Heirs Book Two: American Lady (26 page)

“More dirty sneaks! I’ve kept my accounts
with that bank all my life and Charley’s Trust fund is tied up
there as well!” Nikki was outraged at such disloyalty. “Why, Drew
Fairbrother is my nephew-in-law!”

“The good news though is that they are
prepared to loan you a sufficient amount if you secure the loan
against Rosedale,” Lyric tried to placate an increasing indignant
Nikki.

In the hush they could hear Nikki draw in
her breath sharply. Was she prepared to risk Rosedale for her
company?

Griffin rushed into the palpable silence.
“Before you make a decision, let’s cut to the chase. First of all
we get rid of Giancarlo’s deadwood and we keep only as much staff
as we need to produce the collection. Secondly, we go for quality
not quantity – a collection that will knock their socks off because
I’ve been working my guts out while you’ve been waltzing around
Cannes and Altobello,” Griffin drawled. “Those two factors will
keep the costs down enormously.”

“You mean, so in the event that we go belly
up I won’t have so much to lose?” Nikki said sarcastically.

Griffin gave his famous picket fence smile.
“You got it, babe.”

Nikki bristled but felt flattered. It had
been a long while since anyone had called her babe.

“Now, after I fire Giancarlo’s deadwood I
want you to come down to the offices to give a pep talk.
Giancarlo’s rumors are circulating like sharks damaging the morale
of your staff. I know they’re going to be hovering on the brink of
a major walk out if they don’t see that you and I have confidence
in the company. You’re going to explain that there will be a new
line launched and it’s going to be very, very successful.”

“I haven’t been down to the Seventh Avenue
offices for years,” Nikki balked. “Giancarlo has always managed
everything.”

“And do you wonder why your business is
doing badly?” Griffin demanded. “You don’t deserve a successful
business if you’re not prepared to pull your weight. I’ll bet that
pompous, frommage-smelling little barf bag has been creaming all
the juice out of the company for years.

“Lyric, since all the overpriced management
will be fired, can we use some of the savings as an incentive bonus
for the remaining staff to work their guts out?”

The Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several
times, Lyric’s eyes were goggling at the tone Griffin had taken
with Nikki. “Well, it certainly won’t put us any further in the red
if we used the money that way.”

Nikki slammed her glass on the desk. “Listen
here, cowboy,” she turned to Griffin. “I’m not going into the
office. I’m not going to face those people.”

“Then you might as well give up the company
now. This is a do or die effort. You do this collection or you go
bankrupt.” Griffin harshly laid the situation out on the line.

Nikki’s head sank into her hands. Was she
going to admit ignominious defeat and retire without a whimper?
Twenty years ago when the unknown Giancarlo Ghirardi had approached
her with his idea of partnership in a fashion business she couldn’t
even get her own father’s backing for the venture. That hadn’t
stopped her. She had used every ounce of her savvy and connections,
combined with Giancarlo’s talent, to build the business. She could
understand Griffin’s enthusiasm to tackle their problems head on,
she just didn’t know if she had the energy to join him.

“You’re Dominique Devereau Cassidy, one of
the most admired and respected women in the world. If you come into
the office and ask for their support, your staff will back you all
the way. I guarantee it. Dayam, wouldn’t you rather go out with
your head held high than slink out of business like a dog with its
tail between its legs?” Griffin paused. When there was no response
from her, he urged, “Give it a go, Nikki. Everyone loves an
underdog. Maybe we’ll get the press on side. Hell, nobody liked
Giancarlo anyway!”

Nikki gave a sorry little hiccupped laugh.
“Not even me,” she sniffed.

* * *

When Griffin arrived at American Lady’s
offices, he found that most of Giancarlo’s closest associates
amongst the top heavy staff had already walked out. He spent the
rest of the day interviewing the remaining staff to determine if
anyone else needed to go and who needed replacing. He decided that
the only essential position to fill was that of premiere, the
person who would be able to interpret the nuances of his sketches
and turn them into flesh and cloth reality. He had a woman in mind
that he had worked with previously and who had been employed by
many of the haute couture houses in Milan.

