Nineteen
Clara appears in my office an hour later.
“I like your style,” she says, walking in and making herself comfortable on the sectional that was once black suede, and is
now recovered in a multicolored Indian embroidery fabric. “Marty would never have left a meeting like that.”
“I know. I’m working on my management techniques. I tend to think about how my father does it, then I do the opposite.” We
both laugh, knowing that I’m joking, but that there is much truth to what I just said.
“Have you looked at the reports?”
She nods. “I have. The board has been insisting we look at how to increase the profits, hence moving the manufacturing to
India. We’ve been able to significantly reduce our own costs, which is what led to the revised figures.”
“I thought we were manufacturing in China?”
“We were until the trade wars, but now the penalties are too high. We just can’t afford it, so we’ve been forced to look at alternatives.
The initial figure that you have in your document, the $806 million, was based on manufacturing in America.
Your father had a plan to resurrect the manufacturing towns that have been crippled by automation and the recession.
Ultimately, as romantic as it was, there was no way for it to be cost-effective, unfortunately.
We had to explore other countries. I’ve been working for months on how to increase the revenue.
India is proving to be one of the best emerging markets for investment.
It is strong on political, economic, and social reforms, has a steady economic growth, and a stable currency.
And, we are able to manufacture the new ipryy chip over there for even less than China, so it’s a win all round. ”
“Less than China?” I’m impressed. “How did you manage that?”
“Right now they’re heavily incentivizing US companies to open there by subsidizing the factories for the first three years.”
“Ah. Is that why the figures went down? Because when I look at the dates, it seems the initial projection was made based on
India.”
“The initial figures were before we learned we were being subsidized.”
“Got it. Do you think I should be in touch with some of the foreign manufacturers? At least introduce myself?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” says Clara. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself. Have you made any decisions about
the press requests that are coming in?”
I check my watch. I have a meeting with corporate PR about a company statement, the CNN piece, and The Wall Street Journal. Clara is delighted, encouraging me to do them all.
I excuse myself to figure out a press strategy going forward, and make my way to the PR office, knowing that my father is
an expert at manipulating the press in his favor. I can do this, I think.
Feel the fear, and do it anyway.
By the time I leave, an hour and a half later, the interviews are set up.
CNN will fly out the following week for an in-depth profile, one full day of following me at work, plus a sit-down interview with Joe Rogan.
The Wall Street Journal are sending one of their favorite freelance feature writers on Monday.
She wants a morning with me. We plan to give her two
hours.
That night, Jerome and Clara take me out for a working dinner.
Dress up, texts Jerome, which means we’re going somewhere nice. Jerome loves good restaurants, whereas I would be perfectly happy
with a burger. Sometimes it’s nice to dress up though, and, thanks to my meeting with PR this afternoon, I am aware that all
eyes are on me. They have been fielding multiple requests and a few of the papers have written small profiles about me in
the past few days. I didn’t know. I’m not that interested, but everyone is interested in the upcoming CNN and Journal piece.
Lucy and Noah are out, but I get Lucy’s permission to borrow something to wear. I have to redo my closet now that I am the
interim CEO, now that there are photographers looking to take pictures of me, but I haven’t gotten around to it.
Lucy’s closet is stuffed to the brim with gorgeous clothes. As an event planner and influencer, she gets significant discounts,
and free clothes when she features them on her Instagram account.
I flick through the chiffon and the sequins, pausing at a pair of gold sequin pants from Figue. They are over-the-top, but
it is likely that whatever restaurant we will be going to is also over-the-top. I try them on with a cream silk strappy top,
an ivory blazer, and delicate suede sandals with straps that crisscross up my ankles. I finish them with giant Lucite earrings
that are dangling enticingly from Lucy’s jewelry rack.
I’m almost unrecognizable in the mirror. I look trendy, and badass. I laugh. I look like Lucy, and no one would ever mess
with Lucy, which means this is perfect.
Jerome whistles when I come to the door. “You look stunning.”
