Читать книгу Whisked Away By Her Millionaire Boss - Nina Milne - Страница 14

BEN LOOKED UP from his phone, where pieces of fruit whizzed across the screen, alerted by the faint sound of heels on the store floor. Curiosity and a sense of intrigue touched him as he watched her walk towards him—emotions that sparked into appreciation.

She’d got it spot-on. The outfit was perfect for dinner—a judicious mix of professional and fashionable. More than that, though, was the way she wore the clothes—as if they were made for her.

His only quibble would be that she should have left her glorious red hair loose; instead it was up, though she’d softened the style a little by looping it into a twist.

‘Excellent choice.’ He cleared his throat to try and excuse the strangled tones.

She did a quick twirl and, dammit, he nearly swallowed his tongue.

‘So do I pass the first test?’

‘Yes.’

Get with it. This woman was a prospective as well as a current employee. Not—repeat for emphasis, not—a date.

‘Thank you.’ There was a heartbeat of silence. ‘Mind you, I do realise I was spoilt for choice. Perhaps a harder test would have been to take me to a random charity shop and see what I could pull together there.’

The words were breathless, wide brown eyes were still locked with his, and now awareness glittered in her gaze as she stepped close. He caught a tantalising hint of her grapefruit-tinged scent, and just like that he completely lost the thread of the conversation.

Silence lengthened, stretched and echoed round the dim interior of the store, until his brain finally kicked in with a staccato burst.

‘Yes,’ he said in the hope that that would encompass a correct response. ‘Now we’d better go.’

‘Yes,’ she echoed.

It still took them a moment to actually move, but once they’d started both of them accelerated towards the door.

Back in the car he relaxed slightly. He had to douse this whole attraction thing and remember what was important here: to get a feel for how his workforce thought, to make sure he was still grounded; to assess whether Sarah Fletcher had what it took to be a Sahara Sales assistant. That was what this dinner was about.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Tatiana’s, located in one of London’s most renowned hotels.

A doorman opened the door and they climbed out, and he sensed Sarah step a little closer to him, though she didn’t falter as they made their way through the glass revolving door and towards the restaurant.

‘Mr Gardiner. Welcome.’ The maître d’ glanced at Sarah and to his credit didn’t give even the slightest indication that he had expected a supermodel. ‘And your guest, of course. Please come this way.’

He led them through the opulent room and up a couple of stairs to a central table, and handed them two leather-bound menus.

‘Mario will be over shortly to take your order.’

‘Thank you.’

Sarah smiled up at the maître d’ before he glided away and Ben was struck afresh at the classical slant of her face: a face that would age with beauty and class.

‘This is incredible.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘Though if I’d known I’d be sitting on a mustard-yellow armchair, I might have picked a slightly different outfit.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I do! Those chandeliers alone are awe-inspiring. I mean, where did they get them from? And how can something so immense also be so delicate? Each one is so pretty and yet magnificent.’

‘They redecorated a year ago; it was pretty luxurious before, but now it’s...’ He glanced round at the powder-blue walls, lined with Greek-style moulding and objets d’art.

‘Imposingly rich, yet somehow it feels a bit like a private dining room rather than a restaurant. Maybe it’s because they’ve spaced the tables really well.’ She looked down at the menu and exuded a sigh. ‘I may need a little time.’

She wasn’t kidding, and yet he didn’t mind the wait as she read the menu carefully, clearly weighing her choices. In truth he welcomed the opportunity to study her. Light from the chandeliers tinted her hair with auburn, and her face was creased into an endearing frown of concentration.

An elusive idea niggled at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The latest Sahara slogan rang in his mind. The ordinary is extraordinary. His new range was for people who lived in the real world, and yet he himself no longer did. So—dammit—had he got it wrong?

He stole another glance at Sarah as she looked up from the menu. ‘Right. I think I’ve decided. Though it wasn’t easy. I’m not sure I even know what some of these things are, but I think I’ll go for the stone bass—unless you think that’s a mistake? It comes with rock oyster sauce and pickled mushrooms.’

‘If you don’t like it we’ll swap,’ he said. ‘I’m going for the duck, with mandarin butternut puree. Does that sound OK?’

‘That sounds wonderful—in fact maybe I should have that—but...’

It was impossible not to smile at her frown of indecision. ‘We can go halves.’

‘Thank you. This certainly makes a difference from pizza!’

She gave a sudden smile when she looked at his expression and he blinked.

‘I’m guessing it’s been a while since you had pizza?’

