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Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
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didn’t contain a hint of an apology.
“Can you guarantee I’ll earn it back?” he asked.
“I think our track record speaks for itself,” I said. “We can’t make you more money unless we spend some first.”
Fenstermaker grunted again. There was a bit of cream cheese on the tip of his bulbous nose.
“I could swear this is Angelina,” he said, almost to himself, as he looked at my dummy ad again. “Just met her last week. She wanted me to donate to some orphanage.”
He batted around his hand, as though the orphanage was a pesky fly he was trying to swat away.
“Every second our targets spend looking at that ad and trying to figure out if it’s really her means that much more time for the Gloss name to brand itself into their subconscious,” I said. “We’ll make the fine print as fine as our legal department allows.”
I was moving into my finale. I walked over to a row of three easels and whipped off the drape cloths, revealing three photographs.
“Surveys of plastic surgeons show that women want Angelina’s mouth and Keira Knightley’s eyes and Cameron Diaz’s cheekbones,” I said, gesturing to enlarged photos of each celebrity. “On the back of every package of Gloss cosmetic, we’ll have a diagram showing women how to replicate the look of their favorite celebrity. For instance, Keira wears black mascara and eye shadows in the peachy-brown family for most of her red carpet events. Those colors are already all in the Gloss arsenal, meaning we don’t need any new R and D, which we all know is the real money drain. What we’ll do is shake up the packaging and marketing.”
I stepped back to the front of the table and looked directly at Mr. Fenstermaker. I knew he was the decision maker; he’d dropped out of college during his junior year and built his empire from scratch. Behind his bulldog exterior was a whip-smart brain.
“We’re not just selling lipstick,” I said, lowering my voice and speaking slowly. This was it; I was rounding third base and running for home with everything I had. “We’re making the childhood dreams of every woman in America come true. They’re all going to become movie stars.”
Fenstermaker nodded and swallowed a second bagel without appearing to chew.
“Any questions?” I asked. “No? It’s been a pleasure.”
This time Fenstermaker reached out to shake my hand first. It was a subtle detail, but I felt Mason notice it. I nodded and smiled at Mrs. Fenstermaker and headed for the door.
“Nice job, Lindsey,” Mason said under his breath as I passed him.
As soon as I stepped out of the conference room, I lost it. Stage fright never hits me when I’m giving a speech or presenting to a client, but the second I’m done, I start trembling and my mouth goes dry.
“How’d it go?” Matt said as I stumbled into his office, which was directly across from the conference room.
I collapsed into a chair and put my head between my knees.
“That good?” he asked, putting down the photographer’s proofs of turkeys—Matt was on the Butterball campaign—that he was studying with a little magnifying glass called a loupe. “Usually you just turn white. You must’ve done really well if you’re about to puke.”
“Give me a second,” I croaked, waiting for some blood to rush to my head. “He kind of smiled at the end of it. That’s good, isn’t it? And she nodded twice. Her expression never changed, but I think it’s because of the Botox.”
“Better than pelting you with frozen grapes,” Matt agreed.
“Helpful,” I said, lifting up my head to look at him and grinning for the first time that day. Really grinning; my client smiles didn’t come from the heart. “Supportive and positive. I think I got everything in. Focus group response, magazine ad placement, budget increases tied to performance targets—”
“It’s in the bag,” Matt interrupted. “I overheard Mason on the phone saying your campaign blows Cheryl’s out of the
“Can you guarantee I’ll earn it back?” he asked.
“I think our track record speaks for itself,” I said. “We can’t make you more money unless we spend some first.”
Fenstermaker grunted again. There was a bit of cream cheese on the tip of his bulbous nose.
“I could swear this is Angelina,” he said, almost to himself, as he looked at my dummy ad again. “Just met her last week. She wanted me to donate to some orphanage.”
He batted around his hand, as though the orphanage was a pesky fly he was trying to swat away.
“Every second our targets spend looking at that ad and trying to figure out if it’s really her means that much more time for the Gloss name to brand itself into their subconscious,” I said. “We’ll make the fine print as fine as our legal department allows.”
I was moving into my finale. I walked over to a row of three easels and whipped off the drape cloths, revealing three photographs.
“Surveys of plastic surgeons show that women want Angelina’s mouth and Keira Knightley’s eyes and Cameron Diaz’s cheekbones,” I said, gesturing to enlarged photos of each celebrity. “On the back of every package of Gloss cosmetic, we’ll have a diagram showing women how to replicate the look of their favorite celebrity. For instance, Keira wears black mascara and eye shadows in the peachy-brown family for most of her red carpet events. Those colors are already all in the Gloss arsenal, meaning we don’t need any new R and D, which we all know is the real money drain. What we’ll do is shake up the packaging and marketing.”
I stepped back to the front of the table and looked directly at Mr. Fenstermaker. I knew he was the decision maker; he’d dropped out of college during his junior year and built his empire from scratch. Behind his bulldog exterior was a whip-smart brain.
“We’re not just selling lipstick,” I said, lowering my voice and speaking slowly. This was it; I was rounding third base and running for home with everything I had. “We’re making the childhood dreams of every woman in America come true. They’re all going to become movie stars.”
Fenstermaker nodded and swallowed a second bagel without appearing to chew.
“Any questions?” I asked. “No? It’s been a pleasure.”
This time Fenstermaker reached out to shake my hand first. It was a subtle detail, but I felt Mason notice it. I nodded and smiled at Mrs. Fenstermaker and headed for the door.
“Nice job, Lindsey,” Mason said under his breath as I passed him.
As soon as I stepped out of the conference room, I lost it. Stage fright never hits me when I’m giving a speech or presenting to a client, but the second I’m done, I start trembling and my mouth goes dry.
“How’d it go?” Matt said as I stumbled into his office, which was directly across from the conference room.
I collapsed into a chair and put my head between my knees.
“That good?” he asked, putting down the photographer’s proofs of turkeys—Matt was on the Butterball campaign—that he was studying with a little magnifying glass called a loupe. “Usually you just turn white. You must’ve done really well if you’re about to puke.”
“Give me a second,” I croaked, waiting for some blood to rush to my head. “He kind of smiled at the end of it. That’s good, isn’t it? And she nodded twice. Her expression never changed, but I think it’s because of the Botox.”
“Better than pelting you with frozen grapes,” Matt agreed.
“Helpful,” I said, lifting up my head to look at him and grinning for the first time that day. Really grinning; my client smiles didn’t come from the heart. “Supportive and positive. I think I got everything in. Focus group response, magazine ad placement, budget increases tied to performance targets—”
“It’s in the bag,” Matt interrupted. “I overheard Mason on the phone saying your campaign blows Cheryl’s out of the
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