Monday
I shouldn’t have.
The first installment went well, which I expected. We’d dressed it up with our best shots and some eye-candy effects. I actually saw some smiles and dared to hope everything else would run smoothly too.
The problem surfaced near the end of the second video. Charlotte Hollander’s back suddenly straightened, and I saw her scribble something on a notepad. I jerked my head toward the screen. We were in the middle of a sequence we’d filmed at the trade show. Had we done something wrong? Accidentally divulged some proprietary information? I didn’t think so, but I jotted down the approximate time code when she’d first reacted.
Then, during the third video, Hollander’s mouth fell open and her chest heaved with such a deep breath I was afraid she might explode. I turned toward the screen. We were back at the trade show, specifically the model airplane that dissolved into stock footage of the plane cruising through the sky. Hollander pursed her lips and tried to make eye contact with Foxhall, but he slouched down and practically slid under the table, refusing to look at anyone. Finally in the fourth video, Hollander made more notes.
When the screening was over, I paused the laptop and turned up the lights. The men in the room didn’t look annoyed, but I didn’t expect them to. Most people don’t know the difference between a jump cut and a dissolve and don’t really care. They just want to be entertained, and it seemed they were. I saw a couple of appreciative nods, as if the videos had reinforced what a terrific company they had the good fortune to run.
Hollander, though, looked down at her notes. The wave of icy fury rolling off her could have frozen Lake Michigan. Something bad was going to happen.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” she said in a haughty voice, “but I find these videos unacceptable.”
The room went silent. My spirits sank. I shot a glance at Teresa. A look of panic unfolded across her face.
Phillips frowned at Hollander. “Why is that, Charlotte?”
“This looks like something my twelve-year-old son could have thrown together. It’s a pastiche of amateur photography, editing, and uninspired—in fact, trite—narration. It’s—it’s”—she waved her hands in the air, searching for the right words—“undignified. If we air these, even on our website, we’ll be a laughingstock. And I guarantee we’ll take a financial hit.”
I think I went into shock at that point, because the rest of her words seemed to come at me from a great distance.
She turned to me. “You”—there was a clear emphasis on the word—“have managed to make us look like a third world company trying to compete with the big boys. This is an abomination.”
I heard a few cleared throats and embarrassed rustlings. One man scratched his nose. Another ran a hand through his thinning hair. I looked over at Teresa again. She was staring at me. I knew that stare. Her job and my career were at stake. Immediate triage was necessary.
I took a long cleansing breath and tried to pull myself together. “Ms. Hollander, can you be more specific? We can always make revisions. That’s why we’re here. What scenes were objectionable?”
She spread her hands. “Everything. I can’t believe you’d actually suggest this material is appropriate for a Fortune 500—no, excuse me, a Fortune 100 company.”
“GE has done something similar,” Teresa said weakly.
“We are not GE.”
“I realize that, Ms. Hollander,” Teresa went on. “But their approval numbers have shot up. So have their profits. Analysts are beginning to use words like ‘admiration’ and ‘respect’ when they write about them. And then there’s Richard Branson at Virgin. He tweets, writes blogs, and has an active Instagram account.”
“We don’t make light bulbs, Teresa,” Hollander said. “And Richard Branson isn’t worth discussing. Delcroft makes fighter jets. Consumer airplanes. Drones. Military aircraft. We are the world leader in aviation. This video makes us look like carnival barkers, cajoling people to go inside the big top. I think the entire project should be scrubbed.”
There was more jostling and movement in the room. A heavy blanket of tension was slowly smothering everyone. But my irritation rose. The woman still hadn’t mentioned anything specific.
“What if you and I meet with Teresa, Ms. Hollander?” I said. “So we can discuss your specific concerns. As I said, we’re happy to make revisions. We want to make sure Delcroft is moving in the right direction. And that you approve.”
She stared coldly at me. “I doubt that’s possible.” She glanced at Teresa’s boss. “David, did you approve this?”
He shrugged. Actually shrugged. This from the man who hadn’t uttered a word since he’d entered the room.
“Well…,” Harry the DC lobbyist chimed in. “I liked it, Charlotte.” I wanted to kiss him on the lips. “You have to remember that we’re appealing to a younger generation. We want to make sure they know how ubiquitous Delcroft is. A critical part of the fabric of society. As well-known as Cheerios or—well, I hate to say it, but—Richard Branson.”
I straightened. Maybe there was a kernel of hope.
Hollander shot him a narrow-eyed look but didn’t reply. Was Harry higher up the ladder than she?
At last Phillips, who clearly had been measuring the emotional temperature in the room, took control. “Well, we seem to have some issues about this, Ms. Foreman, but I want to thank you for what you’ve done. This has been a very—productive meeting. We’ll get back to you once we’ve had a chance to think everything through.”
I nodded. I was still dazed, and a monstrous headache was coming on. As the executives left the conference room, I gathered my laptop and cords and stuffed them into my canvas bag. Teresa came over, looking very much like a gutted fish.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
She shook her head. “I didn’t see this coming.”
“I’ll call you later,” I said.
“If I still have a job,” she replied.