Anybody Out There?
Page 92
Wendell went first and what she proposed was no great surprise. She wanted to showcase the Brazilianness of Formula Twelve by flying twelve superselected beauty editors to Rio for Mardi Gras. “They’ll have a blast. We’ll fly them down in a private plane.” I knew it! Private plane! I knew it!
She revealed her first storyboard, which was a photograph of a small executive jet.
“This is similar to the plane we would fly them in,” she said. “Then we’re gonna put each editor in a suite in a five-star hotel in Rio—so many to choose from.”
Here she unveiled her second card—a photograph of the Rio Hilton. Her third card was a picture of a large hotel room. And so was her fourth. “This is an example of the type of hotel they would stay in. Then we’ll get them fitted out in fabulous carnival costumes.”
More cards were produced. Pictures of lithe tanned women in skimpy yellow bikinis and massive spangly, feathered headdresses.
“Let me guess,” Ariella said. “These are the type of costumes they’ll be wearing.”
Wendell’s smile never wavered. “Absolutely! This will be a trip they will never forget. The coverage will be beyond.”
I smiled encouragingly and felt it would be mean-spirited to mention that Rio was thousands of miles from the Amazon Basin and that there wouldn’t be a Mardi Gras for at least another six months.
Lois was next, and as I’d suspected, her pitch was a little po-faced. She proposed to take the beauty editors—twelve of them, just like Wendell—with Professor Redfern, to meet the indigenous people who invented Formula Twelve. “We fly to Rio, where we take a light aircraft to the jungle.” She unveiled her first visual: a photo of a plane. It looked very similar to Wendell’s plane. It was probably exactly the same; they probably downloaded them from the same executive jet site.
“After landing in the jungle”—a photo of thick jungle was thrust before us—“we will then trek for half a day. The editors can see the actual plants that are used to make up the product.” A picture of a plant was produced for our inspection.
“Trekking in a jungle?” Ariella said. “I’m so not loving the sound of that. What if they get bitten by an anaconda and we have a freaking lawsuit on our hands?”
“Leeches, I’ve got a thing about leeches,” Franklin said, almost to himself. “And bats. They get stuck in your hair.” He shuddered.
“We’ll have guides,” Lois said, speedily producing a picture of a half-naked, smiling, black-toothed man.
“Nice,” Franklin murmured.
“Everyone will be given appropriate clothing. Like this.” Lois pointed to her gilet. “It’ll be totally safe. This will be great, something very different. Those girls are so spoiled with glamour and luxury that they’re blasé about everything.”
I agreed with that.
“They’ll feel proud that they survived the jungle—we’ll make a big deal of it, we’ll tell them afterward that we weren’t sure they were tough enough—and they’ll appreciate having connected with another culture.”
It was good. Better in a way than Wendell’s, although Wendell’s was safer.
And then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and held up the little jar between my thumb and index finger.
“Formula Twelve.” I swiveled so that everyone could see the jar. “The most revolutionary advance in skin care since Crème de la Mer. How best to promote it? Well, I’ll tell you.” I stopped talking, looked each person in the eye, and announced. “We do…nothing.”
That got their attention: I’d lost it. Clearly, I’d totally lost it. Horror sat on Franklin’s face: he’d allowed me to keep my pitch secret until now. Ariella would kill him. Of course, Wendell and Lois were thrilled—half of the opposition dispatched without them having to do a thing. Just before Ariella got off her chair and bitch-slapped me, I opened my mouth again.
“Well, not quite nothing.” I twinkled. At least I tried; I’d been out of twinkling practice for a while.
“I’m thinking: a whispering campaign. Every time I have lunch with an editor, I drop hints that there’s a new skin-care product coming. Something off the map. But if they ask me questions, I clam up instantly, say that it’s top secret, beg them to say nothing about it to anyone…but that when they get it, they’ll be amazed.”
Everyone was watching me very carefully.
“These plants and roots that make up Formula Twelve are very rare and can’t be synthesized. Therefore the product will be rare. I plan to give one jar—one tiny jar—to, say, the beauty editor at Harper’s. The only beauty editor in the United States to get it. Literally. And I don’t mail it. I don’t even messenger it. I bring it, in person, to her. Not to her office but to some neutral venue. Almost like we’re doing something illegal.” Now I had them. “She gets it if she promises me a full page. And if she can’t do it, I go to someone else. Vogue, probably. And the jar should be made out of a semiprecious stone, like amber or tourmaline. I’m thinking this tiny, heavy thing that fits in the palm of my hand. Weighty, you know? Like a little bomb of superpowered stuff.”
Still no one spoke, but Ariella inclined her head in a tiny gesture of approval.
“And there’s more,” I said. “Read my lips. No. Celebrity. Endorsement.”
Franklin blanched. Celebrity endorsement was his life.
“Nobody gets this stuff for free. If Madonna wants it, Madonna pays for it—”
“Hey, not Madonna,” Franklin objected.
“Even Madonna.”
“This is crazy,” he muttered.
“And no advertising,” I said. “Formula Twelve should be a word-of-mouth phenomenon, so that people feel they’re in on a big secret. The buzz should build slowly so that by the time it finally goes on sale—in one outlet in the United States—Barneys? Bergdorf?—the waiting list is already full. There’s a waiting list to go on the waiting list. Women will be waiting outside the store before it’s even opened. Jars of Formula Twelve will be changing hands on the black market. Women will be frenzied, it’ll be like new-season Chloé bags, to the power of ten. The most elite thing in New York. Which means the most elite thing in the world. Money can’t buy it. Contacts can’t swing it. You just have to wait your turn—and people will wait because it’s worth waiting for.”
