“Ah, well,” he says. “I would love to help you—”
I push fifty dollars across the table.
“And so I will.”
“You are most kind,” I tell him. He inclines his head modestly.
When he leaves, Cindy leans forward and whispers, “That was great! Scat, you are so good.”
“Uh huh,” I say. I am scanning the room for patches of bad lighting. “Stay away from the ferns. You’ll look a little flat.”
“Thanks, Scat,” Cindy says, her eyes shining.
Then I spot him: a short, thin man with the trimmest little mustache I’ve seen in my life, being led to our table by the maître d’. I nudge Cindy with my foot.
“Hello,” the man says genially. “You must be Scat and Cindy. I am Christian.”
My mind races. Cindy gasps, “Not Christian Dior.”
“That is right,” Christian says primly. “Not Christian Dior. Christian Summerset.” His little mouth smirks.
“Christian, good to meet you,” I say, rising and shaking his hand. I learned pretty early in my career as an agent to be friendly to utter jerks; it’s an essential skill. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Christian sits, then runs his gaze critically over Cindy’s body. She smiles back at him hesitantly. “Quite attractive,” Christian says thoughtfully. “Yes, quite attractive.”
Cindy is a little unsure how to take this and seems to be heading toward the monumental error of giggling when with exquisite timing a passing waiter delivers a truly pathetic double take. “Hey, ” he says loudly. “Aren’t you that model?” He breaks into a huge smile, as if he is expecting applause.
His performance is so bad that I’m sure Christian will never fall for it, but I see his thin black eyebrows rise fractionally. Bang, I think.
Cindy delivers her performance with much greater skill—maybe her acting classes are starting to pay off. She bats her eyes demurely and murmurs, “Yes, thank you,” and Christian’s eyebrows rise another tiny notch.
However, this repartee sends the waiter into a slight panic; apparently he hasn’t anticipated the dialogue going this far. To prevent him from improvising his way into an attempted kiss or fleeing in panic, I say, “Water for me, thanks.”
The waiter grabs his pencil gratefully. “And you, sir?”
“Hmm,” Christian says, frowning at the drinks menu. “I think I would like a tall, refreshing glass of Fukk, please.”
“One of our most popular brands,” the waiter says approvingly. He sounds as if he is smiling brightly, but I can’t see through the red haze that has washed over my vision.
Cindy squeezes my hand nervously. Christian and the waiter have fallen silent, and I think they’re staring at me. “Scat,” Cindy explains quietly, “is the true inventor of Fukk.”
I bow my head to the terrible truth of this, and for a moment we are all just sitting around, frozen. Then Christian and the waiter burst out laughing.
“Inventor of Fukk!” Christian giggles, and I see with amazement that there are tears welling in his eyes. “Oh Cindy, you are too much.”
“That’s a good one, ma’am,” the waiter says, pointing his pencil at Cindy. “I tell you what, the guy who invented this drink is laughing all the way to the bank.”
It takes a monumental effort, but I do it. “Yes,” I say, the smile nearly breaking my jaw. “Yes, I bet he is.”
opening moves
After we’ve ordered, Christian says, “I’m afraid I have to tell you that Christian Dior will not be signing Cindy.”
mktg case study #10: mktg negotiations
OPEN VERY, VERY LOW. DURING THE NEGOTIATION, YOU WILL OFFER SOME COMPROMISES AND THEY WILL OFFER SOME COMPROMISES, UNTIL YOU MEET SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE. MAKE SURE THAT THE MIDDLE IS WHERE YOU WANTED TO BE ANYWAY.
own your own
“That is disappointing,” I say. “Oh well. Cindy, are you ready to go?”
Cindy stares at me, open-mouthed. Maybe she didn’t expect the best agent in the world to give up so easily.
“There’s no point in wasting Christian’s time any further.” I give him a short nod. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us.”
I’ve barely found my feet when Christian says, “Mr. Scat, that doesn’t mean there’s nothing left for us to talk about.”
