despatch the more than occasional misguided journalist or photographer who trespassed onto his Blue Mountains acreage home.
It was all nonsense. Absolute rubbish. There was no story to be found. No scoop.
Was it really that unusual to despise Sydney’s concrete jungle? To equate wearing a suit, unending meetings and patently false schmoozing to something only a few degrees south of selling his soul?
Apparently so.
Who cared that he’d rather work remotely from the comfy couch in his lounge room? Who cared that he’d rather stick pins in his eyes than attend some society function chock-full of Sydney’s self-satisfied, Botoxed elite? Who cared that he truly believed his private life was private and that a flat no-interview policy made his life significantly easier?
Well, according to the ten sets of eyes focused on him right this second, and the substantial business acumen behind them—a lot of people cared. A hell of a lot of people.
Jake gave up pretending to be all casual and dispassionate. He flattened his sneakers to the parquet floor and shoved his chair backwards, leaping to his feet in a sharp movement. The chair continued its journey until it thumped gently against the wall, but by then Jake had already completed half a lap of the room’s wall of windows.
‘In a saturated marketplace, Jake, just having a great product isn’t enough.’ This came from the Vice President, Marketing & Communications, an elegant, spindly woman with jet-black hair. ‘Unfortunately, early indications from our market research are that the Armada phone is generating little interest from consumers. Our US and Japanese competitors have the market cornered—people want the familiar brand, regardless of our superior phone.’
Jake paused. ‘And what, exactly, do you think I could do about that? How is my mug on a magazine cover going to sell phones?’
The VP smiled. ‘The results of our copy-testing focus groups are compelling. An advertisement including your name and photo scored significantly higher in brand linkage and consumer motivation. We’re talking quadrupling of interest in the product.’
Jake didn’t even bother being surprised that focus groups had been run. Of course they had. He was the only one late to this party.
He rubbed his forehead, a futile effort to erase the newly created furrows. His jaw was clamped shut and his teeth ground together.
‘The board’s recommendation is that we proceed with the Jake Donner campaign.’ It was Cynthia again.
‘If you decline, we’ll be forced to reconvene to begin implementation of the company restructure,’ added the CFO. Restructure, of course, being code for mass redundancies.
Now the VP chimed in. ‘We’re planning a short campaign, Jake. One month of inconvenience to you for tens of millions in potential increased revenue.’
The whole board murmured in enthusiastic agreement. Yes, this was definitely an ambush. He half expected them all to start lobbing their pens at him next—in a perfectly coordinated fashion, of course.
One month of inconvenience.
Could he do it? One month of shoehorning himself into whatever shiny package Marketing chose to squish him into? One month of posing and saying all the right things in aid of dragging Armada out of this financial hole?
One month for thousands of saved jobs and millions of dollars?
It didn’t sound like much of a sacrifice when put like that. He might be far from the sole owner any more, but deep down inside he still considered Armada his. His responsibility. His employees.
Really, the decision was a no brainer.
Reluctantly, Jake grunted something that Cynthia correctly interpreted as acquiescence.
Well, he wasn’t about to jump up and down in excitement, was he?
Something totally random occurred to him: Lord. He’d better not have to wear a suit.
Ella Cartwright waited patiently outside the boardroom’s double doors, seated neatly on a low leather couch. Her black patent heels did not click nervously on the floorboards. Her fingers did not twist and tie themselves in knots on her lap. And she certainly didn’t ask the CEO’s personal assistant, who’d escorted her all the way to the twenty-sixth floor, any of the myriad questions about Jake Donner that sat on the tip of her tongue.
Not doing all those things was possible, of course, because those things she could control.
The butterflies currently tap-dancing in her tummy? Well, not so much.
But that was okay.
No one needed to know about them.
Finally, the doors were pushed open, and a parade of exquisitely suited executives slowly made their way out. Ella was on her feet well before she caught a flash of Cynthia George’s distinctive red blazer amongst the mass of wintry black, grey and navy.
Ella allowed herself a fleeting moment of pride as she recognised the jacket she’d personally selected for Cynthia’s revamped wardrobe. With her sharp haircut, flawlessly applied make-up and flattering outfit, Cynthia was a walking advertisement for Picture Perfect, Ella’s five-year-old image consultancy firm.
But, while Cynthia’s ‘look’ had needed a review, her communication—and negotiation—skills definitely hadn’t. This had been demonstrated most effectively to Ella when she’d attempted to say no when she’d received Cynthia’s most unexpected request.
Take on Jake Donner as a client?
Not in a million years.
Except—how to say no to your number one client with no reasonable excuse? Or rather, without a reason she had any intention of disclosing?
It turned out it wasn’t possible. Even worse, Cynthia had made it clear that she considered this job a personal favour. And when half your clientele was a direct result of Cynthia’s word of mouth, a favour was definitely not too much to ask.
And besides, if she was objective—even though the concept of objectivity was laughable where Jake was concerned—with Jake Donner she’d have a success story that would far eclipse Cynthia’s. Her business was doing well, but with Jake on her client list the impact on her bottom line could be stratospheric.
The fact that Jake was the star of her number one most humiliating experience—and from a girl with quite a list, that was saying something—was completely irrelevant.
So here she was. Not—outwardly—nervous at all, just moments away from seeing Jake Donner for the first time in thirteen years.
To say she felt ill would be a monumental understatement.
‘Ella!’ Cynthia called, meeting Ella’s gaze with typical directness. ‘Come in. I’ve asked Jake to stay back a few minutes.’
Behind Ella, a ding announced the arrival of the elevator, and within seconds the two women were alone in the hallway as the rest of the board were whisked away.
‘How did the meeting go?’ Ella asked.
But