‘Yes.’ Her smile seemed to have rendered him tongue-tied. All suave sophistication had exited the restaurant and the appearance of the waiter was a relief.

‘Champagne and a selection of canapés,’ Mario announced. ‘And then if you are ready to order?’

Once he’d taken their choices and left, Ben lifted his glass. ‘To the real world,’ he said.

‘Yours or mine?’ she asked.

‘Both. Because they are both real.’

‘Even if never the twain shall meet?’

‘They are meeting now. You’re here.’

‘Sure. But...’ She pressed her lips together, studied the canapés, chose a tiny blini topped with smoked salmon.

Ben shook his head, realising that whatever she had been about to say she’d deemed it inadvisable. ‘If this is going to work we need to agree something upfront. I want your honest opinion. No faking. Agreed?’

A hesitation. Another canapé—this time a thin wafer disc, topped with a delicately flavoured cheese concoction. Then, ‘You’re sure? You want my unvarnished opinion on everything? No faking at all?’

‘Precisely. I promise you there will be no adverse effects on your job interview. I will tell you here and now that I’ll arrange an interview with the manager at my Mayfair store. No matter what.’

Yet her eyes were still flecked with doubt, so in response he pulled his phone out and wrote an email, then turned the screen so she could see the words—a request for an interview to be set up. As she watched he hit ‘send’.

‘Done. So now we are agreed? No faking.’

Her smile illuminated her whole face. ‘Agreed.’

‘OK. So what were you about to say?’

‘That, yes, we are both here, but this is just a blip. I’m not meant to be here. You can afford to come back next week, or tomorrow, or whenever you like and you’ll most likely bring a celebrity or actor with you. Someone from your world.’

‘I...’ He opened his mouth and then closed it again. There had been no censure in her voice, her tone had been observational, and yet he sensed defensiveness creeping into his stance and he shook his head to repudiate it.

Yes, he liked to eat in the best restaurants, and enjoyed the knowledge that he could afford it. Tangible proof that he’d made it. A way to show the world and his family that he was worth something. And, yes, he loved being successful, revelled in the power that wealth and status gave him. The power to lavish money on his mother, to show her that her choice to keep him had been the right one, to make up for all those years she’d struggled.

Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?

‘Ben?’

Sarah’s concerned voice penetrated his sudden lapse into a trip down the tarnished road of memory lane.

‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism. You’re entitled to your world—I only meant it’s very different to most people’s. Most people have to worry about bills and rising food prices and whether they can afford ballet lessons for their kids. Ninety-nine per cent of the population can’t afford to eat here because the cost of a meal is probably more than their monthly food budget.’

She was right.

‘Which is why I want to hear your take on things,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping that our new range of clothes isn’t out of touch with what the customer on the high street wants. The idea is for these clothes to be everyday, normal clothes that you feel good in all the time.’

‘The type of clothes I’d wear to have a pizza?’

‘Yes.’

As she considered her response Mario returned with their starters and Sarah beamed up at him. ‘This looks amazing. They both do,’ she added as she looked across at his plate.

Once the waiter had disappeared as unobtrusively as he’d appeared, she gestured to his. ‘But what is it?’

‘Cauliflower,’ he explained. ‘Infused with lemon curry oil and topped with parmesan. You want to try some?’

‘Sure. And you can have a bit of mine. Scallops with artichoke puree and some sort of sauce—a truffle jus, I think.’

As she tasted a sample of his she closed her eyes, and he was tempted to do the same, to block the effect she was having on him. Instead he asked, ‘Well?’

‘It’s delicious. I had no idea cauliflower could taste like this—it’s like magic.’

He grinned. ‘I’m not sure the chef has an actual wand, but perhaps that’s his secret.’

‘Anyway—sorry. I’m here to give you my opinion on clothes, not vegetables. Right... Well, I’d have to see the clothes in more detail, but going for a pizza could be different, depending on the occasion. A family dinner might get messy—globs of tomato sauce, drips of ice cream. So you’d want clothes that are easy to wash and that also won’t show up grubby stains too much. Or you may go out and eat pizza on a date—and you may travel there by bus. In that case you’d want a more layered look—something pretty under something practical. Or you may be going after work—in which case you’d need something light and sparkly that you can put in your bag and use to transform your work clothes. Anyway, you get the picture.’

He did, and what he liked—alongside her spot-on observations—was the animation that lit her face, the way she waved her hands around to emphasise a point.

‘So that’s what you’d want to wear and what you would want to sell?’