I let myself sink back into my chair. “No?”
His mouth twitches once, but it’s enough to tell me he’s annoyed. “Although we cannot sign Cindy as our face, we are interested in retaining her services in some form. We have over a dozen models around the world we use for various product. We would like Cindy to study under one of these, with a view to eventually taking over the position.”
“Not interested,” I say. Across the table, Cindy appears to have some kind of minor seizure.
Christian’s mustache twitches twice. “Pardon me?”
“Well, this is what you say next: since this would be a training position, the pay would be minimal. The real reward would come from the experience and prestige of working as a Christian Dior model. And, of course, the potential for the future.”
Christian watches me with narrow eyes.
“The thing is, Christian, Cindy’s going to be a top model. She’s just starting out, but everyone knows she’s going to go big. Now, sure, Christian Dior is a very good name to be associated with, regardless of pay. But whether that’s worth turning down the chance to become the Revlon face ... gee, I just don’t think so.”
Christian smirks. “I know for a fact that Revlon is not in discussion with you.”
“True,” I say. That Christian has this kind of information at his fingertips interests me a great deal. “That was just an example. But it will happen. You know it will.”
Christian regards me flatly. Which is a good trait in a negotiator, I guess.
“Look, I don’t expect you to sign Cindy as your face tonight. She’s hot, but to you she’s unproven. I can understand that. You need to watch her develop.”
“This is true,” Christian says.
“So what we need to work out,” I continue, “is how you can get both the opportunity to watch Cindy develop as a model, and the ability to sign her if she proves herself. Am I right?”
Christian mulls this over. “Perhaps.”
“Okay.” Under the table, I wipe my palms on my pants. “So what I propose is—”
“Aren’t you that model?” a waiter gasps at Cindy.
“Fuck off,” I tell him. He throws me a betrayed look and vanishes. “Sorry,” I say to Christian.
“Quite all right,” Christian says, and his thin lips are actually twisting into a small smile. Christian must enjoy a little bullying now and again.
“Now, I’m proposing,” I say, “that you buy an option on Cindy.”
I look at Christian.
Christian looks at me.
“What?” he says.
“An option,” I say. “I’m suggesting you purchase an option.”
“Like for a house?”
“Exactly. You pay us a small amount now for the right to sign Cindy at any time in the next twelve months.”
Christian is obviously having a little trouble with this concept. His brow furrows.
“So,” I say patiently, “a year from now, if you’re impressed with Cindy’s development, you get her. With no competitive bidding. Your up-front investment is small, plus you don’t risk losing her. You win if she doesn’t make it, because you haven’t paid a big fee. And you really win if she does, because you get to sign her.”
Christian chews this over. “We would need to fix a ceiling price... so if we decided to sign her later, you could not simply name a fee too outrageous to meet.”
“Of course.” This is, in fact, a critical part of the deal. “Given Cindy’s potential growth in popularity over the next year, I think it’s fair to say that in twelve months’ time she could be worth about eight million.”
Christian’s eyes bulge. “That is ridiculous!”
<
br /> “That’s not per year,” I say, acting a little wounded. “That’s for a standard three-year deal.”
Christian spits, “She is an unknown. No model has ever signed her first contract for eight million.”
“Nevertheless.” I wave this away as if it’s not important. “I’m not actually asking for eight million. I’m just putting this in some kind of perspective.”
“What are you asking for?” Christian says, his eyes narrowing.
“Six,” I say.
Christian starts the bulging eyes routine again, then seems to realize he’s already done that one and settles for snatching at a napkin and wiping his mouth vigorously. “Outrageous,” he mutters. “Outrageous.”
“Now that’s a ceiling price,” I say. “That’s the maximum we’ll be able to ask if you decide you want to sign her. If she’s not worth that much, obviously we’d settle for less. I mean, let’s get serious. Over the next year, Cindy could go ballistic. If she’s the next supermodel, a three-year contract for six million will be the bargain of the century.” I take a sip of my water.
