“I have to try to bond with Galit. Maybe she’ll write more flattering articles about me if we’re honorees together. What do you think?” Christy asked, modeling her suit. “Very hip, right?”
“It looks sexy but serious at the same time. I love it. Let’s get a man’s opinion,” Katherine said, dragging Christy out of the dressing room to find Skip Heller. He had followed them into the dressing room, but Christy shooed him away. Maybe it was that he wore Nikes, maybe it was that he was pushy, maybe it was that he was a reporter, but something about him made Christy very uncomfortable. She was elated that this was his last week. Skip Heller was living up to his name—he was like the houseguest from hell.
Much Ado About Nuts
So you see, gentlemen, even though the industry is in an overall downturn, eighteen-to twenty-five-year-old women are buying six percent more this year than last. Our market is eighty-three-percent women, and of that, more than half are in the eighteen-to twenty-five segment. It’s our biggest audience. That’s why our profits are going up while most retailers are losing ground,” Christy explained.
Christy was having lunch at the Four Seasons with Jeremy Moran, Dan Patterson, and Calvin Wolff, three of Wall Street’s most influential retail analysts. Of course, Skip “Pretend I’m Not Here” Heller was there as well, the fly on the wall.
“What can I bring you?” the waiter asked.
“We’ve been so busy talking, we haven’t looked at our menus,” Christy said. “You’ll have to give us a few minutes.”
“No rush.”
“Could you bring me a glass of red wine? Whatever’s your best wine by the glass,” Skip whispered to the waiter.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Why do you think you’re so attractive to that segment?” Jeremy asked. He was with Goldman Sachs and hadn’t been high on Christy’s stock since they went public. She intended to turn him around today.
“With a lot of foresight and lucky breaks, we’ve managed to keep the buzz going for the brand. It started with Sasha, you know, when she first got so big. She was always being photographed wearing our street-inspired sneakers. After she died, they took on a kind of mystical significance. Since then, we’ve had excellent results placing our clothes on some of the most admired women in movies and on TV, and of course, athletes. The brand is considered hip, which is tough to achieve in athletic wear. Excuse me.” Christy’s cell phone was vibrating. In the past she would have turned it off for a business lunch, but now that she had Renata, she had to be reachable. Colby demanded it.
Damn, she thought when the school’s number popped up. “Hello,” she stage-whispered.
“Mrs. Drummond, this is Mrs. Smart, Renata’s teacher.” Christy thought it was weird that Renata’s teacher had that name. She wondered if the woman had changed it when she went into the profession or if she went into the profession because she had the perfect name.
“Yes.”
“This morning you sent a peanut butter sandwich for Renata?”
“Did we? Is there a problem?”
“Mrs. Drummond, Colby is a nut-free school. Do you realize how deadly it would be if Renata touched an allergic girl after eating the sandwich? Or worse, what if she’d traded lunches with an allergic child?”
Christy needed to find a private place. She looked at her lunch guests and mouthed “just a minute.” Slipping out to the restroom, she sat on the closed toilet in one of the well-appointed stalls.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smart. Is someone allergic in the class?”
“No.”
“Is someone allergic in the school?”
“Not this year.”
“So why is this a problem?”
“I told you: we’re a nut-free school. It’s our policy never to take chances. Have you ever seen an allergic child go into anaphylactic shock after ingesting even a crumb of a nut?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Their throat swells up until they can’t breathe, their skin turns blue. It’s a horrific way to die. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”
“No, of course not. What can I do?”
“Can you bring a replacement lunch?”
“I can’t right this second—”
“Shall I call Mr. Drummond?”
“NO. I’ll send our nanny immediately,” she whispered, as if she was doing something she’d rather not publicize, like trying to score drugs or Wayne Newton tickets.
“Mrs. Drummond, do you think it’s appropriate to send a nanny instead of a parent? I realize you’re new to motherhood…”
“Okay, fine. I’ll figure something else out,” Christy said, ending the call.
On her way back to the table, she talked to Eric, the maître d’. He understood. Quickly, the kitchen prepared a bagged lunch of chicken salad and a fresh piece of strawberry shortcake, all for a mere $36. It was whisked out to Steven with coded instructions he would understand. After all, he wasn’t a nanny. Problem solved.
“Guys, I’m sorry. Emergency, you understand,” she said, hoping they would assume it was work-related. Then she realized an emergency would send the wrong signal about the business. “Personal. Personal emergency.”
The guys all nodded like they understood, but Christy knew they didn’t. They had buffers between them and personal crises during working hours. She picked up where they had left off. “We save money on marketing since almost all of our promotion is done by billboards or celebrities wearing our products. Both cost less than TV.”
She could do this.
Déjà Vu on Fifth Avenue
So, Steven walked into the class with the chicken salad and strawberry shortcake, and do you know what Mrs. Smart said to him?”
“I have no idea,” Michael said.
“She said, ‘Sir, Colby is a strawberry-free school. Do you know how deadly a strawberry could be to a child who’s allergic?’ Can you believe it?”
“I can’t. Hon, would you pass me some of that fish?”
“Sure.” Christy passed the trout almondine. “Potatoes?”
“No, thanks, but I will have some wine.”
Christy poured him another glass. “So, anyway, guess what he did?”
“What?”
“He
