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
