Unorthodox Collaboration
Francesca Cattaneo stood, as they were supposed to, behind the red line at the helipad and wished an excruciating death on Kevin Pink, her colleague and rival. One of his immaculately polished loafers crested over the line, a head start as infuriating as the one he’d taken in Aspen. If only Kevin, ignoring this boundary as he ignored all others, would be swept into the rotor or blasted from the roof. Then Francesca could step forward alone and present the report–her report–to Mr. Graves.
As Executive Vice President of Shareholder Enhancement, solving the problem of the plant in Schenectady and its sudden profitability drop had been her team’s responsibility. Francesca had fumed when Mr. Graves insisted Kevin, the Executive Vice President of Value and Quality, collaborate with her. She had only been mollified when Mr. Graves accepted her suggestion to brainstorm at the corporate lodge in Aspen.
High above the skyscraper roof, chopper blades blasted in the evening sky. Francesca gripped her portfolio more tightly and edged onto the heavy red line. Death might not be such a terrible trade if she could beat Kevin.
What a stupid name for an executive, anyway. Real vice presidents had names like Everett or Sebastian or Julian, as if they were adults, not a fourth grader dribbling orange juice down his shirt. Kevin also looked nothing like an executive, with a shock of brown hair that would almost certainly go gray, not silver. His eyes, a common brown, not steel or green or flashing, sat too far apart on his head. Then there was his smile: that witless smirk Francesca had first seen during their ill-fated collaboration in Aspen.
No great rush of air flooded down upon them. The helicopter thudding above, emblazoned with the NYPD logo, flew past and vanished into the night. Then, as a final insult, the overhead lights at the helipad clicked off.
“Go hit the switch.” Kevin looked at her but made no move to do so himself.
“There’s a motion sensor.” Francesca raised one hand and snapped her fingers.
Nothing happened. Francesca snapped again, then waved both her hands over her head. The darkness seemed to laugh at her, or perhaps that was Kevin.
“Fine. I’ll go hit the switch.” The lights clicked back on the moment Kevin took a step. “Never mind. There’s a motion sensor.”
This was feeling more and more like that night in Aspen when, long after everyone else had fallen asleep, they had poured over reams of consultant reports from the Schenectady plant. Despite Kevin’s blithe confidence, none of it made any sense to her. Francesca had already rightsized the floor workers, instituted new KPIs for all remaining headcounts, externalized the production lines, and brought in consultants to reconfigure their core competencies. Somehow profitability continued to fall. During their argument, Francesca had even stooped to waking her assistant Helen and showing her the documents, trying to prove a point about being out of the loop.
“What’s this number?” Helen had pointed to something far off the main spreadsheets. “It seems to be rising exponentially.”
Francesca had scolded her for even looking; obviously executive compensation and contractor expenses weren’t the issue. Once they’d shoved Helen out of the room and gotten back to real work, Francesca had a sudden revelation. Her gaze snapped between the report and Kevin’s far-too-wide T-zone and she realized that they would have to outsource the entire plant: not just the production line but the sales force and technical support and everyone else.
Something about that realization, something about the vast gulf of Kevin’s shiny forehead, something about the free martinis at the lodge bar: it all combined to overpower Francesca. In her excitement about the value they would create for shareholders, she had reached out and grabbed hold of Kevin’s share through his pants. Much to Francesca’s shock, he seemed to agree this unorthodox collaboration created a win-win scenario.
But, while she had moved the needle and helped him issue a new stream of revenue, somehow they never managed to circle back and drill down on her low-hanging fruit. After waking up alone the next morning, Francesca had discovered Kevin and his team had flown to New York. She had only been saved by Mr. Graves’s weekly uninterruptible-for-any-reason Hamptons retreat.
So here Francesca waited, toes on the red line, for the opportunity of her career, and she wouldn’t be stopped by that giant-browed, inexplicably sexy toad. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Kevin and couldn’t bring herself to look away, a paradox only resolved when the motion sensor again determined no human life was present on the helipad.
###
Edmund Holloway Graves slammed into the lobby through the front door, having stepped out of a car and walked across the street like a peasant. His brushy mustache bristled with indignation. How dare the mayor issue a no-fly order the day of his return from the Hamptons. Heightened terror alerts were meant for the hoi polloi, not for titans of industry.
His tempestuous progress toward the elevators was only arrested when a small woman, her graying hair done up in a bun ten years out of fashion, tip-toed in front of him. She clutched a black binder to her chest. The others in the lobby gasped, for they knew no mere paperwork could save her from his wrath.
Mr. Graves drew himself up to his full five feet and seven inches. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Please, Mr. Graves, sir,” started Helen, a good enough supplication that he refrained from immediately smiting her. “I work with Ms. Cattaneo.” She ruffled through the papers in her binder and withdrew a sheet showing the expenses of flying one hundred and fifty-seven people to Aspen. “I think I may have an idea on how to increase profitability.”
Mr. Graves examined the paper for several long seconds. Then he twitched his mustache and two security guards, one under each arm, escorted Helen out of the building.