‘That goes back to the point I made earlier. I don’t necessarily have to buy in to the whole range of clothes to be able to sell it. What’s right for me isn’t what’s right for everyone. I don’t have to love it to promote it.’

‘So I should be looking for a good sales technique over genuine love for the product?’

‘In an ideal world you’d need both. But sometimes loving a product isn’t enough; there’s a whole lot more to it than that.’

‘I get that. My business model is based on giving customers what they want, and for that I rely on feedback from the sales floor. I expect my sales force to listen to what the customer wants rather than push them into buying the wrong clothes just to get a sale. Happy customers come back.’

‘I agree with all that—but again, with respect, all that is manager-speak.’

‘Meaning...?’

‘OK... Imagine that you are a sales assistant, you love the product, and you know company policy is to listen to the customer and deliver “excellent service”, et cetera, et cetera. I am the customer. I’ve come in and I’ve tried on an outfit—a pair of jeans that are clearly a size too small for me and a tie top. The same outfit that is on one of your billboards, only the model happens to have super-skinny legs and a toned, flat stomach.’ She glanced down at her own midriff. ‘Trust me—I have neither attribute. So, are you picturing it?’

Oh, God. It had all been going so well.

Ben reached for his wine glass, changed his mind and opted for water instead. He told himself that the temperature in the room could not have gone up. ‘Um...yes. Um...’

Pull it together Ben. This is a serious conversation.

‘You want to know what I would say—would I give my honest advice or would I tell you that it looks great?’

‘Exactly. Because there are so many questions here. You don’t want to damage someone’s self-esteem. Women have enough issues with their body image as it is. But equally the truth is that different fashions suit different body shapes. So here I am, standing in front of you, an ordinary person in the changing room. I’m wearing a tie top that emphasises assets I don’t have and exposes a midriff that is less toned than it could be. What would you do?’

‘I’d tell you that as long as you’re happy with the outfit that is the most important thing.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘But surely that would imply that you don’t like it?’

He had to get a grip. Unfortunately that was proving hard, because right now he liked it a whole lot—he was sure the outfit would look pretty damn good on her. But that wasn’t the point and he knew it.

Focus. And as he considered her words he realised exactly how difficult the question was. What would he say?

‘OK. The point of Sahara clothes is to make the customer feel good in themselves. So, personally, I believe that it doesn’t matter if your tummy is toned or not. The important thing is that you feel happy and comfortable showing off your shape or size. If you feel good about yourself you can carry off any fashion.’

It was his turn to trail off as he spotted her raised eyebrows.

‘That’s all very well, and I completely agree with you, but...’

‘But it doesn’t answer your question. What should I say to the customer?’

Disbelief touched Ben—why couldn’t he work out an answer? Instead he was sat here spouting manager-talk. Blah-blah-blah.

‘OK. I give in. What’s the answer? What would you say?’

Sarah speared a final scallop as she considered the answer. ‘I’m not sure there is a standard answer, because you have to consider each situation individually. You’d say something different to a teenager than you would to a middle-aged woman. But you could compliment her choice of outfit. So maybe, That’s a great combination—one of our best sellers, in fact. And then I’d ask questions—ask if she has any reservations, or what she wants the outfit for. Create an opportunity to offer a different choice. I might say, If you want, I can get you another of our most popular combinations, and I’d get her something more suited to her body type. Then I’d leave the choice to her.’

Ben studied her for a moment. Sarah Fletcher knew her stuff. She was intelligent, had a good grasp of fashion and customer service and could forge an excellent career in retail. At a guess he’d put her in her mid-twenties. So why on earth was she working as a cleaner when her interests were clearly elsewhere?

Not his business.

‘OK. I like that,’ he said. ‘I think it would be useful if we ran a few seminars for our sales assistants and put them through a few hypothetical scenarios like that.’

‘Another idea would be to have more ordinary-shaped mannequins in store. That way you can actually show that your new designs are really made for ordinary people.’

If they really are...

The words were unspoken, yet they echoed across the table and Ben stared at her. Had he really thought about that? Yes, he did agree in principle that the ordinary was extraordinary, that clothes should be designed for all shapes and sizes, and that had been his vision. But had he made sure that vision had been translated into the real world, where people came in very different shapes and sizes compared to the models he paid to advertise his products?

There were too many questions, and he certainly couldn’t get all the answers here and now.

Pushing his empty plate away, he looked up at the ceiling and then back at Sarah. She was a woman who made him think, and right now he needed that.

The idea that had niggled at the back of his brain suddenly came together. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ he said.