Summer on the Cape (21 page)

The elevator door opened to steel gray carpet and enormous potted ferns. Tall glass panels guarded the entrance to a reception area that seemed to be all windows, looking out over the East River, with a clear view of the traffic-laden 59th Street Bridge bringing the morning crush of cars into Manhattan. In front of the windows, there were two huge couches upholstered in deep rose and tables topped with black glass, on which were displayed a handful of magazines, and the pale gray walls were graced by the usual leased collection of fine art. All was presided over by a trim young woman with a trendy hairdo and good legs, who sat behind a chrome-and-black-glass desk, dividing her attention between her morning cup of coffee and her telephone system which, despite the early hour, was keeping her busy.

“Allie, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Adam was waiting for her, standing at one of the black glass tables near the enormous windows, taking advantage of the few spare minutes to make a couple of phone calls. He motioned at her to join him and, as she walked across the room, he finished his call. “Okay, Hal. I should be done here at about nine.” Allie was about to sit down, but Adam signaled her to remain standing, taking her elbow as he continued talking. “Sure thing, Hal. Call my secretary and set up a meeting with your people for ten o’clock. See you later.” As usual, there were no good-byes. He slipped the phone into his pocket and gave Allie a big smile, putting an arm around her and planting a kiss on her check. “You look marvelous, dear. That outfit’s so corporate, I can’t believe it’s yours.”

“I borrowed it.” Thank God for Maria. “What did you think I was going to wear? Jeans and a t-shirt?”

“One never knows, Allie. One never knows.” He steered her through a door that led from the reception area into an anteroom from which several doors opened, and Adam paused to point, in succession, to each of the doors. “Those first two are conference rooms. The next is the executive men’s room—then the ladies’, and that”—he indicated the door at the far end of the room—“is the big guy’s office. Maybe you’ll get a chance to see it sometime. It’s quite an eyeful, only they guard it like the Pentagon. Not many people get admitted.”

Allie noted that this anteroom, while large, was far more intimate than the big reception area they had just left. The walls were covered in a deep rose-colored fabric and the windows were softly draped, filtering the morning light into a bright glow. The single couch, flanked by end tables, appeared to be more comfortable than the rather forbidding ones outside, and on the long table in front of the couch had been placed this morning’s
Wall Street Journal
and the
Washington Post
, the
Financial Times
of London and the most recent
Fortune
magazine. On another long table, just beyond the window, there was a great bunch of lilies, tastefully arranged, in a tall crystal vase.

And at a desk just before the last door, there was a secretary, her computer screen blinking, her message pads and paper clips and sharpened pencils a marvel of efficient tidiness. Built into the top of her desk was an electronic panel, and Allie suspected that this was part of the guard system that protected “the big guy.” This secretary’s legs were not so good, and her waistline had spread a bit; her hair was short and neat and her glasses were dark-rimmed. She smiled coolly at Adam and Allie as she pointed with her pencil to one of the doors.

“You’ll be meeting in Conference Room B, Mr. Talmadge.”

“Thank you, Ms. Richman.” He paused before opening the door to the conference room. “By the way, I’d like you to meet Allie Randall.”

“I’m glad to know you, Ms. Randall. I’ve been hearing about you.” She smiled again, a little more warmly, taking in Allie’s pink suit and cream-colored blouse and pumps and the big leather portfolio she was carrying. Apparently she approved.

“I’m glad to meet you, too,” Allie said, brushing at her bangs, smiling at Ms. Richman. Allie wasn’t comfortable in the midst of all this corporate chrome and glass, with its huge windows looking out over the whole city. However, if all went well, she’d be here to do a job, and she was already noting details of lighting—too much fluorescent—and composition and color. With all those windows and the skyscrapers visible through them, the dominating mood was strongly vertical and very much removed from ordinary human affairs. She felt as though she had sailed high above the real world, into a never-never land where lions and tigers were masquerading in pin-striped suits. She hoped they wouldn’t eat her up alive.

Adam understood, of course, and provided a protective shield for her. He led her directly into the conference room, and as they entered it, four men at the far end of an enormous black conference table stood up, most formally.

