Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
The first week wearing the perfume was like the doors to a different world were gallantly held open for her.
The city felt more charmed, spontaneous, and romantic than the one she knew before, and every close encounter was a meet-cute waiting to happen.
She had been asked out by the man on the next bike over at spin class, as well as the man whose schnauzer had gotten tangled with Hugo’s leash, and her dry cleaner said her clothes smelled so good he didn’t want to launder them.
She’d had only one scary experience, when a chatty Uber driver suggested they go somewhere other than her destination, and when she got out of the car at the next light, he shouted after her that she was a “stuck-up bitch” who was “not even hot.” The creep didn’t hurt her feelings—if anything, she wanted to yell back, “I know!”
She had chosen not to wear the perfume to work.
Until today.
Today, she and Nate were pitching her design to Wolff Development.
Although Nate had presented the idea to Frank as his own, Iris was the one who had actually done the research and prep work, so he had to bring her along.
Iris hoped to assert herself in the meeting and show Frank she was the brains of the operation.
Whether she got her due credit or not, if Candela landed this project, there would be more money for Frank to reconsider that promotion.
And she needed the confidence boost. This morning, she had blotted it conservatively, once on each wrist and her sternum.
—
The offices of Wolff Development were in One World Trade Center. Iris arrived and found Nate already at the marble reception desk in the lobby.
“You made it,” Nate said flatly.
“Sorry, subway trouble.” Two men on the 1 train had nearly gotten in a fistfight over the right to offer her their seat, and she’d missed her stop trying to evade them. “Is Frank here yet?”
“No.” Nate noisily blew his nose, giving the results a peek before wadding up the tissue. “It’s not Covid, it’s hay fever. And it’s worse than ever this year. My eyes are killing me.”
“You know why pollen is so bad in cities? Male trees. Female trees drop fruit, which requires municipal resources to clean up. So urban landscapers plant only male trees instead. But males spread their seed, in this case, pollen, and with no female trees to receive it, the excess causes allergies.”
Nate’s lip curled. “I have botanical jizz in my eye?”
Iris saw Frank striding toward them, bike helmet on his hip. “Woof, it’s a hot one outside, this A/C feels good. Let’s get checked in and head on up.”
The three of them waited for the elevator for floors 28–42 alongside another businessman. As soon as they got on, the businessman turned to Iris. “What floor can I get for you?”
Before she could answer, Nate shoved his finger onto the button for 39. The man gave him a dirty look before exiting at his floor.
Frank glanced in her direction. “You look especially lovely today, Iris.”
“Thanks.” Iris discreetly plucked her shirt to get some air and caught a blast of the fragrance. The hot subway ride had made her modest dab of the perfume explode on her skin.
Nate gave another juicy blow into his tissue.
Once they’d exited the elevator, Frank huddled them up. “Now listen, Jonathan may or may not be there. Don’t be discouraged if we end up pitching to Marilyn Hruska, his executive assistant. She’s been with him for years, and he holds her in very high regard. Do we remember our game plan?”
Nate answered, “Yes. Frank, you’ll introduce the team, then I’m going to outline our wellness concept and budgets and the rest. And Iris, if I forget something, don’t be shy this time, jump in.”
Iris smiled. “I will.”
Marilyn greeted them at reception. Iris was relieved to see she was a polished middle-aged professional and not some twentysomething poached from a nightclub hostess stand.
Iris had worked in architecture long enough to know that many of the top developers were absolute pigs, treating their female subordinates like just another prestige property—anything to make themselves look like the alpha male in the concrete jungle.
Marilyn led them down a glass-walled hallway and opened the door to the corner conference room.
Frank entered first. “Jonathan! Good to see you again.”
Iris was taken aback—the man rising from his seat was nothing like she was expecting.
Jonathan Wolff was younger than most at his level, early forties, or just in great shape, and undeniably handsome.
He had thick wavy hair and a suntan that made his eyes pop a Caribbean blue.
Her heart began to race with nerves, or something else.
He greeted Frank warmly. “Frank, how are you, old man?”
“Join me again on the next centennial ride, you’ll see who’s the old man.” Frank chuckled and gestured to his team. “Let me introduce you to two of my best designers, Nate Childers and Iris Sunnegren.”
Jonathan greeted them both with a handshake and eye contact so direct it made Iris look down. She noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
He invited them to sit wherever they wanted to at the long table surrounded by sweeping views of the Hudson River. A young woman appeared to take their coffee orders, while Marilyn vamped with some friendly small talk. Iris poured herself a glass of water to drown the butterflies in her stomach.
Jonathan Wolff was far from the typical corporate silverback, some thick-bodied executive who’d rather be golfing.
The man at the head of the conference table looked more like an Italian film director.
He wore a linen jacket the color of sandstone over a tan-striped shirt left open at the collar.
In lieu of a necktie, he had draped a light camel-colored scarf with eyelash edges in tissue cashmere so fine Iris feared she might snag it just by looking.
And for his last trick, he was somehow pulling off white slacks, albeit an elegant ecru, cuffed at the bare ankle.
He looked as if he had come to this meeting straight from his yacht.
From what Iris knew of his success, perhaps he had.
Frank opened the pitch with an expression of gratitude, praise for recent Wolff Dev projects, and a graceful highlight reel of Candela’s own recent awards and accomplishments.