She revealed her first storyboard, which was a photograph of a small executive jet.
“This is similar to the plane we would fly them in,” she said. “Then we’re gonna put each editor in a suite in a five-star hotel in Rio—so many to choose from.”
Here she unveiled her second card—a photograph of the Rio Hilton. Her third card was a picture of a large hotel room. And so was her fourth. “This is an example of the type of hotel they would stay in. Then we’ll get them fitted out in fabulous carnival costumes.”
More cards were produced. Pictures of lithe tanned women in skimpy yellow bikinis and massive spangly, feathered headdresses.
“Let me guess,” Ariella said. “These are the type of costumes they’ll be wearing.”
Wendell’s smile never wavered. “Absolutely! This will be a trip they will never forget. The coverage will be beyond.”
I smiled encouragingly and felt it would be mean-spirited to mention that Rio was thousands of miles from the Amazon Basin and that there wouldn’t be a Mardi Gras for at least another six months.
Lois was next, and as I’d suspected, her pitch was a little po-faced. She proposed to take the beauty editors—twelve of them, just like Wendell—with Professor Redfern, to meet the indigenous people who invented Formula Twelve. “We fly to Rio, where we take a light aircraft to the jungle.” She unveiled her first visual: a photo of a plane. It looked very similar to Wendell’s plane. It was probably exactly the same; they probably downloaded them from the same executive jet site.
“After landing in the jungle”—a photo of thick jungle was thrust before us—“we will then trek for half a day. The editors can see the actual plants that are used to make up the product.” A picture of a plant was produced for our inspection.
“Trekking in a jungle?” Ariella said. “I’m so not loving the sound of that. What if they get bitten by an anaconda and we have a freaking lawsuit on our hands?”
“Leeches, I’ve got a thing about leeches,” Franklin said, almost to himself. “And bats. They get stuck in your hair.” He shuddered.
“We’ll have guides,” Lois said, speedily producing a picture of a half-naked, smiling, black-toothed man.
“Nice,” Franklin murmured.
“Everyone will be given appropriate clothing. Like this.” Lois pointed to her gilet. “It’ll be totally safe. This will be great, something very different. Those girls are so spoiled with glamour and luxury that they’re blasé about everything.”
I agreed with that.
“They’ll feel proud that they survived the jungle—we’ll make a big deal of it, we’ll tell them afterward that we weren’t sure they were tough enough—and they’ll appreciate having connected with another culture.”
It was good. Better in a way than Wendell’s, although Wendell’s was safer.
And then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and held up the little jar between my thumb and index finger.
“Formula Twelve.” I swiveled so that everyone could see the jar. “The most revolutionary advance in skin care since Crème de la Mer. How best to promote it? Well, I’ll tell you.” I stopped talking, looked each person in the eye, and announced. “We do…nothing.”
That got their attention: I’d lost it. Clearly, I’d totally lost it. Horror sat on Franklin’s face: he’d allowed me to keep my pitch secret until now. Ariella would kill him. Of course, Wendell and Lois were thrilled—half of the opposition dispatched without them having to do a thing. Just before Ariella got off her chair and bitch-slapped me, I opened my mouth again.
“Well, not quite nothing.” I twinkled. At least I tried; I’d been out of twinkling practice for a while.
“I’m thinking: a whispering campaign. Every time I have lunch with an editor, I drop hints that there’s a new skin-care product coming. Something off the map. But if they ask me questions, I clam up instantly, say that it’s top secret, beg them to say nothing about it to anyone…but that when they get it, they’ll be amazed.”
Everyone was watching me very carefully.
“These plants and roots that make up Formula Twelve are very rare and can’t be synthesized. Therefore the product will be rare. I plan to give one jar—one tiny jar—to, say, the beauty editor at Harper’s. The only beauty editor in the United States to get it. Literally. And I don’t mail it. I don’t even messenger it. I bring it, in person, to her. Not to her office but to some neutral venue. Almost like we’re doing something illegal.” Now I had them. “She gets it if she promises me a full page. And if she can’t do it, I go to someone else. Vogue, probably. And the jar should be made out of a semiprecious stone, like amber or tourmaline. I’m thinking this tiny, heavy thing that fits in the palm of my hand. Weighty, you know? Like a little bomb of superpowered stuff.”
Still no one spoke, but Ariella inclined her head in a tiny gesture of approval.
“And there’s more,” I said. “Read my lips. No. Celebrity. Endorsement.”
Franklin blanched. Celebrity endorsement was his life.
“Nobody gets this stuff for free. If Madonna wants it, Madonna pays for it—”
“Hey, not Madonna,” Franklin objected.
“Even Madonna.”
“This is crazy,” he muttered.
“And no advertising,” I said. “Formula Twelve should be a word-of-mouth phenomenon, so that people feel they’re in on a big secret. The buzz should build slowly so that by the time it finally goes on sale—in one outlet in the United States—Barneys? Bergdorf?—the waiting list is already full. There’s a waiting list to go on the waiting list. Women will be waiting outside the store before it’s even opened. Jars of Formula Twelve will be changing hands on the black market. Women will be frenzied, it’ll be like new-season Chloé bags, to the power of ten. The most elite thing in New York. Which means the most elite thing in the world. Money can’t buy it. Contacts can’t swing it. You just have to wait your turn—and people will wait because it’s worth waiting for.”