“Where are we going?” I lower myself gingerly into his car, unsteady on these heels. I pull the mirror down and check my face,
wondering if I should have put more makeup on. A slick of lipstick and mascara was all I did, but perhaps it was not enough.
“The French Laundry.” He turns to smile at me, knowing that I have been there with my father many times, and that I love it.
“I know you haven’t been since they redesigned it. Clara thought it would be nice. We’re meeting her there.”
“Jim or no Jim?” I wonder if her husband is coming.
“No Jim. Celebratory semi-working dinner, she said, to congratulate you on being CEO.”
We drive out to Yountville, and walk through The French Laundry’s famous blue door that has remained unchanged during the
four-year renovation, and head into a courtyard, past a modern barn with glass walls, and on into the restaurant, where we
are seated at a table that is indoors, but by a giant opening to the outdoors. It is so beautiful, I’m almost speechless.
And I’m keenly aware of the eyes on me as I pick up the menu.
“Is everyone staring at me or is it my imagination?” I mutter under my breath.
“It’s the gold sequin pants,” Jerome whispers back, and I laugh. “You’re the CEO of ipryy,” he says, serious now. “It’s a
huge deal.”
My heart flutters nervously. This kind of attention has never been what I’ve wanted. Clara joins us at the table.
“Are you okay?” She looks at me with concern.
“She’s trying to get used to being stared at,” Jerome says. “You know how Missy hates attention.”
“Just wait until the new profiles come out,” says Clara. “Everyone’s going to know who you are.”
“Great,” I say. “How to make me feel better.”
“It is great,” she reassures me. “We couldn’t ask for a better ambassador for ipryy.” She catches herself. “Not that you’re just
an ambassador. Ambassador and CEO. That’s the beauty of you. You’re everything rolled up in one incredible package. Speaking
of incredible—” she looks me up and down “—you look amazing. This is exactly what you have to wear when you do the Journal interview. This is the most perfect outfit I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” I look at her dubiously. Clara is in a knee-length tight black dress, with a silk scarf and sensibly heeled shoes.
“Lucy’s trying to make me to look a bit trendier, but I’m not sure. Is it a bit much?”
“No. I love it. If I could pull that off, I’d be wearing it myself.”
“Why couldn’t you pull it off? You have a great figure. You’d look amazing in these kinds of clothes.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but no.” She sighs. “I’m too dull to ever be able to pull off gold sequins. But I love it on
you.”
“Maybe I’ll wear them to the office tomorrow.”
“I think maybe that’s a bit much.” Jerome looks terrified.
“I’m joking.”
We all laugh.
“Thank you for choosing The French Laundry.” I look at Clara, then outside to the immaculate lawn, the beautifully clipped boxwood balls by the side of the barn.
I have been many times with my father, so it has a special place in my heart, although it is both familiar, and now, post-renovation, strangely unfamiliar at the same time.
The old stone farmhouse with wooden balcony and climbing flowers is now sleek and modern, walls of glass, slatted wood.
It is stunning, and different enough that I am not flooded with memories of being here with my father.
We all choose the tasting menu. I think of everyone who jumped through hoops to accommodate my father’s food proclivities.
He could never simply order the tasting menu and be done with it. Some days he was eating gluten, others not. Some days he
was off dairy, or sugar, or red meat. Nevertheless, he always ordered the tasting menu, and they always accommodated him.
Being here with Clara and Jerome, ordering the tasting menu before handing the menus back with no alterations or substitutions,
is perhaps the strangest thing of all.
The evening is wonderful, exactly what I needed. We barely talk about work, other than the tiniest bit of office gossip, but
we reconnect and laugh, and share stories.
Toward the end, Clara leans toward me. “He’s so lucky to have you,” she whispers, taking my hand and squeezing it. “If I had
a daughter, I would want her to be exactly like you.”
In a heartbeat, I remember all the things I love about Clara, and by the time I get home, all of my fears of publicity, exposure,
and inadequacy are gone.
I wish we had done this sooner.