west-facing wall of midtown’s magnificent Somerset Tower, Liz Asgill pushed the brushed-chrome button labelled ‘penthouse’. She turned to Enrique Gelati, Manhattan’s most in-demand hair colourist, as the lift began its swift ascent.
‘It takes thirty seconds to go forty-three floors,’ she purred as night-time Manhattan disappeared beneath them, revealing the blackness of Central Park, the taxis buzzing around it like yellow wasps. ‘It’s the Ferrari of elevators, nought to sixty in two point five seconds.’
‘I hope the spa is also as good,’ said Enrique in a syrupy Spanish Cuban accent. ‘Asgill’s is not such a good name, no? Asgill’s is not La Prairie, I think.’
Liz turned and smiled thinly. Enrique had a reputation for being difficult, but he got away with it as he was regarded as a genius in his field. Great with brunettes, even better with blondes, half the Park Avenue Princesses owed their glorious honey-coloured manes to Enrique Gelati. Liz even knew of one household name who came to him to get her muff colour-corrected every six weeks. No wonder the waiting list at his Madison Avenue salon was three months long. As Allure magazine had said many times, ‘It’s easy to spot an Enrique Gelati blonde, but it’s impossible to get an appointment.’
‘I think you’ll be surprised at the spa,’ said Liz confidently. ‘The Skin Plus brand is a completely separate brand to Asgill’s. We’re just backed by the company money.’ She smiled warmly. Inside she was fuming, but she had to keep him on side. The Skin Plus Spa launch was only a month away and having Enrique as the salon’s creative director would be a huge coup.
Unlike many great businesses, Liz Asgill’s latest brainchild had not begun with a small idea but a very big, very ambitious one. She had decided to create Skin Plus as Asgill’s new up-market ‘cosmeceutical range’, a line as removed from the frumpy dead-duck family brand as a Rolls-Royce from a cart and horse. Liz’s plan was to start, not with the range of beauty products, but with a spa so sensational, so exclusive, it would have all of America talking. So far it was looking good. The spa’s interiors had been designed by Kelly Wearstler, she had poached spa therapists from Chiva-Som in Thailand, and colourists and cutters were decamping from John Barrett and Frédéric Fekkai to join her. There was just one problem. Liz needed a star, a big-name creative director for the hair salon, preferably someone who could bring a long list of celebrity clients with them. In this town, it was vital to have a name because New Yorkers were the most status-conscious women in the world. She could name a dozen Upper East Side socialites who had their hair cut by ninety-dollar local stylists but told their friends that their blonde buttery shags were the work of Sally Hershberger.
The lift door pinged open and they stepped out into the 25,000-square-foot space that occupied the top floor of Somerset Tower, a space that had taken Liz six months of ruthless negotiating to secure. Enrique’s eyes opened wide as he saw it and, although he was trying to play it cool, she could tell he was impressed.
‘Welcome to heaven,’ she said, sweeping an arm out.
They walked into a domed roof atrium of Venetian glass, with silver and ivory silk wallpaper and a long white leather reception desk. Liz led Enrique into a large room to the left.
‘This will be the waiting room for the salon,’ she explained. It had been repainted five times until Liz was satisfied with exactly the right shade of white.
‘The spa and hair salon areas are to your left and right. The organic restaurant is through there,’ she said, pointing down a long ivory corridor. There’s a champagne and juice bar and VIP spaces in all zones. The colour studio is over here,’ she continued, gesturing up to the glass ceiling. ‘Obviously in the daytime, it has fantastic light, which I think is crucial for you.’
Enrique nodded.
Liz felt a crackle of excitement as she showed off the rest of the premises to Enrique. For the first time in her career, she had been able to see an idea through from concept to launch, consuming so much of her time and energy over the past five years that it had cost Liz her marriage; but, as far as Liz was concerned, with success came sacrifice. She had a six per cent shareholding in Asgill Cosmetics, conservatively estimated at being worth about twenty million dollars, but it was a shareholding that was falling in value all the time. Since the death of her father, Asgill Cosmetics had been pitched into a downward spiral. Her brother William was now CEO, and nothing he did seemed to be able to stop the rot. Liz knew she was the only one who could save it, and this spa was the vehicle by which she would do it. She spun round on her five-inch heels to face Enrique. Before the guided tour, she had spent two hours buttering him up with pleasantries and compliments over dinner. Now it was time for business.
‘The deal is that I would like you to come and headline the salon, working three days a week here,’ she said.
Enrique pulled his long black ponytail out of its band and shook his hair onto his shoulders.
‘Liz, I tell you at dinner that I am very busy. As you can imagine, my phone is ringing all the time with proposals from people like you.’
Liz pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s funny, because in the light of everything that’s going on at your salon, I think the offer I’m making is a very attractive one indeed. A lifeboat, as it were.’
Enrique frowned. ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I hear things aren’t too great with Gary,’ she said flatly. Gary Eisen was Enrique’s long-time business manager and backer.
‘He’s fine,’ said Enrique, tossing back his black hair. ‘He’s on the West Coast right now, checking out real estate for an LA salon.’
‘Really? I heard he was on the West Coast to check into Promises rehab clinic.’
‘Bullshit,’ he replied defensively, but his eyes betrayed his panic. Liz smiled, enjoying the moment: knowledge was power and she intended to use what she knew to her advantage. For the last month she’d had a corporate investigations team look into Enrique’s business and had found that, despite Enrique’s profile, his salon was being woefully mismanaged. Their plans to launch an Enrique hair-care range had not come off, and minuscule profits suggested that Gary was siphoning off money for his expensive coke habit and love of Brazilian rent boys.
‘Enrique,’ said Liz, ‘you need to face facts. You’re never going to make any serious money with just one salon, no matter how many celebrities you’ve got on your client list, especially when that salon is badly run. The money is in product ranges, selling twenty-dollar colour shampoo to secretaries in Cleveland. But …’ Liz took a deep breath. ‘… We both know that no one wants to work with you to produce those products because you and Gary are too unpredictable.’
‘Bitch. How dare you?’ he hissed. ‘It’s taken me fifteen years to have my own salon. I worked for everything I got. No rich daddy gave me mine.’
Little Latino prick trying to play hardball, she thought, but then Liz was not in the business of trading niceties. She was glad she towered above him in her Giuseppe Zanotti heels. Hands on hips, bright-red lips, complete intimidation.
‘Listen to me,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m trying to help you. Your business is going to go to the wall, no question. In two, three years’ time, you’ll be back in Miami, some colourist that once used to be big in New York, just another industry casualty. And then all that hard work will have been for nothing.’
For a few seconds he didn’t speak, clearly torn between rage at having been spoken to in such a way and needing Liz’s help. Finally he flapped his arms in surrender.
