Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 12
ОглавлениеSir Richard slapped his age-spotted hand on the conference table and leaned forward to glare at Rhys, seated at the opposite end of the table.
“We’re all agreed that something must be done,” Sir Richard snapped. “But what, precisely? Can you tell us that?”
Rhys eyed him. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Sir Richard, but financially, your stores are in the crapper. Unless you take cost-cutting measures at once, doors will have to close. Jobs will be lost. Is that what you want?”
“Certainly not,” Alastair interjected. “That’s why we hired you.”
Sir Richard’s scowl deepened as he flipped through the pages of Rhys’s business plan. “You want to get rid of the children’s wear department.”
“Sell children’s clothing online,” Rhys said. “You’ll save on operating costs and better utilise your floor space.”
The assorted executives and board members ranged around the table gave cautious nods; a few of them shifted uneasily in their seats. Sir Richard was notoriously resistant to change. Would he listen to reason from the new OM?
Not bloody likely.
“We’ve got to increase the advertising budget,” Rhys went on. “Dashwood and James need more visibility on television and radio, and in the print media as well.”
“Bah!” Sir Richard snorted. “Waste of money.”
“At the very least,” Rhys continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “you’ll need to refurbish the flagship store and increase publicity…or you’ll never climb out of the red.”
“And where is all this money to come from?” Sir Richard demanded.
“From better use of the money you have.” Rhys threw his pen down. “Make maximum use of your retail floor space, offer a wider range of merchandise, make the departments more inviting, and dwell time will increase.”
Natalie frowned. “‘Dwell time?’” she echoed.
“The time a customer spends on the selling floor. Currently, it’s barely twenty minutes. That’s abysmal.”
Sir Richard gave a derisive snort. “What is it you want us to do, Mr. Gordon? Cut, or spend?”
“Both.” Rhys stood and swept a challenging glance around the table. “The flagship store needs an update.” Cautious nods all around. “To do so won’t come cheap. We’ll cut expenses elsewhere—” he lifted a folder filled with a thick sheaf of papers “—for example, shut down that antiquated lift—”
“What? You can’t do that!” Natalie gasped, horrified. “Henry’s operated that lift for fifty years!”
“Indeed?” Rhys said, and raised his brow. “Then that’s twenty years too long, Miss Dashwood. The man is nearing eighty. He should be retired.”
“And you plan to decide that for him, do you?” she shot back.
“There’s a perfectly good, modern lift in the middle of the store.” His words were steely. “Using the original is expensive, probably unsafe – and pointless, as well.”
At the thought of Henry – so proud of his uniform and cap – being made redundant, Natalie stood up. “I won’t allow it!”
“Sit down, Miss Dashwood,” Rhys snapped. “We’ll discuss this offline, after the meeting.”
She glared at him. “You can be sure we will, Mr. Gordon.” She sat back down, quivering with outrage.
He returned his attention to the men ranged around the table. “Now, gentlemen, as to the store’s return policy—”
“What’s wrong with the return policy?” Sir Richard barked. “It’s worked perfectly well for all these years.”
“It’s too generous,” Rhys retorted. He threw the folder down before him like a gauntlet. “Any return is accepted, no matter how long since its purchase, even without a receipt. That’s madness. The company’s haemorrhaging money it can’t afford to lose.”
“Nonsense—”
“I recommend that after thirty days’ time, or if the customer has no receipt, we no longer accept returns or exchanges.”
A hush fell over the conference table. Only the muted sounds of London traffic four storeys below broke the silence. Implementing a change of this magnitude to the generous and longstanding Dashwood and James return policy was blasphemy.
Sir Richard leaned forward, his face flushed. “What’s to make our stores stand out if we do away with our return policy?”
“Quality,” Rhys responded. “Excellent customer service, and good value for money.” His gaze swept the table. “The fact is, Dashwood and James have become irrelevant. We can’t hope to compete with Selfridges or Marks and Spencer unless we update the store and, more importantly, update its image. If you aren’t willing to do that, gentlemen—” he reached out to take up his folder, his face set “—then I’ll leave you to it.”