“Let me introduce these gentlemen,” Adam said. Allie knew she would never remember the names and titles of each of the men and she was always astonished by Adam’s ability to put on that performance, never fazed by unpronounceable foreign names and complex job titles. She knew that it was a part of his being very good at what he did.

Of course, Allie was also being very good at what she did, and she was doing it right now. She was observing all the details around her. On a table near the door there was a steaming coffee urn and platters of sweet rolls, and bowls of fresh strawberries had been set out. The conference table had yellow pads and newly sharpened pencils set before each place and there were several trays with pitchers of ice water and glasses. Big leather and chrome chairs were lined up around the massive table. There were no windows in the room, but there were pictures on the gray walls, prints of flowers and birds, obviously brought in by a mass supplier of “art” for corporate offices.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Randall,” said the man at the far end of the table, apparently speaking for the others. They were all young men, Allie noted, but this one seemed to be the most senior of them. Allie shook hands with each man in turn. She noted the almost identical suits of the four men and the almost identical expression on each of the four faces, an unsettling combination of an eagerness to please, a fear of failure, and a greedy, ambitious self-centeredness. “We’re waiting for the rest of the committee to arrive,” said the spokesman. “If you would like, please have some coffee.”

“Come with me, Allie,” Adam said. “I’ll get you a cup.” He walked back with her to the table at the other end of the big room. “I know you,” he said. “You haven’t had any breakfast, have you?” He put a prune Danish on a plate and handed it to her. “Not exactly nutritious, but it’ll keep you going.” He bent his head lower as he ran some coffee from the urn into a cup for her. Quietly, he said to her, “You don’t need to do anything. I’ll do all the talking.” He smiled confidently at her as he handed her the cup, and added, “They really like your work, Allie. And they’re still in a honeymoon with this acquisition, so they’re spending big money. All you have to do is sit back and look lovely.” He took one more approving look and leaned his head closer to her, his manner conspiratorial. “You really do look lovely in your borrowed finery. Now don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just follow my lead.”

He selected a chair for her midway between the center and the unoccupied end of the table. Then he sat next to her, placing himself between her and the four men. They all smiled pleasantly at each other. Allie understood that Adam’s selection of chairs was part of his game plan and he was positioning her for the greatest advantage.

In a moment, when the rest of the committee arrived, she understood the game better. Three men came into the room. One of them, clearly the oldest, took the chair at the head of the table, nearest the door. Another sat at his right and pulled a pad of yellow paper toward him. He took a fountain pen from his pocket, unscrewed it, and marked down the date and the time. The third man went to the urn and filled a cup with coffee. He added just the barest touch of cream and one and a half spoonfuls of sugar. Then he brought it back to the older man at the head of the table and set it in front of him before taking the seat to his left.

Adam had separated Allie and himself from both ends of the table, but had selected a place that was definitely closer to the “power” end. He was in a good position to negotiate, with Allie next to him, like a protected commodity, between himself and the head of the committee. The four men at the other end were going to have only a secondary role. Adam knew who would be making the decisions in this group.

“Good morning, Mr. Talmadge.” The older man began the meeting. “You have met my associates, I believe. And this”—he nodded toward Allie—“must be the very talented Ms. Randall. I am most pleased to meet you, Ms. Randall.”

And so pleasantries were exchanged all around, and then they got down to the business at hand. The first matter before them was to examine the portfolio of new work that Allie had brought with her. The sketches of the Cape Cod townspeople and the new seascapes were spread out on the big table, and it was clear that the selection committee was pleased and impressed. “Ah, yes. Ah, yes,” they were saying, all of them agreeing that the pictures might fit in very nicely with their planned promotional materials.

“If you’ll just leave these with us, Ms. Randall,” one of the associates said, “we’ll examine them over the next day or two. Perhaps Mr. Talmadge would be so kind to return them to you afterwards.”

“Of course, of course,” Adam said. “I’ll see that they get back safely to my client. Please take as much time as you need to review them.”

