turn around. Take me back to the airport.”
It was Anne’s first visit to Cambridge’s Brattle Street neighborhood and she was dazzled. Enormous old mansions shaded by ancient trees lined the quiet streets, lawns stretched away to shaded dells, graceful fountains gurgled. There was a sense of order and security, of old wealth discreetly multiplying. Nothing evil would ever happen on these beautiful buffering streets.
On the plane Anne had spent twenty minutes meditating and then changed into a white linen shirt dress that hugged her derriere. She’d noticed John Farnsworth admiring her body on more than one occasion. She had the cabby stop at an antiquarian book store at the foot of Beacon Hill, where she bought a beautiful nineteenth-century edition of Alice in Wonderland. It set her back six hundred dollars, but she hoped it would turn out to be a wise investment. She knew the next hour could make or break her company, her dream.
The taxi turned into a circular driveway. The Farnsworth house was an immense stone Gothic surrounded by exquisite lawns and gardens. Anne got out of the cab. The air was heavy and fragrant. She closed her eyes, took two deep breaths, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a thin gray-haired woman in a uniform and crepe- sole shoes.
The front hall was the size of a small ballroom with dual parlors opening off it. Wood gleamed and glass sparkled; carpets cushioned and silk glistened. A Degas hung over a distant fireplace. The whole house was hushed as if in deference to the ailing Mrs. Farnsworth.
As the maid led her through a series of rooms, Anne thought: Do Americans still live like this? They came to a vaulted circular library with high stacks reached by a rolling staircase-a room that had awed Anne in Architectural Digest. The maid knocked gently on curved oak pocket doors.
“Yes?”
The maid slid one door open and then disappeared.
“Anne, come in.”
John Farnsworth’s inner sanctum was dominated by an enormous desk, a model schooner on a library table, and a painting of a black Labrador retriever over the mantel. The room smelled faintly of wood polish.
John sat behind the desk, his large head sporting a ring of white hair, jowls, and a ruddy spray of broken blood vessels. In a Wal-Mart he’d probably be taken for a retired pipe fitter who drank too much, but sitting there in his hunter-green blazer and tie, his flinty eyes flashing, his chin held at just the right angle, he oozed old-money confidence. He stood and shook Anne’s hand.
“Welcome.”
“The house is beautiful. I’m afraid Home can’t compete.” The last thing she’d want to compete with was this mausoleum.
“It’s comfortable. Sit down.”
Anne sat in an armchair and crossed her legs. The dress rode up her thighs.
“You look lovely, as always,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“How about a drink?”
“I would love a drink.”
John crossed to the bar. “Name your pleasure.”
“It’s a long list.”
“Why don’t I open a bottle of Chardonnay?”
“That sounds perfect.”
As John opened the wine, Anne looked around the room. The dog over the mantel was posed like a potentate, sitting up proudly, looking straight out. Like master, like dog. What would she do if he turned her down? Finding replacement financing would throw the company into full crisis mode, quality would suffer, and she’d have to let some people go.
John handed her a glass of wine and she took a sip. Superb. He sat back down.
“I brought you a little something,” Anne said, handing him the book.
He opened it and looked at the illustrations for a moment.
“It’s charming. Thank you.” He put the book aside and looked Anne in the eye. “Weiss faxed me your numbers. The company could go either way.”
That was Anne’s cue to rock ’n’ roll. She set her wineglass on the desk and leaned forward.
“The company is going only one way-up. People are talking about us. Our demographics are incredible: we’re selling to the highest-income zip codes in the country. I’ve just set up an exclusive licensing agreement with a three-hundred-year-old Venetian glass company. We’re going on-line; I’m talking to website designers tomorrow. We’ll be able to sell globally, tailoring the catalog to each country’s customs and tastes, and at the same time we’ll save a fortune on paper and postage.”
As he listened, Farnsworth drummed his fingers on a leather check ledger. “You’re a very bright woman, Anne. I’m impressed. Always have been.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful for your support.”
“You know what you want and you go for it. I used to be like that. Maybe I still am.”
“That makes us kindred spirits.”
“The market is sick with catalogs, Anne. I’d like to help you out, but I’m just not convinced.”
Anne had come prepared to offer him another five percent of the company, but only as a last resort. She stood up and stretched back her shoulders, walked over to the window. At the far end of the lawn was a statue of a woman playing a harp. She turned and faced him. It was time to cut to the chase.
“What would it take to convince you?”
He considered her question, looking down at his hands. When he looked up he seemed distracted. “You’re all business, aren’t you, Anne?”
“I hope not.” Had she played it wrong? Should she have taken a softer approach? She glanced at her watch; it was almost four o’clock. She hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and the wine was making her light-headed and slightly dazed. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t leaving that room without a commitment. “I just got back from a buying trip.” She sighed. “It was 103 degrees in Savannah. Can you believe it?”
“Sounds hellish.”
“This room is marvelously cool. These high ceilings.” She carried her glass to a cracked leather sofa on the far side of the room and took a seat, crossing her legs again. “I fell in love with all this wood when I saw it in Architectural Digest. That painting’s new,” she said, indicating the dog.
“You don’t miss a trick, do you, Anne?”
“I even sleep with my eyes open.”
He laughed at this, in an admiring way. His teeth were beautiful-too beautiful; they couldn’t possibly be original. She leaned forward on the couch and dropped her voice into an intimate register.
“John, this catalog is my baby. I will fight to the death to protect it. I will do anything to ensure its