Reluctantly Nikki arrived at the offices at
five o’clock that afternoon. She had had two stiff vodkas before
leaving to give her quaking legs courage and Poppy’s brother Fen
had driven her into the offices. Griffin hastily brought the staff
together in the large workroom, amongst the motionless sewing
machines, naked mannequins and racks of last season’s leftovers,
for a meeting before Nikki could skulk away.

The tense, expectant faces looking at her
wore a mixture of emotions – from anxiety and resentment, to
curiosity and indecision. As her glance traveled over them, she
recognized a few familiar faces from early in her fashion career
when American Lady was just starting out, and who had obviously
lasted the distance. She found their belief in her both comforting
and terrifying.

Griffin called everyone to order.

“As you know the last few days have been
turbulent for American Lady.” He spoke with a quiet earnestness
that drew their attention. “I know my face is the least
recognizable one here but essentially I’m replacing Giancarlo as
head designer for American Lady so before too long it’s going to be
one of the most identifiable faces in the industry.” There were a
few uneasy titters. “But here’s a face you will recognize, our
stalwart, never-say-die boss, Nikki Cassidy. Please listen to what
she has to say.”

There was a smattering of applause and a
couple of old-timers nodded encouragingly to her, while a few
others glared hostilely from the back of the room with crossed
arms. Nikki felt terrified, the Dutch courage from the vodka had
worn off and her knees were trembling. Facing the crowd she felt
out of her depth, with no idea of what to say. Then, looking at
Griffin’s hopeful face she realized she had no option but to speak
from her heart.

“I want to thank you all for staying on at
American Lady. Some of you I know have been here from the
beginning.” She nodded to a woman in a red beret that she
recognized. “Some of you have been hired more recently. It doesn’t
matter how long you’ve been here, what matters is that you’re here
today to fight our toughest battle ever.”

She paused to catch her breath and moisten
her lips.

“When I started this business the fight was
fair because no one had heard of American Lady and no one had any
expectations. People were prepared to give us a chance to prove our
worth. But Giancarlo’s defection this week has generated so much
disparaging rumor and innuendo that it’s ruining our status in the
industry. Opinion is against us. But we can turn these judgments on
their head because American Lady’s strength is that we have always
given women what they want. We have a brilliant new designer with
us – Griffin Capizichi – whose designs are going to inspire women
to part with their money and choose our label over our
competitors.” Nikki held a hand out towards the young designer who
amazingly was blushing a deep crimson. With people’s eyes off her
she paused, not so much for dramatic effect as to steady her
breathing.

“I know the last few years have not been
good ones for the company. I hold myself to blame for that because
I left Giancarlo at the helm without any direction.” She could hear
some disgruntled agreement amongst the crowd, but continued
resolutely. “But his defection is really a blessing for this
company, because I’m back now. And what we’re all going to be doing
next is shoveling off the shit Giancarlo dumped on us to put
ourselves right back at the top of the game.

“I still believe in American Lady. I’m
willing to stake my reputation and every penny I own,” a mental
picture of Rosedale flashed before her eyes. “As long as we all
stick together we can make American Lady as successful in the 80s
as it was in the 60s. So that’s all I wanted to say to you today.
To thank you most sincerely for all your efforts in the past, but
to especially encourage you to greater efforts over the next few
weeks so we can put this winter collection on the runway.”

When she finished there was a loud round of
applause and Nikki noted that many more faces were animated and
smiling. Had they really listened to her? Did they really believe
her? Could they really pull off a miracle?

Griffin had raided Nikki’s personal wine
cellar and got Fen to unload a crate of Moët to cheer everybody’s
spirits. As people rushed forward to shake her hand, Griffin popped
the cork of the first bottle to loud cheers and he and Nikki poured
and handed round glasses to everyone. Nikki found herself putting
on her First Lady hostess impression and chatting with total
strangers as if she had known them all her life.