He also included flattering bios of both Nate and Iris, which were nice to hear.
Iris noticed that Marilyn was listening intently, Wolff less so, occasionally distracted by his phone and the woman who returned with the coffees and a tray of pastries.
Iris had planned to jump into the pitch as soon as Frank finished, but he explicitly indicated Nate to speak: “Nate, why don’t you get us started?”
Nate had done his homework. He opened with a detailed financial analysis of the market, then turned to the project budget, the layout for their plan, and its comparison with nearby buildings.
He talked about the tax benefits accorded to designated wellness residences.
It was an impressive amount of memorized content and seemed serious and competent, but a lot of dry facts and figures.
Eventually, Wolff interrupted. “You have to know this isn’t the most cost-saving package I’ve seen from other lighting firms. So if your best argument is money, you’ve been beat.”
“I’m not sure what other packages you’ve been pitched—”
“I am, and I just told you what you need to know.” For all the softness of his clothes, Wolff’s tone was razor sharp.
“How do you justify the cost of this sanitizing element? People think the pandemic is over, or at least they don’t want to hear about it.
Paying a premium to remind them of a health hazard doesn’t appeal to me. ”
Nate looked down at his papers. “I think this is something that could create excitement and novelty in a competitive market. It’s buzzy, it will get write-ups, attention.”
“So this is a PR strategy?”
Nate was floundering. “Well, this is also an updated aesthetic, as your signature sleek luxury has become commonplace—”
“My taste needs upgrading?” He smiled over his shoulder. “Marilyn, am I ‘basic,’ as my daughter would say?”
“No, not at all. Um”—Nate nervously rubbed his already red nose—“Marilyn, do you like Goop?”
Iris stepped in. “Wolff Development has set the bar for design in your category. Your choices have been copied, but you have yet to repeat yourself, and we’re here to partner on your latest reinvention.
You’re right, this is not the bargain basement plan other firms may be presenting.
But what are they offering you beyond cost cuts?
Where is the value added? What I’m suggesting—”
“What we’re suggesting, at Candela, is a holistic approach,” Nate cut back in. “We view ourselves as your creative partners in creating a product that will be both novel and durable in today’s challenging market…”
Iris glared at him for interrupting her with his industry-jargon slam poetry , but Wolff had seen right through it.
He waved Nate quiet. “When is the market not challenging? Tell me, why should I listen to a lighting designer’s take on my sales approach when I have an entire team of overpaid real estate marketing analysts working for me on that very thing? Ms. Sunnegren, what’s the connection here?”
Iris’s heart leaped into her throat, but she was confident in her pitch, and in herself.
“I’ll put it this way: Lighting is a language everyone can understand, but few can speak.
It dictates our sense of well-being on a subliminal level.
Other high-end finishes matter, but everyone’s taste is different.
The connection between light and emotion is primal and universal. ”
Wolff’s arms remained crossed over his chest, but it was the first time during the pitch that he didn’t cut in with a quick retort, which Iris took as a good sign.
With his turquoise eyes trained on her, she continued: “You don’t sell just any product at Wolff Development, you build homes .
What we’re pitching is as much a statement of purpose as a design plan.
The biometric lighting coupled with the health benefits of indigo clean underlines the essential truth that light is the life force of any space.
It’s the mood, it’s the color, it’s the character.
Light has always been the protector of a home’s health and wellness.
What’s the first thing you do when you come home?
When you need to feel comforted? What do you adjust when you’re hosting a guest or setting a mood? Lights on means home safe.”
All three men stared at her, quiet for the moment.
Only Marilyn smiled.
—
“That wasn’t our game plan.” Nate said, dabbing his nose with a sorry-looking tissue. He and Iris were outside on the sidewalk, after Frank had praised them both and hopped on a Citi Bike to zip downtown. “Frank thought I’d be the best to lead the pitch to Wolff.”
Iris hiked her bag on her shoulder. “And you did. But Jonathan wanted to hear what I had to say.”
“Already on a first name basis?” He snorted and shook his head. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
“What does that mean?”
“ Jonathan liked you.”
“Come on.” But a hot flush of embarrassment splotched her chest. “If I did well in there, it’s because I knew my stuff. I’ve put a month of research and work into this concept that was a ‘jumping off point’ to you just last week. I did the legwork, and it showed.”
He smirked. “Legwork. Is that why you brought high heels in your bag?”
Her flush turned to anger. “I didn’t invent professional attire for women. But yeah, I bring a change of shoes. You try running up subway stairs in heels and get back to me.”
Nate sneezed again. “ Ugh, this hay fever is killing me. Look, I’m busting your balls, it went well. I’m just saying, we should try to coordinate better, present a more united front next time—if there is a next time.”
He wasn’t kidding, he hadn’t been kidding, Iris knew that Nate had meant what he said. What she didn’t know was whether she agreed with him. She was more prepared, she had rehearsed that pitch and nailed it. And she had deserved to take the lead in the first place.
But she was wearing the perfume.
Was that an unfair advantage? Even if she was more qualified, did that legitimize the edge the perfume gave her?
She didn’t think Wolff seemed attracted to her, he was merely engaged with her plans—they were good plans!
Nate was talking out his ass, his pitch was full of filler and empty jargon, and anyone as successful as Jonathan Wolff could smell the difference.
But had he smelled her ?