with her; it would certainly make it worth hanging on.
Marjorie Dawson was one of the more anxious staff members waiting for news; in the world in which she lived, that of the beauty departments in the big stores, gossip moved with great speed. She didn’t really have any good friends at Rolfe’s of Guildford, where she was based these days – once she had been the Farrell queen bee at Selfridges – but she still pricked up her ears as she walked into the staff dining room.
Marjorie was fifty-five and had worked for the House of Farrell since her twenty-second birthday when it had still been a very respectable member, if not one of the stars of the cosmetic firmament. She had done well from the beginning, her weekly figures always among the top five accounts; Lady Farrell had picked her out quickly, appreciating the irresistible combination of sweet-voiced prettiness and a steely determination to reach the top. At the age of thirty-five, she had been put in charge of consultant training, visiting all the stores on a regular basis, often dropping in unexpectedly. The occasional young consultant, caught gossiping while a customer struggled to attract her attention, never repeated the offence again after a few to-the-point words from Marjorie.
She was also an invaluable source of information about the brand and its customers, reporting as she did to the Farrells on a twice-monthly basis; Marjorie could tell them not only which colours were selling best, and which promotions had worked, but how the customers actually felt about the latest advertising campaign or counter card.
But that was the peak of her career; as the eighties drew to a close and brash colours and intense, chemically based perfumes took over the market, one by one the Farrell consultants found themselves sidelined, smiling brightly and hopefully by their endlessly tidied counters while women walked past them unseeingly, lured by the hard, sexy sell of what was forever to be known as the shoulder-pad era.
Gradually the accounts in the big stores were closed down; the successful, clever girls, like Marjorie were moved on to smaller, less glamorous establishments, the less fortunate dismissed. Countrywide there were now only twenty-eight department stores with Farrell counters – and only a handful of them, Marjorie knew, justified their space. She was no fool; she had spent her life in the cosmetic business, and she knew that in spite of its fluffy image, its heart was as hard as nails. It was big business; and big business had to pay. As one of the gay make-up artists – there seemed to be more and more of them, these days – who did events at Rolfe’s said to her over several very jolly glasses of wine, ‘Marjorie, darling, it don’t mean a thing if it don’t go ker-ching!’ Ker-ching being, of course, the music of the till.
Rolfe’s did not do badly; she had a loyal clientele who had always used Farrell products, but sometimes she read of the millions of pounds annually turned over in the top stores and felt quite sick and anxious because she was the family breadwinner. When Marjorie walked out of the house in the morning she left behind her a husband who hadn’t worked for fifteen years; he had been a scaffolder in his youth, a handsome young man called Terry, who had won Marjorie’s heart, and for a time they had been a rather dashing young pair, with what looked like a very promising life before them. Then a horrible fall had crushed his spine and left him in a wheelchair. His disability allowance was smaller than ever thanks to ‘the cuts’, and they were fairly strapped for cash, as Terry put it. Marjorie’s income was essential: without it, she had absolutely no idea what they would do.
Patrick looked round the incredibly cool bar Jonjo had brought him to, all glass and mirrors and black and white. He’d ordered a gin and tonic, which Jonjo had clearly found quite amusing, and was listening to Jonjo telling him about his new job.
Marjorie Dawson was one of the more anxious staff members waiting for news; in the world in which she lived, that of the beauty departments in the big stores, gossip moved with great speed. She didn’t really have any good friends at Rolfe’s of Guildford, where she was based these days – once she had been the Farrell queen bee at Selfridges – but she still pricked up her ears as she walked into the staff dining room.
Marjorie was fifty-five and had worked for the House of Farrell since her twenty-second birthday when it had still been a very respectable member, if not one of the stars of the cosmetic firmament. She had done well from the beginning, her weekly figures always among the top five accounts; Lady Farrell had picked her out quickly, appreciating the irresistible combination of sweet-voiced prettiness and a steely determination to reach the top. At the age of thirty-five, she had been put in charge of consultant training, visiting all the stores on a regular basis, often dropping in unexpectedly. The occasional young consultant, caught gossiping while a customer struggled to attract her attention, never repeated the offence again after a few to-the-point words from Marjorie.
She was also an invaluable source of information about the brand and its customers, reporting as she did to the Farrells on a twice-monthly basis; Marjorie could tell them not only which colours were selling best, and which promotions had worked, but how the customers actually felt about the latest advertising campaign or counter card.
But that was the peak of her career; as the eighties drew to a close and brash colours and intense, chemically based perfumes took over the market, one by one the Farrell consultants found themselves sidelined, smiling brightly and hopefully by their endlessly tidied counters while women walked past them unseeingly, lured by the hard, sexy sell of what was forever to be known as the shoulder-pad era.
Gradually the accounts in the big stores were closed down; the successful, clever girls, like Marjorie were moved on to smaller, less glamorous establishments, the less fortunate dismissed. Countrywide there were now only twenty-eight department stores with Farrell counters – and only a handful of them, Marjorie knew, justified their space. She was no fool; she had spent her life in the cosmetic business, and she knew that in spite of its fluffy image, its heart was as hard as nails. It was big business; and big business had to pay. As one of the gay make-up artists – there seemed to be more and more of them, these days – who did events at Rolfe’s said to her over several very jolly glasses of wine, ‘Marjorie, darling, it don’t mean a thing if it don’t go ker-ching!’ Ker-ching being, of course, the music of the till.
Rolfe’s did not do badly; she had a loyal clientele who had always used Farrell products, but sometimes she read of the millions of pounds annually turned over in the top stores and felt quite sick and anxious because she was the family breadwinner. When Marjorie walked out of the house in the morning she left behind her a husband who hadn’t worked for fifteen years; he had been a scaffolder in his youth, a handsome young man called Terry, who had won Marjorie’s heart, and for a time they had been a rather dashing young pair, with what looked like a very promising life before them. Then a horrible fall had crushed his spine and left him in a wheelchair. His disability allowance was smaller than ever thanks to ‘the cuts’, and they were fairly strapped for cash, as Terry put it. Marjorie’s income was essential: without it, she had absolutely no idea what they would do.
Patrick looked round the incredibly cool bar Jonjo had brought him to, all glass and mirrors and black and white. He’d ordered a gin and tonic, which Jonjo had clearly found quite amusing, and was listening to Jonjo telling him about his new job.
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