By seven o’clock no one had left so Griffin
decided they needed some sustenance and called in pizzas. Lyric
stood in the background looking panic-stricken. Nikki could almost
see the calculator in his head adding up the expense for the
evening. But she agreed with Griffin that consolidating the
afternoon’s success would boost workforce morale.

Nikki found herself sitting with a slice of
Hawaiian pizza in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other
beside her oldest and longest-serving employee, Irene Collins, the
woman with the red beret on her gray, pixie-cut hair.

“It’s an honor to be sitting here with you,
Miss Nikki,” the older woman said. “When Giancarlo pulled the pin
this week I wondered if it was time for me to quit.”

“I remember you, Irene. You were one of our
original employees,” Nikki greeted her.

“That’s right. I started out here as a
junior pattern maker in 1965 and now I’m head pattern maker for the
company. There were only a handful of us when your company started
out. You used to spend a lot of time here and bring those little
ones with you sometimes.”

Nikki shook her head ruefully. She had been
little more than Charley’s age when she started up American Lady
after Alex’s death. Determined to be independent of her wealthy and
powerful in-laws she had poured her heart and energy into the
fledgling company. Giancarlo had been a young Turk raring to get
his teeth into the fashion industry and make his mark. He would be,
he had said, eternally grateful to Nikki for giving him this
chance. So much for eternity.

“I’m glad you’ve stayed on, Irene,” she
smiled at the other woman. “How long have you been in the
business?”

Irene laughed. “Way too long. I started out
in 1941 as a young apprentice in the rag trade. I was sixteen at
the time. There wasn’t much else for women to do back then. I’d
tried office work but it didn’t suit me.” She wrinkled her nose.
“And I didn’t want to get married straight away. Some young girls
worked in the munitions factories taking over from the men during
the war but I knew that was a short-term option because once the
men came home they’d want their jobs back.” She shook her head,
enjoying the opportunity to reminisce. “So it was the rag trade for
me. And I’ve never regretted it. I’ve been involved in some
exciting things. Did you know I was around when Eleanor Lambert
organized her first press week which finally gave American
designers the chance they deserved to show their goods?” Irene
tucked hungrily into her hot salami pizza.

“What do you mean, Irene?” Nikki found
herself fascinated by her story.

“When those bloody Krauts occupied France in
1940 that put a stop to the American fashion world trooping over to
Paris to view the fashion shows and bring back the haute couture
ideas for the American public. Buyers, designers, fashion editors
were floundering to find a substitute. So Eleanor decided it was
the moment to bring American fashion together for a sort of
one-week extravaganza to showcase their talent. She was a great gal
– made a successful career for herself when most other women were
bolstering their husband’s careers!”

Nikki upended a bottle of Moët into Irene’s
empty glass.

“Eleanor was a very canny PR guru – she
could probably teach today’s editors a thing or two,” Irene resumed
her story. “Anyway her idea to have this week where all the
American designers showed off their ideas was so successful they
asked her to do it again the next year. Editors got to see and
write about the fashions that Americans were creating. If I
remember correctly these weeks were held at the Pierre and Plaza
hotels and the journalists stayed at the hotels. It was pretty
intense but extremely rewarding. Yes, those old Press Weeks
continued right into the fifties. But of course they were long gone
by the time you entered the fashion industry.”

“So these weeks were actually an effective
way to promote designers?” Nikki asked.

“Absolutely. Bring all the editors and
journalists together at one time and they don’t have to run all
over the place chasing down designers.” Irene snorted. “If you ask
me it beats the shows they put on today. Last season a designer
whom I won’t name held a show in a fashionable Soho loft and a
generator blew, leaving the editors and buyers in the dark for half
an hour until the power was restored. I believe quite a few
disgruntled bigwigs left and needless to say the reviews for that
designer were scathing to say the least. No designer can afford
that kind of bad publicity.”

“No designer can afford bad publicity at
all,” Nikki agreed, a small seed planting itself in her mind. “Good
to talk with you, Irene.”