"What could be classier than Bancroft's?" Philip demanded, scowling, and without waiting for a reply to that rhetorical question, he said, "Did you find out who else she's considering?"
"Marshall Field's."
"That's a crock! Field's doesn't begin to outclass us and they can't do the job for her that we can!"
"At the moment, our 'class' seems to be the problem." Ted Rothman held up his hand when Philip's face turned an angry red. "You see, when we began negotiating the deal, Aderly wanted that class image, but now her agent and her advisers have half convinced her that it's a mistake for her to try to ditch the sexpot/rock star image that's won her so many teenage fans. For that reason, they're talking to Field's—looking at them as a sort of compromise image."
"I want that debut, Ted," Philip stated in a flat tone. "I mean that. Offer them a bigger cut of the profits if necessary, or tell them we'll share some of their local advertising costs. Don't offer more than what it will take, but get that debut."
"I'll do my best."
"Haven't you been doing that all along?" Philip challenged. Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the vice president sitting beside Rothman, then one at a time he worked his way around the table, subjecting each VP to the same curt cross-examination that Rothman had received. Sales were excellent and each vice president was more than capable; Philip knew it, but as his health had worsened, so had his disposition. Gordon Mitchell was the last to come under Philip's fire: "The Dominic Avanti gowns look like hell—they look like last year's leftovers, and they aren't selling."
"One of the reasons they aren't selling," Mitchell announced with a bitter, accusing glance at Lisa's boss, "is because your people went out of their way to make the Avanti items look ridiculous! What was the idea of putting sequined hats and gloves on those mannequins?"
Lisa's boss, Neil Nordstrom, regarded the angry VP down the length of his nose, his expression placid. "At least," he commented, "Lisa Pontini and her crew managed to make that stuff look interesting, which it wasn't."
"Enough, gentlemen," Philip snapped a little wearily. "Sam," he said, turning to speak to Sam Green, the store's chief legal counsel, who was seated on his immediate left, "what about that lawsuit that woman filed against us—the one who claimed she tripped in the furniture department and hurt her back?"
"She's a fraud," Sam Green replied. "Our insurance carrier just discovered she's filed four other lawsuits against other retailers for the same thing. They aren't going to settle with her. She'll have to take us to court first, and she'll lose if she does."
Philip nodded and directed a cool glance at Meredith. "What about the real estate contracts on the land in Houston you're so determined to buy?"
"Sam and I are working out the final details. The seller has agreed to divide the property, and we're ready to draw up a contract."
He acknowledged her response with another curt nod and turned in his chair to address the controller, who was seated on his right. "Allen, what do you have to report?"
The controller glanced at the lined yellow pad in front of him. As chief financial officer of the Bancroft Corporation, Allen Stanley was responsible for all things financial, including the store's credit department. His twenty years of stressful, intellectual combat with Philip Bancroft had, in Meredith's opinion, probably caused Allen to lose much of his hair as well as making him look sixty-five rather than the fifty-five he was. Controllers and their staffs did not generate income for the store. Neither did the legal or the personnel divisions. As far as Philip was concerned, those three divisions had to be tolerated like a necessary evil, but he regarded them as little more than leeches. Moreover, he despised the fact that the heads of those three divisions were forever giving him reasons why he couldn't do something instead of telling him how he could do it. Allen Stanley still had five years to go until he could take early retirement, and there were times when Meredith wondered how he was going to make it. When Allen spoke, his voice was carefully precise and noticeably hesitant. "We had a record number of new applications for credit cards last month— almost eight thousand of them."
"How many did you approve?"
"Roughly sixty-five percent."
"How in the hell," Philip spat out furiously, tapping the end of his Waterman pen on the table to emphasize each word, "can you justify rejecting three thousand out of eight thousand applications? We're trying to attract new card holders, and you're rejecting them as fast as the applications come in! I shouldn't have to tell you how profitable interest on those cards is to our operation. And I'm not even counting the loss of revenue from purchases those three thousand people will not make at Bancroft's because they can't shop here on credit!" As if he suddenly recalled his bad heart, Meredith watched him make a visible effort to calm himself.
"The applications we rejected were from people who aren't credit worthy, Philip," Allen stated in a firm, reasonable tone. "Deadbeats, as you well know, do not pay for what they purchase or the interest on their accounts. You may think rejecting those applications cost us money, but the way I see it, my staff has saved Bancroft's a fortune in uncollectible debts. I've established basic requirements that must be met before we issue anyone a Bancroft's card, and the fact is that three thousand people could not meet those requirements."
"Because the requirements are too damned high," Gordon Mitchell put in smoothly.
"What makes you say that?" Philip demanded eagerly, always prepared to find fault with the controller.
"I say that," Mitchell replied with malicious satisfaction, "because my niece told me that Bancroft's just rejected her application for a credit card."
"Then she wasn't credit worthy," retorted the controller.
"Really?" he drawled. "Then why did Field's and Macy's just issue her new cards? According to my niece, who's a junior in college, her rejection letter said that she had an inadequate credit history. I presume that means you couldn't find out anything about her, either bad or good."
The controller nodded, his pale, lined face creased into a glower. "Obviously, if that's what our letter said, that's what happened."
