Summer with the Millionaire. Jessica Gilmore
Читать онлайн книгу.
on. Even Luca’s, although it took every ounce of determination she had to meet that burningly intense gaze.
His eyes were smouldering gold, promising slow, painful retribution. Just like the time she borrowed his rare Batman comic and dropped it in the swimming pool. Not entirely by accident.
Enough dwelling on the past; this was about the here and now. About impressing them, proving that she had a right to be here; that despite everything she belonged.
‘Expanding into the UK is a great idea,’ she began smoothly, pulling up her first slide as she spoke. ‘As you can see, the UK has been getting more and more serious about food over the last couple of decades with a much bigger variation in both restaurant types and meals cooked at home. Traditional Italian ingredients such as pasta are now a British staple.’
She gave a quick smile to hide her nerves. Gio caught her eye and gave her a broad wink of approval and Minty’s spirits rose. She didn’t sound like an idiot.
Confidence buoyed, she carried on, taking them through statistics on British dietary habits, eating-out spend and grocery spend. Luca lounged back in his chair, the anger in his eyes simmering down to annoyance. So far she was covering no new ground.
Minty was fully aware of that.
‘The expansion as it stands is a two-pronged plan,’ she said. This was it, when she deviated from the ideas and costings Luca had put together. Butterflies tumbled through her stomach, making it hard to catch her breath. ‘Restaurants and specialist food-outlets. I’m not going to discuss restaurants, as they buy different quantities and are sold differently, but I am going to tell you why I think focussing on the specialist outlets is a mistake.’
The challenge was thrown down.
Minty didn’t intend to look at Luca at this point but she felt his gaze on her and, like a magnet, it drew her in. He was no longer leaning back, no longer simmering. He sat bolt-upright, those disquieting eyes fixed on her face, a tiger ready to pounce. Her mouth dry, she carried on, moistening her lips with her tongue, resisting the instincts that screamed at her to back away slowly. To stop right now.
Too bad she always ignored her instincts.
‘Supplying ready-made gelato and Italian-made puddings to the UK is the right course,’ she said. ‘Although we love to talk about cooking, to watch cooking programmes and to buy vast libraries of cookbooks, most people in the UK don’t really enjoy cooking. Not day-to-day. Or people are too just too busy to cook properly. Also, at weekends they feel like they deserve a treat, a break from the kitchen, but the recession has meant that the old staples of going out or ordering takeaways are no longer weekly treats but monthly indulgences.’
Minty took a deep breath. ‘This in turn has given rise to the gourmet ready-meal. Dine in for ten pounds for two, or kits that you put together in your kitchen and that take five minutes to cook but make you feel like you actually made the meal.’
There were a few murmurs at this. Minty looked round the incredulous-looking people who sat opposite her and had to restrain a laugh. They could as little comprehend a world where people bought their lasagne ready-made as they could imagine a talking dog. Which was exactly why they needed her; they just didn’t know it yet.
‘Some gourmet food shops do provide ready meals,’ she continued. ‘But the people who shop there have different values. They care about food, which is great for us, but they also care about origin. A York deli will want to sell ice cream made with cream from Yorkshire cows, not Italian cows, to cut down on food miles and support local economies. And the food miles will be exorbitant; supplying a few delis here and there will cost a fortune, eating into our margins.’
Minty took a deep breath. The table was silent, every person hanging on her every word. Excitement surged but she ruthlessly dampened it down. She wasn’t there yet.
‘One solution would be to concentrate on London, which has a huge amount of delis and a sizeable Italian population. But then we haven’t really tapped into the UK, just a tiny part of it.
‘So we should consider the supermarkets.’
There. It was said.
There was a stunned silence. Minty pressed on, ‘Not every supermarket, not even the most popular supermarkets, but the most up-market supermarkets, to fit in with the aspirational and fresh appeal of the brand. There are two who will manage our prices, sell-by dates and image without cheapening and demeaning our brand. Their endorsement will make us desirable to the delis and specialist food-outlets you prefer and, crucially, raise our profile with the consumer.’
Minty looked up at the last slide, a stock image of a laughing, loving nuclear family gathered around a table, bowls of ice cream in front of them.
What would it be like to be part of such a family?
She thrust the thought aside and lifted her chin. ‘Any questions?’
She risked a look over at Luca’s chair opposite. He was leaning back again, relaxed. To all appearances, open to ideas and opinions.
Unless you looked closely at his eyes. A chill shivered down Minty’s spine. She was no coward but she couldn’t sustain eye contact of any length with such contemptuous anger blazing out at her. She wanted to challenge him, to sustain the advantage her height and position gave her as she stood at the front of his boardroom, but she quailed before him and lowered her eyelids, blocking out the unleashed fury.
Submitting.
Idiot; coward, she admonished herself. You have a right to be here, to make your point.
But when she steeled herself to take him back on, plastered on her most guileless expression and raised innocent eyes back to his face, it was too late. His expression was bland, his eyes hooded. Emotionless.
Maybe she had made up the earlier anger, seen only what she was expecting to see. But the hairs still stood up on her arms; a disquieting prickle at the back of her neck was a reminder. Luca could have been a formidable ally. Instead she had made a dangerous enemy.
There was no time to dwell on her tactics as the questions began. If Minty had thought she could get away with making her presentation unchallenged, she was wrong. The board members might not have had a chance to prepare their questions but that didn’t stop them. Which supermarkets? Prices, margins, market penetration, rival brands? Minty had done her homework, had spent the past two weeks preparing, but the level of detail they wanted at this stage astonished her. Frightened her.
It was very different from sitting down with the three women who managed her cupcake cafés. From the cosy chats over coffee and cakes about new recipes, promotions, staff. Her accountant took care of the finances, the staff the social media and marketing. The shop managers were responsible for all the day-to-day issues.
She was just a trust-fund baby with a vanity business, after all.
The door was so close. She could just leave, sell the damn shares. With the money she could travel, start again, open up a new vanity project: design handbags, maybe, like many a socialite before her. She wouldn’t need her trust fund.
But Aunt Rose had left her the shares. She had believed in Minty, had wanted her to be involved. She had never believed Minty could let her down, would let her down. Maybe she’d been the only person who had ever believed that?
‘Don’t fudge; if you don’t know the answer, say you’ll find out and get back to them. Always get back to them. And never let them see you’re scared.’ Who would have thought that Joe’s ‘top ten tips on winning over the electorate’ would come in so handy? Minty squared her shoulders, turned her charm up full blast and answered the questions as best she could, as confidently as she could.
And she was winning them over; she could see it in their eyes, their demeanour.
Of course, not everyone was getting carried away. ‘Have you set up meetings with these supermarkets? Discussed pricing, volume and distribution?’ Luca, the voice of reason: cold, questioning, eyes narrowed, pen poised over paper, waiting for her answer.