Christian says, “And this option ... how much?”
“To be honest, not much,” I say. “Let’s say fifty thousand. I’m not particularly interested in the amount.” This is actually true. “What I really want is to be able to call the rags tomorrow and say, ‘Cindy has just been signed to Christian Dior in a contract potentially worth six million dollars.’ ”
“You will use us for your publicity,” Christian says, bristling a little. “Use the Christian Dior name to open doors.”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to hide that. But that publicity. will benefit you, too. Because if it helps Cindy’s career, you’re the one with the option to sign her.”
Christian looks at me for a long moment, then turns and stares out the window. He seems to be seriously considering the idea, so I say, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
Cindy looks up, startled, but I smile reassuringly at her. It’s important for Christian to not feel pushed at this moment, and some quiet time alone with Cindy won’t do our chances any harm.
I stand and walk away from the table, feeling pretty good. I think I’ve actually convinced Christian to help me make modeling history. I think the publicity will be like a rocket under Cindy’s career, and within six months I’ll sign her to Christian Dior for a figure very close to six million dollars.
I find the bathroom, which for some reason looks a lot like an exit, and as I empty my bladder, I think: This is a special night.
Then I zip, wash my hands, and on the way out, nearly bowl over 6.
salutations
For whole seconds, I can only stare at her. Strong, invisible men grip my arms and legs and someone slides a burly arm down my throat to grab my heart.
She is dressed formally, I am pretty sure, and I think her hair is still the gorgeous dark waterfall it was six months ago. Her shoes are probably black and high, and there could be some kind of handbag slung around her shoulder. But I can’t tell for sure, because I can’t take my eyes off her face.
“Scat,” she says, and I never knew my name sounded so good.
scat and 6 catch up
“6,” I say. This relieves me greatly, because for a few moments the tiny part of brain still functioning was leaping headlong into Marry me. Not such a good opening line, that. A touch too intense. “You look great. How are you?”
“Very well,” 6 says cautiously. She pauses, then adds, “You look good, too.”
“Thanks,” I say, and to demonstrate how utterly unimportant I consider this remark, I grin like an idiot. 6 looks away. “What have you been doing? Since ...”
“Consulting,” she says, still not looking at me.
“Hey, that’s great. That’s really good.”
6 shrugs fractionally, shifting her weight to her other foot. I am momentarily sure she is about to say, Well, it was good to see you, and I panic. “Are you doing well?”
Stupid, stupid question. “Yes,” 6 says.
“Oh. That’s great.”
“Well,” she says, “it was good to see you, Scat.”
Her eyes rest on me for a second, then she turns and walks away.
I’m desperate. I’m as desperate as I’ve ever been in my life. I open my mouth and grant it full executive authority to say whatever the hell it wants. “I got a call from Coke.”
6 stops.
restaurant revelations
“I mean, I don’t know if you’re interested. I guess you don’t really care what happens there anymore.”
6 studies my face for a moment, then walks back. “I know there’s no place for me there now.”
“Oh.” She stares at me until I realize that she wants to hear it anyway. “Gary Brennan called me up this morning. Said he wanted to talk about a big new project.”
She sniffs dismissively. “I know about it.”
I blink. “Gary wouldn’t tell what it was.”
“Well,” 6 says, frowning at the floor, and suddenly this feels so familiar that I get a warm shiver. “I don’t know what the project actually is. But Sneaky Pete is running it.”
This is a surprise. “Really? From what Gary was telling me, it didn’t sound like his kind of thing at all. It sounded like ... well, our kind of thing.”
6 looks up, frowning. I struggle mightily against the urge to lean over and kiss her eyebrows.
“Creative. Gary said the project needed creatives. And he said, ‘asses are on the line.’ Which I guess reminded him of our little project. I turned him down, though, because ...”