The discussions continued and Allie followed Adam’s advice, saying as little as possible, pleased that all seemed to be going well with no salesmanship necessary on her part. The only point that she was not happy about was their insistence that the chairman’s portrait would have to be done from sketches made in his office. Mr. Nakamura simply had no time, they said, to go to her studio for the necessary sittings. He would allow her to come in for one hour on each of three days next week before he left for the international trade talks in Paris, and she could make whatever sketches she needed during those three hours.

While they went on with their negotiations, Allie’s mind was racing, mentally working out the problem of how to carry out the commission on these difficult terms. There was no way she was going to mess it up, and Adam had signaled her to go along with the restrictions. While the talk buzzed around her, she made her plans.

I’ll bring in the Nikon to get some still shots, she was thinking, and get the lighting and background details worked out that way. Davey Rubens is free next week. I’ll hire him to assist with the tungsten lamps and all the other gear.

The men in the room consulted with her about time schedules and deadlines for completion of the work. Other than that, she let Adam take the lead on everything, and she had plenty of opportunity to admire his cool skill. She’d have been a bundle of nerves if she’d had to do this herself, but Adam was as smooth as a hot knife slicing through butter. She sat quietly and watched him do his stuff.

Fees for the chairman’s portrait and the watercolors were settled quickly. Everyone in the room knew the current market prices and the current value of Allie’s work. Fortunately for Allie, they were in a spending mood and were prepared to pay top dollar. But Adam had his own agenda, and he wasn’t about to accept those prices without certain specific provisions. He got down to the more difficult terms.

“Gentlemen,” Adam said, “all of us here know that the investment expertise of Matsuhara is unparalleled anywhere in the world. We all understand the reasons you’ve selected my client to do this work.” He held up a hand and ticked off the reasons. “Number one, of course, she’s tremendously talented, and you’re getting an absolutely first-rate, top-quality product.” Allie didn’t like hearing her work called a “product,” but she understood that Adam was talking their language. “Second, she’s young, and for that reason alone can’t yet command the prices you have to pay to older artists. So you’re getting a bargain.” Allie didn’t like being called a “bargain” either, but was wise enough to smile demurely at the head of the committee as Adam spoke those words. “Third, you’ve seen her portfolio and you’re already considering Ms. Randall’s work in connection with promotional materials for your Mayflower project. If you sign her on for the portrait work and the office pieces, there will be an easy lead-in to possible other work. Good for you and good for my client.”
And good for Adam Talmadge
, Allie thought. So did everyone else in the room.

“But fourth, and most important,” Adam went on, “we all understand that you were at that show at the Whiscombe, you heard the critics, and you’ve checked my client’s reviews. You know that in ten years, anyone who’s holding an Allie Randall painting is going to be sitting on some really valuable property. You have the opportunity right now to buy, at bargain prices, some investment-grade art.” They were all silent, and Adam knew he’d gauged their thinking correctly. “Now, gentlemen, I am prepared to advise my client to go along with these bargain prices,”—
bargain prices?
Allie thought the prices were pretty steep—“if we can incorporate into the agreement certain terms concerning the eventual resale by the corporation, or by its successor organization, if there is one.” The four younger men at the far end of the table leaned forward, intent on hearing Adam’s proposed terms. The three older men sat immobile, but Allie caught the tiniest flicker of a smile in the corner of the note-taker’s mouth.

Allie was amazed.
Adam’s trying for a share on resale
, she thought.
He’ll never get them to agree!
She tried to keep her hands steady, forcing herself to rest them casually on the table in front of her. These negotiations were fraying her nerves and she wished it were all over, but Adam was as cool as a polar bear and seemed ready to go on forever.

Adam was actually arguing for a percentage override for Allie if Matsuhara ever sold any of her pictures. “My client has a busy summer ahead of her and I don’t have to tell you gentlemen, there are many people seeking to have a portrait done by Allie Randall. Now we think, and I’m sure you’d agree, it would be unconscionable if she were to devote her time and her talent to this work, and then, some years down the road you should sell the work at a huge profit—as we believe you will—and she received no benefit from that sale.”