Chapter Six-We’re Going to Be Stars

JUDE MANAGED TO SET the Manheim’s appointment for September, giving us just under two months to prepare. We were flying as high as, well, kites with all the potential that this oppor¬tunity would give us. That was until we linked up with a consultant that Jude had met quite by accident.
The consultant’s name was Danielle McCourt, and she was known, or at least touted herself as, the representative for any and all upcoming stars. As she’d said, designers with truly fresh, unique ideas, who would, of course, under her tutelage and marketing expertise, become the next Donna Karan of jewelry.
Being the planner half of the partnership, I, decided to check this woman out. For all I could tell, she was the one who could give us the keys to the kingdom—the information, the direction and how to get to the right buyers—or at least sell them to us. We couldn’t afford to advertise directly to consumers, but we did have the time and energy to approach the retailers.
Having spoken to her briefly on the phone after my due dili¬gence, we set up a conference call for the following day.
“Dahling,” Danielle said. “Rally, if you’re having a problem with my fee, frankly, you probably shouldn’t be trying to stretch yourself at this time,” she told me in a haughty tone. Prior to that she’d just announced that her consulting fee for such a conversation, a phone conversation—not even face to face—was $500 per hour!
My mind blanked for a moment. “No, no,” I finally said. “It’s not a problem.” We’d just put it on the Visa.
It was set. The conference call would be in three days. I was a little anxious, but I figured if she was getting that much money, she must be good. After checking the Better Business Bureau and a few other sources, I hadn’t found any negative remarks about her work. Thinking back, I should have asked her for some references, people she’d helped before, but at the time, I thought that would be rude.
That Friday, Jude and I met at the office, set up the speaker phone on the conference table, and prepared for the lesson of our marketing lives.
I had three steno pads and about ten pre-sharpened number two pencils by my side. Then, the two of us sat and stared at the speaker resting in the middle of the table, as if God herself was going to voice her opinions at any moment.
Fifteen minutes went by—nothing. Half an hour passed— nothing. Just then, as we were about to be lulled into a nap, the loud ringer went off. As if we were having an audition with David Letterman, we primped and pulled at our blouses, tidied our hair, cleared our voices, and then I pushed the button.
“Hello,” I said in my most businesslike voice. “This is Frances Gadbois. How may I help you?” pretending to be calm and not knowing who it was.
“Hallo, girls. This is Danielle. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Ms. McCourt, we can hear you just fine,” we chimed in like two girls the first day of first grade, in far too loud voices.
“Right, right then. Are we ready?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” I said anxiously. “Where do we begin?” I added quickly, wondering if the $500 clock had already started ticking.
“Okay, ladies. Let us begin,” she said, and with that she launched into a 30-minute set of questions, so rapidly we didn’t have time to answer. I just made notes furiously on my pad, hoping to break in at any moment, all the while glancing from my notepad to the clock on the wall. After all, I thought, we don’t want to spend our entire hour listening to questions. We need answers!
After her full 30-minute diatribe was over—one that was mostly devoted to telling us how great she was and listening to all her accomplishments and her opinions about the industry, politics, and even religion—she stopped.
Our chance had arrived.
“Uh, Ms. McCourt, are you there? Are you finished?” I asked.
“Quite, my dear. Do you have any questions?” she asked, as if that would be extra.
“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact we do have quite a few ques¬tions,” I said. Then we began asking about the shows, how to get into them, how to get to the right buyers, who were the right buyers?
When we were through, we sat poised, pencils in hand, awaiting the word from above. What followed was another lecture in which we both, for want of a better description, got a thorough butt whippin’.
She belittled us for our naiveté, abused us for our lack of expe¬rience or even brainpower, and just plain chastised us for even thinking we could make something out of ourselves in this business.
In addition, she told us that partnerships were a horrible idea.
The final straw, just before I slammed down the phone, was when she said, with a tongue sharp enough to split our hopes like a knife across a warm stick of Land ‘O Lakes, “Dahlings, you two girls are nothing but a couple of L.A. knock-off chicks. West Coast Wannabes. Sorry, girls. Your hour’s up. Ta ta.”
Jude and I sat at the table for nearly ten minutes before we could move. I was grinding my teeth to nubs, clenching my fists under the table, and wondering if anyone had jotted down the license plate of the truck that had just run over us.
“What in the hell was that?” Jude asked.
“I don’t have a clue, but make sure you write Visa a letter when you get the bill. We need to get that charge credited back,” was all I could think to say in my inimitably organized way. Other than that, I was dumbstruck as Jude kept pacing around the room, wringing her hands, and trying to catch her breath.
I was only in that state for a few minutes, though. Screw her was my very next thought, or words to that effect. It just made me that much more determined that we would be successful, hugely successful, and someday I would be able to very discreetly rub something in her face—like maybe an appearance on Oprah.