"What about Field's and Macy's?" Philip demanded, leaning forward. "They obviously have access to more information than you and your people do."
"Marshall Field's."
"That's a crock! Field's doesn't begin to outclass us and they can't do the job for her that we can!"
"At the moment, our 'class' seems to be the problem." Ted Rothman held up his hand when Philip's face turned an angry red. "You see, when we began negotiating the deal, Aderly wanted that class image, but now her agent and her advisers have half convinced her that it's a mistake for her to try to ditch the sexpot/rock star image that's won her so many teenage fans. For that reason, they're talking to Field's—looking at them as a sort of compromise image."
"I want that debut, Ted," Philip stated in a flat tone. "I mean that. Offer them a bigger cut of the profits if necessary, or tell them we'll share some of their local advertising costs. Don't offer more than what it will take, but get that debut."
"I'll do my best."
"Haven't you been doing that all along?" Philip challenged. Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the vice president sitting beside Rothman, then one at a time he worked his way around the table, subjecting each VP to the same curt cross-examination that Rothman had received. Sales were excellent and each vice president was more than capable; Philip knew it, but as his health had worsened, so had his disposition. Gordon Mitchell was the last to come under Philip's fire: "The Dominic Avanti gowns look like hell—they look like last year's leftovers, and they aren't selling."
"One of the reasons they aren't selling," Mitchell announced with a bitter, accusing glance at Lisa's boss, "is because your people went out of their way to make the Avanti items look ridiculous! What was the idea of putting sequined hats and gloves on those mannequins?"
Lisa's boss, Neil Nordstrom, regarded the angry VP down the length of his nose, his expression placid. "At least," he commented, "Lisa Pontini and her crew managed to make that stuff look interesting, which it wasn't."
"Enough, gentlemen," Philip snapped a little wearily. "Sam," he said, turning to speak to Sam Green, the store's chief legal counsel, who was seated on his immediate left, "what about that lawsuit that woman filed against us—the one who claimed she tripped in the furniture department and hurt her back?"
"She's a fraud," Sam Green replied. "Our insurance carrier just discovered she's filed four other lawsuits against other retailers for the same thing. They aren't going to settle with her. She'll have to take us to court first, and she'll lose if she does."
Philip nodded and directed a cool glance at Meredith. "What about the real estate contracts on the land in Houston you're so determined to buy?"
"Sam and I are working out the final details. The seller has agreed to divide the property, and we're ready to draw up a contract."
He acknowledged her response with another curt nod and turned in his chair to address the controller, who was seated on his right. "Allen, what do you have to report?"
The controller glanced at the lined yellow pad in front of him. As chief financial officer of the Bancroft Corporation, Allen Stanley was responsible for all things financial, including the store's credit department. His twenty years of stressful, intellectual combat with Philip Bancroft had, in Meredith's opinion, probably caused Allen to lose much of his hair as well as making him look sixty-five rather than the fifty-five he was. Controllers and their staffs did not generate income for the store. Neither did the legal or the personnel divisions. As far as Philip was concerned, those three divisions had to be tolerated like a necessary evil, but he regarded them as little more than leeches. Moreover, he despised the fact that the heads of those three divisions were forever giving him reasons why he couldn't do something instead of telling him how he could do it. Allen Stanley still had five years to go until he could take early retirement, and there were times when Meredith wondered how he was going to make it. When Allen spoke, his voice was carefully precise and noticeably hesitant. "We had a record number of new applications for credit cards last month— almost eight thousand of them."
"How many did you approve?"
"Roughly sixty-five percent."
"How in the hell," Philip spat out furiously, tapping the end of his Waterman pen on the table to emphasize each word, "can you justify rejecting three thousand out of eight thousand applications? We're trying to attract new card holders, and you're rejecting them as fast as the applications come in! I shouldn't have to tell you how profitable interest on those cards is to our operation. And I'm not even counting the loss of revenue from purchases those three thousand people will not make at Bancroft's because they can't shop here on credit!" As if he suddenly recalled his bad heart, Meredith watched him make a visible effort to calm himself.
"The applications we rejected were from people who aren't credit worthy, Philip," Allen stated in a firm, reasonable tone. "Deadbeats, as you well know, do not pay for what they purchase or the interest on their accounts. You may think rejecting those applications cost us money, but the way I see it, my staff has saved Bancroft's a fortune in uncollectible debts. I've established basic requirements that must be met before we issue anyone a Bancroft's card, and the fact is that three thousand people could not meet those requirements."
"Because the requirements are too damned high," Gordon Mitchell put in smoothly.
"What makes you say that?" Philip demanded eagerly, always prepared to find fault with the controller.
"I say that," Mitchell replied with malicious satisfaction, "because my niece told me that Bancroft's just rejected her application for a credit card."
"Then she wasn't credit worthy," retorted the controller.
"Really?" he drawled. "Then why did Field's and Macy's just issue her new cards? According to my niece, who's a junior in college, her rejection letter said that she had an inadequate credit history. I presume that means you couldn't find out anything about her, either bad or good."
The controller nodded, his pale, lined face creased into a glower. "Obviously, if that's what our letter said, that's what happened."
"What about Field's and Macy's?" Philip demanded, leaning forward. "They obviously have access to more information than you and your people do."
