DEAR DIARY,
I JUST MET MY NANNY, NECTER, WHO SEEMS OK IF I HAVE TO BE BABYSAT. CHRISTY’S ANSWER TO ANY PROBLEM (SUCH AS ME) IS TO GET ANOTHER SERVANT. WHY DOES SHE NEED SO MANY, DEAR DIARY? NO ONE’S EVER HOME TO MESS ANYTHING UP. THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN CHRISTY’S BUILDING ARE MEAN. THERE ARE NO KIDS. NOBODY SMILES. THE ONLY GOOD PERSON SO FAR IS MRS. DAMILL. SHE’S OLD AND SHE SITS IN THE LOBBY EVERY DAY WEARING GLOVES AND A CHURCH HAT LIKE SHE’S WAITING FOR COMPANY. BUT NO ONE COMES SO I SIT WITH HER AND WE TALK ABOUT TV SHOWS AND OUR DEEPEST FEELINGS. I TOLD HER ABOUT GRANDMA. SHE TOLD ME ABOUT BIRDY. HE WAS THE LOVE OF HER LIFE AND THEY MET WHEN SHE WAS 88 BUT HE DIED THE NEXT YEAR. CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW TRAJIC THAT IS?
MR. DRUMMOND IS NEVER AROUND. WHEN HE DOES COME HOME, HE GOES TO HIS LIBRARY OR BEDROOM WHERE KIDS (SUCH AS ME) ARE NOT ALLOWED. HE AND CHRISTY EAT DINNER BY THEMSELVES EVERY NIGHT. I EAT IN THE KITCHEN WITH YOK WAH. I WISH MR. DRUMMOND WOULD SAY HI JUST ONCE. HOW DOES HE EXPECT TO BE A GOOD FATHER IF HE NEVER TALKS TO ME?
YOUR LONELY FRIEND,
RENATA RUIZ
She Works Hard for the Money
When Christy arrived at Baby G’s tenth-floor offices, her first urge was to kiss the ground, but instead she planted a big smacker right on the receptionist’s forehead. It had been almost three weeks since she’d set foot in the place. First, she had gone to Madrid to work through a retailing deal with Déjà Blue, the new chain that was sweeping the youth market all over Europe. That was followed by the aborted trip to Davos. Then, Maria’s death and all it had entailed. At this moment, in the safety of her office, among people who had worked for her from the beginning, Christy felt she was home. Here, she knew what she was doing. She was in control. Her apartment was no longer the safe haven it used to be.
As she walked through the sea of desks in the communal workspace, employees looked up and smiled. A few came over to greet Christy and welcome her back. She felt like hugging every last one of them. They fed her soul. Christy walked into her office, which would more appropriately be called a suite, though it was hardly elegant. To her surprise, there was Katherine, sitting at her desk and surrounded by the agency team. “Am I interrupting something?” Christy asked.
Katherine jumped. “Oh God! She’s ba-ack.” Katherine ran over and gave Christy a big hug. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Hey, what can I say? I escaped. What are you guys meeting about?”
“One second. Let me introduce you to Skip Heller. He’ll be writing that article about you for Wall Street Week. He was shadowing me today to get oriented.”
Skip walked over to Christy and shook her hand. His grasp was firm, but his palm was so clammy that Christy unconsciously wiped her hand off on her skirt. Dressed in jeans, Skip was a short, compact guy who obviously spent his off hours in the gym. He wore a Yankees cap to cover his thinning hair. He had on Nike running shoes, which irritated Christy to no end. Would he follow the president of Pepsi around while sipping a can of Coke? She thought not.
“Great to meet you,” he said. “Didn’t expect to have the pleasure so soon. You don’t mind if I sit in?”
“No, of course not.” Christy walked over to Katherine and the agency people. “Looks like I’m just in time. What’s going on?”
“We’re reviewing the new campaign,” Katherine said.
“We’re doing a new campaign? Since when?”
“Why don’t you tell her, Jack?” Jack Malone was Ogilvy’s SVP on the account. He showed up only for high-level discussions and major presentations when someone with his keen strategic mind and $500-per-hour billing rate was warranted. Christy was surprised to see him meeting with Katherine, who focused mostly on operations and finance, not marketing. She wondered why Spencer White, her VP of advertising, wasn’t there.
“Here, here, sit,” Katherine said, gesturing to Christy’s chair and taking a seat on the other side of the desk. “We think it’s time to retire the old campaign. It’s been thirteen years since you ran in the Olympics, and our younger audience doesn’t know who you are.”
Christy felt the bottom of her stomach fall out. Before she had time to think, she spoke. “Everyone knows who I am. I’m like Frank Perdue. He’s chicken, I’m sports. I’m the brand. I’m Baby G.”
“Yes, but they retired Frank Perdue,” Katherine said. “And then he died, poor soul.” She gave Christy a pleading look. “At least take a look at this. Consider it.”
Jack continued. “Christy, you’ve always encouraged us to be straight with you. So we aren’t going to sugarcoat what we learned. The new research shows that consumers do identify you with the brand, but most don’t connect your athletic and business achievements. And for those who do, you’re not relevant anymore.”
“Not as an athlete, anyway,” Katherine interjected.
“She’s right,” Jack said. “Eight focus groups can’t be wrong. They see you as so thirteen years ago, if you don’t mind my saying, nothing personal of course. So, we’re recommending a new approach. Let’s lock up the seven American athletes most likely to bring home gold next summer. We can get them now for a song. But after they win, we won’t be able to touch them. We’ll hire a photographer to photograph the athletes’ perfect bodies, their faces in shadow—someone like Annie Leibovitz. The tag line will read “Body by Baby G.” Everyone’ll want to know who inhabits each mind-blowing bod. Only at the end of the campaign will we reveal. If the advertising moves the meter as