Silence greeted his words.
“Gordon’s right.” Alastair eyed the men ranged round the table. “We can’t move forward if we cling to the past. Sir Richard, if you’re in accord, I suggest we take a vote on the matter.”
Ten minutes later, it was settled.
“The ‘ayes’ have it,” Alastair announced. “George, please note that there was one ‘nay’.”
Everyone looked at Natalie. She pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up in defiance.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Gordon said. “You’ve made the right decision.”
Natalie snorted.
“Have you anything to add, Miss Dashwood?” Rhys crossed his arms against his chest and met her eyes. “The floor is yours.”
She glared, but shook her head. What was the point?
He turned back to the other board members. “We’ve a lot of work ahead. I’ll want your input. I need viable suggestions for improvement when we re-convene tomorrow morning.”
The men rose. One by one they filed out and murmured their goodbyes to Natalie. She smiled, despite the renewed throbbing in her head, and waited until no one was left.
No one, that was, except Rhys Gordon.
Fury swept over her anew, and she stood up and launched into him. “Henry will be devastated if he loses his job, Mr. Gordon. Everyone adores him. He’s a fixture here at Dashwood and James, and so is that bloody lift!”
“I see. Are you quite finished?” he asked evenly.
Natalie blinked. “Well…yes, I suppose I am.” She frowned. “Is that all you have to say?”
“No.” He tossed the folder he held onto the table. “Henry often takes customers to the wrong floor; he can barely see. We’ve had complaints, and they’ll only increase if something isn’t done. If he retires, he’ll receive a generous pension. If he stays, we’ll find him a job in the office. I’ll let Henry decide.” He folded his arms against his chest. “Does that meet with your approval, madam?”
“I suppose,” she said, grudgingly. Her eyes narrowed. “You knew who I was when you bought that nightgown from me on Saturday, didn’t you? And you knew last night.”
He didn’t look up as he began thrusting papers into another folder. “Yes, on both counts.” He glanced up. “I saw the wine in your hand and the murderous look in your eye when Dominic made his announcement. So I did the only thing I could, and put myself in front of you.”
“You stepped in front of Dominic on purpose? Why, in sod’s name? I ruined your suit!”
“Because, my dear, clueless girl, there was a photographer from the Mirror behind you, and one from Hello! on the side, waiting to snap publicity shots of Dominic and Keeley. How would it have looked if you’d doused them both with Pinot?”
Natalie flushed. “Not good,” she said in a small voice.
“I don’t want Dashwood and James immersed in a lawsuit. Bad press is the last thing we need right now.”
Natalie sank into one of the high-backed chairs. Her head pounded like the drums at Salamanca. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognise you at the party,” she murmured. “I should’ve done.”
“You might have, if you weren’t so trolleyed…or if you ever read the business section of a newspaper.”
Natalie bit her lip. “Do you suppose we could just…forget about last night?”
“If that’s what you want.” He gathered up his things, his face unreadable.
Natalie studied him through her lashes. The tabloids said he was a womaniser who could turn on the charm whenever he chose. Not that she’d seen any evidence of that so far…
“Tell me – are things at Dashwood and James really so bad?”
“Honestly? They’re worse. There’s a long, uphill climb ahead if we have any hope of re-establishing profitability.”
Her eyes widened. “That sounds serious, indeed.”
“It is. Sir Richard wouldn’t have brought me on, otherwise.”
“Do you really think,” she asked, scepticism plain on her face, “that you can drag Dashwood and James, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century?”
As his gaze met Natalie’s, Rhys couldn’t help but notice her wide grey eyes, liberally fringed with thick dark lashes.
“I do. And I will.” He forced his attention back on the remaining papers scattered on the table before him. “It won’t happen overnight, of course, and it won’t be easy. But it can be done.”
“And you’re just the man to do it, are you?”
“I am.” He regarded her with one brow lifted. “Whether you believe that or not is strictly up to you.”
“I don’t believe things are as bad as you say.”