Then I stop, because something amazing is happening to 6. First her eyes widen, then they narrow. Her lips part, then tighten. It’s a little scary, and a lot exciting.
“What? You’re surprised I don’t want to work at Coke anymore? Well, I have a new life now. I—”
6 takes a step closer, brushing my words away. “Are you telling me that Sneaky Pete has his ass on the line at Coke?”
“Uh, well, if you say he’s running this project ... then I guess, yeah. I didn’t really—”
6 says slowly, “Sneaky Pete has his ass on the line over a creative project?”
Now that 6 mentions this, it seems a little strange. “Yeah ... although creative was never his strong suit ...”
“No,” 6 says, and now there is a strange glint in her eyes. It takes me a moment to realize what this glint is: revenge. “No,” she says again. “No, it was not.”
a plan
6 hands me her card, and I read that she is now Director of Marketing at some firm I’ve never heard of, which probably means she is the only employee. “Tomorrow, call Brennan. Then call me.”
“You got it.”
6 studies me, then turns and walks away. They are high heels.
I wander dazedly back to my table, where Cindy is laughing fetchingly at some remark of Christian’s.
“Mr. Scat,” Christian says warmly, “I have decided to accept your proposal.”
where scat proves to all and sundry that he is indeed a great fuckwit
“You are magnificent,” Cindy says breathlessly. “You are unbelievable.”
“Uh, Cindy,” I say, “it’s kind of hard to drive with your hands in my pants.”
“I have a contract. I can’t believe I have a contract with Christian Dior.”
“You have an option,” I remind her. “They may never sign you.”
“Oh, Scat,” Cindy says. “I know you just don’t want me to get my hopes up. This is fantastic! This is the best night of my life!”
Her mood is a little infectious, and I grin. “Well ...”
“You’re the best agent in the world. I can’t believe you wasted all that time at Coke.”
“Hey,” I say, “speaking of which, you’ll never guess who I ran into tonight.”
feminine wiles
“You son of a bitch!” Cindy screams.
I stumble after her, trying to tuck m
yself in and run at the same time. “Cindy, wait!” A truck roars past, whipping my tie into my face. “Wait!”
“You bastard!” She rounds on me, lit by the headlights of the cars rushing past. Behind her, there’s a huge billboard of the ad 6 and I developed for Coke six months ago. “I can’t believe you did this tonight!”
“Cindy, hang on.” I reach out but she slaps my hands away viciously. “I didn’t do anything. I just met her. We just talked.”
“Oh, sure,” Cindy says, her eyes roving wildly. “I know how that goes. Next you don’t want to stay with me anymore and you’re living with her.”
“Cindy, that’s crazy. That’s not true at all.”
“Do you have her number?” she says suddenly. “Are you going to see her again?”
I hesitate.
“Taxi!” Cindy shouts.
“Cindy! Come on, give me a chance here! We’re just exploring a business opportunity!”
“You’re supposed to be exploring my business opportunities!” Cindy yells, and although kind of a weird thing to say, this is true and I’m not sure how to respond. “Fucking agents,” she says, starting to cry.
“Come on, Cindy ...” This time, she lets me put my arms around her. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”
She sniffles for a minute and I stroke her hair.
“Just tell me it’s over between you two,” Cindy says. “Just tell me it’s over.”
here, have a shovel
“Cindy, it’s over.” I kiss her forehead. “I’m pretty sure it’s over.”
wandering wilshire
Cindy takes the car.
Which is fair enough, I guess, since if one of us has to be wandering the streets of West LA at midnight (and I’m pretty sure one of us does), it’s probably safer that it be the man in the suit than the woman in the body-hugging dress.
It takes me almost an hour to walk back along Wilshire to Cindy’s apartment in Santa Monica, waving at uninterested cabs all the while. On the way, I realize that I don’t have a set of keys, and I deliberate the merits of waking Cindy up to let me in versus spending the night on the street, not sure which is more dangerous. Eventually I ring the doorbell, but it’s a tough call.