Page 8 of Third Time’s a Charm

Seeing her sitting there, perched on the edge of her chair, looking like the very definition of determination and hope. How could I say no to hearing her out?

Her passion for the business, and for the plan, rolls off her in waves as she explains her ideas.

What also rolls off her in waves is her warmth. And although I shouldn’t be noticing it, her beauty. Everything about her is lush and full of life.

Her hair is somewhere between gold and red, and though she clearly tries to tame it, little strands keep making bids for freedom, curling around her face and tumbling down her neck, in waves that are almost, but not quite, ringlets. I definitely shouldn’t look at the strand snaking down her neck, because it draws my eyes to where they shouldn’t be. Her cleavage. Which is currently inside a severely cut dress and jacket combo she probably thinks does a great job of hiding it. She’d be wrong. Even the smallest peek of a delicate collarbone and the little depression at the base of her throat is enough to distract me.

Noticing all this is monumentally inappropriate, and so unlike me I have to turn my head slightly so I’m not looking directly at the sun in order to pay better attention to what she’s saying. Not that I need to. If I were here for the reasons she thinks I am, she’d have had me signing on the bottom line before she walked in the door.

But we are where we are.

Except that as she’s talking, an idea starts to shake itself loose in the back of my mind. An idea I glimpsed last night while reading her proposal but was still too unwell to explore.

She’s just wrapping up her explanation of the finer points of her calculations when I see an idea pop up on her expressive face.

“Oh. I have a great idea. I do a road trip through some of the wineries a couple of times a year, you know, relationship building. Anyway, why don’t I organise one for next week and you could come with me? Meet the winemakers. Get to know the Australian business from the ground up, so to speak.” Her eyes shine with enthusiasm.

Part of me would like to tell her right now what the plan is. Tell her she should resign and take her enthusiasm elsewhere.

The other part of me is busy trying to determine if my vague idea has legs.

What I need is time.

So I prevaricate. Which is sandpaper to my conscience, but I’ve signed a damn NDA.

“Hmm. Leave that thought with me, if you would. I need to get settled here at the office. I’ll have to see if I can spare the time.”

She frowns but nods and heads for the door, where she pauses on the threshold, looking back over her shoulder.

“I understand you’re probably very busy, but what could be more important than understanding the essence of the business—the wine?”

She makes a good point.

With that, Louise disappears down the hall, leaving me admiring her determination. Amongst other things.

Her citrussy, herby scent is still lingering when John Mackelden strolls uninvited into my office.

Whilst I arrived fully briefed and prepared on the numbers, it’s not until you meet the personalities on the ground that you get a true impression of what’s going on in the business.

On the face of it, given the breadth of the Australian wine industry, the profitability of this business should be a no-brainer. My initial opinion was that Mackelden’s mismanagement and lack of imagination is responsible for the fact it’s not. Nothing he has said or done since I arrived has changed my view.

Australia makes some of the best wines in the world. They also have a diversity of growing climates and produce a huge range of varieties. Factors that should ensure the ability of the industry at large to ride out uncontrollable factors like weather patterns, and provide a wine to match any social-media-frenzy-induced trends.

“I see you were giving Louise Baker another chance to hang herself,” he comments as he takes the liberty of settling into one of my chairs. He leans back and crosses one leg over the other as though settling in for a chat with a friend.

“I beg your pardon?” Not only am I surprised by his comment, but his tone and facial expression have compounded my dislike of him.

“She’s a nice girl. The wineries love her. Great with people. Marvellous at events. Doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eye.” His expression can only be described as lecherous, which kicks up a red flag in my mind.

I close my laptop and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. I’m a man of few words. It’s always served me well because most people can’t help themselves. They need to fill a vacuum. Especially people with egos they can’t afford. Like the guy currently thinking he’s impressing me by tearing down one of his staff. I’ll give him room to finish his digging before I deliver a well-deserved smackdown.

“Unfortunately, she’s nothing more than a bit of eye candy full of airy-fairy ideas. Of course, it’s fine in theory to invest in new programmes, but all that costs money. You and I both know the bottom line is king.”

So many things are wrong with what he’s said. Starting with his comments on her looks—no matter how accurate they might be—and calling a smart, driven woman a ‘nice girl’. I wait a few beats before responding.

“It’s interesting you’d characterise her that way. I thought her presentation was clever and her projections, whilst being negative in the first couple of years, looked promising.” I skewer him with a glare. “And in future, you will refrain from referring to staff as eye candy, unless you’d like it to appear in your HR file.”

Mackelden does a double take before sending me a conspiratorial look, as though what I’ve just said was nothing more than performative.