“Profits are down by sixty-one percent, Miss Dashwood. I can show you the figures. And as I stated in the meeting, the average dwell time in the stores is less than twenty minutes.”
“How much should it be?” she asked, curious.
Rhys slid a folder into his briefcase. “Ideally, forty-five minutes to an hour. That’s why Sir Richard needs me.”
“Quite sure of yourself, are you?” The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable.
“I know what needs to be done.” Rhys snapped his briefcase shut. “And I’ll do it…with the board’s approval, of course.”
There was a knock on the conference room door, and Gemma, Rhys’s newly assigned personal assistant, strode in. “Mr. Gordon, I have the tabloids you wanted.” She flicked a glance at Natalie. “Miss Dashwood.”
“Gemma.” Wearing a black sheath dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, Gemma Astley was attractive, well-groomed, and terrifyingly efficient.
As Gemma handed Rhys a neatly fanned-out assortment of tabloids, Natalie felt a sudden flicker of unease. She remembered the white glare of flashbulbs last night when Dominic had announced his engagement to Keeley.
Her unease increased. Surely they hadn’t got any photos of her last night? As Gemma left, Natalie came around the table beside Rhys and peered over his shoulder…
…and wished for the second time that day that she could die. Or disappear into the floor – whichever came first.
She and Rhys were splashed on the front pages of the red-tops – the Daily Mirror, the Sun, and the Star among them. Natalie’s photographs, thank God, looked OK. No melting mascara, no wildly smeared lipstick.
The headlines, however, were another story.
She let out a sharp breath as Rhys flicked through the Sun. ‘Rhys Gordon’s Latest Takeover’ read one headline, above a photo of Rhys with his face close to hers. Another image, this one featuring Natalie tossing her wine at Rhys’s shirt, was captioned, ‘Ex Marks the Spot!’
But worst was the photo of Rhys, his hand resting low on Natalie’s back as they left the party, headlined, ‘Gordon and Dashwood – Spreadsheets, or Bed Sheets?’
Natalie squealed in outrage, then grabbed the Daily Mail from Rhys and began to read aloud. “Rhys Gordon, hired to rescue the troubled Dashwood and James department stores, attended a Holland Park soirée Friday evening, along with Sir Richard Dashwood’s granddaughter, Natalie.
“Dominic Heath, Ms. Dashwood’s pop star ex-boyfriend, announced his engagement to Keeley, ex-wife and former lead singer for The Tarts. Unfortunately, ‘Ex’ did not mark the spot for Natalie…
“Gordon stepped between the pair and got a chest full of Pinot Noir for his trouble. Sorry, Ms. Dashwood, but Gordon prefers his wine, like his women, of a more mature vintage…”
She flung the paper down. “This is a bloody nightmare! Everyone’ll think we’re having an affair!”
Rhys shrugged, unperturbed. “The publicity will generate interest, not just in us, but in Dashwood and James. And that’s what we want.”
“It’s not what I want! And there is no us! This is awful!”
“Lesson number one,” Rhys said. “There’s good publicity, and bad. You want to get as much of the first as you can and as little of the second as possible.”
“But I don’t want Dominic – and all of London – thinking we’re an item!”
“Why? Are you worried that Dominic will believe it’s true? He dumped you, if you recall, in a very public way.”
She glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me. And no, I don’t care what Dom thinks. It’s just…I hope grandfather doesn’t see this. He’ll think that I…that we…” her words trailed off.
“Your grandfather may be old, but he’s shrewd, Miss Dashwood. He’ll see this for what it is – media speculation, nothing more.” Rhys smiled slightly. “Don’t forget lesson number one – good publicity is always preferable to bad.”
She resisted the urge to clutch at her hammering head. “And what’s lesson number two?”
He eyed her pale face. “That the best cure for a hangover is a good fry-up. Unless I miss my guess, you’re hung over.”
“I don’t have a drink problem, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, defensively.
“I think you’ve had a lousy couple of days.” He took her arm. “It’s nearly noon, so you’ll have to make do with lunch instead. Come on. You and I have a lot to talk about.”
