Katie Oliver - Prada And Prejudice

“That’s exactly what he means.” Rhys looked at her the way the devil must eye a new arrival to Hell. “I’ve visited all of the store’s departments recently to assess our customer relations. You’re just in time for my report.”

Her heart sank into her Prada pumps. She remembered she’d been particularly rude to that bloke in the Barbour jacket on Saturday. She only hoped he hadn’t lodged a complaint. But even if he had, perhaps – she cast a sidewise glance at Rhys Gordon – perhaps the new Operations Manager wouldn’t mention it.

“First,” Gordon began, “I want to address the issues I encountered in the lingerie department. My treatment was abysmal,” he said as his hard blue gaze met Natalie’s, “in every respect.”

“ Your treatment?” she squeaked. She sat up straighter as she realised with dawning horror that he was the customer she’d waited on. She hadn’t recognised him, dressed in his Barbour jacket and jeans. No wonder he’d worn those sunglasses! Her eyes widened and her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Not only was my sales clerk rude and unhelpful,” he went on, “she encouraged me to shop elsewhere; carried on a personal conversation on her mobile, which, by the way, is forbidden on the sales floor, refused to wrap my purchase, and—” he paused for the maximum effect “—when I left, told me she looked forward to my next visit, like the plague…or her next gyno exam.”

Several gasps went round the table, the loudest one being Natalie’s own.

“Who was this cheeky little madam?” Sir Richard demanded, outraged. “I shall have her sacked at once!”

“Oh, you don’t want to sack anyone, grandfather,” Natalie said hastily, before Rhys could respond. “It’s the holidays, after all! You know, good will to men. And women. And perhaps,” she added as she glared at the new OM, “the sales clerk was having a bad day. She might even have been a bit hung over.”

“If customers in this store are treated the way I was, Miss Dashwood,” Gordon retorted, “then it’s no wonder that Dashwood and James is losing its arse. And if nothing is done to remedy the situation, it bloody well deserves to lose its arse.”

Chapter 4

Sir Richard slapped his age-spotted hand on the conference table and leaned forward to glare at Rhys, seated at the opposite end of the table.

“We’re all agreed that something must be done,” Sir Richard snapped. “But 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?