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The way he says my name sends a shiver up my spine. It’s velvety smooth on his deep bass, the audio equivalent of slipping into a sauna.
“A rebrand,” I say. “What can you offer that no other company can without having to do major, expensive renovations to the ship?”
He shrugs, once and very deliberately.
I lean forward. “Make it adults only.”
Nick blinks. He cocks his head. “I’ll admit I’m rather disappointed,” he says. “This is hardly a revolutionary idea. There are plenty of adults only cruise lines.”
“That’s true. But what kind of adults?” I ask. “We’ll market the Seafarer as a cruise ship for young adults, for college-aged people and young professionals. Madison Enterprises can make cruise ships cool again, prove they’re not just a place for your aunt and uncle to get wasted on the high seas but a hip, exciting alternative to somewhere like Ibiza.”
I’ve hooked him now. He’s thinking hard, his brown eyes shifting past me for the first time to stare out into the distance, calculating. “We could make the upper deck into a club every night,” he muses.
“Fire the comedians, or, better yet, get someone raunchy and irreverent. Buy Fireball by the gallon. Do themed raves. Make a port list of the hottest island parties you can find. The options are endless.
“And the biggest attraction? Bands, singers, DJs. We could get a hot artist to come and play a cruise for two weeks, then switch them out for someone new the next trip. Everyone’s dreamed of going on vacation with their favorite singers. Now they can. And, because the Seafarer will be docked in the harbor for the rest of the summer, we can do a big event on board to promote it. Throw a Fourth of July party. Get people interested and signing up for the maiden voyage. And, as an added bonus, a big event will bring in cash and free publicity before the ship is even officially launched.”
I get the feeling that Nick never allows himself to show much enthusiasm in meetings, so I get a thrill when he allows the slightest of smiles to slip over his features. “Okay, Ms. Davis. I’ll admit, I don’t hate it. It’s a decent idea, and definitely more imaginative than anything the New York firms brought to me.”
I brace myself, feeling a “but” coming.
Sure enough, he continues, “But I have a question. How old are you?”
I frown. I already know where he’s going with this and I fight my rising irritation. “I’m twenty-seven,” I say and add, before he can continue, “and I’ve been working in the industry for almost a decade, starting as an intern at eighteen. Now not to belabor the point but, if I had my presentation, I could show you some of the successful campaigns I’ve pulled off. Lacking that, let’s just assume my boss would have sent one of the older people at the firm to this meeting if any of them were better than me.”
That slight smile grows a centimeter. “That’s quite a bit of confidence.”
“It’s not confidence,” I state. “Those are just the facts. If I may, how old were you when you started in real estate?”
His gaze is even. “Twenty,” he says.
“And I’m sure quite a few people underestimated you as well?”
“All the time.”
“So maybe we should stick to issues that actually matter here,” I say testily. This isn’t the first time my age has come up as a negative in pitches, and I’ve always suspected that if I were a guy, it wouldn’t be brought up at all. But people see blonde hair and a pretty, young face and equate it to incompetence. It’s always been hard for me to wrap my brain around this outdated thinking. Did these people just manage to miss Legally Blonde?
In the past, this rundown of my ability has made the conversation move on to more important matters, but Nick doesn’t let it go.
“I believe it is an issue,” he says. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve run some successful campaigns in Boston. But this is New York. This is a project over which a billion dollars is at stake. How do you expect me to tell my board that I hired a twenty-seven-year-old from a small Boston firm to helm it?”
I flush and hate that it happens automatically. Nick’s casualness as he questions my ability only makes me want to rip his head off even more.
“Your board?” I ask, raising one frosty eyebrow. “And here I was thinking that you were the one who made decisions in this company. If I’d had known otherwise I would have made sure to give this presentation to them.”
I get a vicious thrill out of seeing annoyance run across his face. The laziness in his tone drops. “I do make the decisions,” he says.
“Did that sound less defensive in your head?” I ask.
His mouth opens with the promise of a cutting rebuttal, but then he pauses and collects himself once again. “Are you really trying to use reverse psychology on me?” he asks.
“I shouldn’t need to,” I snap back. “You like my idea. I have plenty of experience. That should be enough. And actually my age helps when it comes to this campaign. Have you seen ads aimed at my generation that were written by people in their fifties and sixties? They always come off as out-of-touch and cringe-worthy. So sure, if you want to risk the height of the Seafarer’s popularity being a sarcastic Reddit post then be my guest, hire someone whose idea of ‘what the kids like’ is still Katy fucking Perry.”
Oops. My free-form pitch was bordering on unprofessional already. I’ve turned a corner toward belligerence and it doesn’t sound great.
“You’re not entirely wrong, Ms. Davis,” he says. “But the profanity isn’t exactly helping the case for your maturity.”
I resist the urge to (childishly) roll my eyes. “My apologies,” I say through gritted teeth. “I can assure you there was no profanity in my planned presentation. But that doesn’t change the truth of what I’m saying. I mean, come on. Do you even know who the top charting artists are these days?”
