Really? Not only was that one of the lamest – and oldest – tricks in the book, but it violated about seventeen sexual harassment policies, it humiliated her for the rest of the day with filthy clothes, and it was so tone deaf that it stretched Mike’s credulity. Were television tropes that well-worn? Is that what the public wants? he wondered. Do they really want to see a woman debased by having coffee poured on her and then being patted down by a man who seems predatory? Was he feeding that by even participating in this show?
Lydia cleared her throat and he shook himself out of these deeper thoughts, realizing he hadn’t considered any of this in years, thoughts that connected to larger social concepts. Perhaps the strident feminist standing before him now, her knees practically knocking with nerves, had planted them there.
Dave looked bored. It unnerved her. As if he were just tolerating this as some sort of masturbatory exercise – in a way, though, that was true. As her eyes floated across Matt Jones’ face, trying very intently not to make eye contact, she realized that this was just bread and circus, Dave tolerating what she wanted to do. That’s not what she wanted.
The whole point of this was to prove herself. Resilient Lydia, the one who had been raised by Sandy and Pete, knew that this would be a success – but if it failed, she would just pick herself up, dust herself off, and move on to the next thing. That resilient self would be fine in the end.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, kept her head down and pretended to read her notes, but lowered her lids. The other part of her, the part that had broken so many rules that Pete and Sandy had instilled in her: like family came first, like the family business was her future, like stay here and marry a Mainer – that Lydia was the one perched on a precipice, a giant abyss rising up from the ground to suck her in.
And that Lydia needed this to work.
Apathetic Dave and attentive, friendly Matt were her audience. She had to make a choice. What kind of woman was she going to be? Was she going to be resilient Lydia or fragile Lydia?
Not even a question. She knew the answer already. She always did. She just let the insecurities creep in a little too much, right at the edge.
Resilient Lydia took one more deep breath, looked Dave right in the eye with a nice professional smile, held it for two seconds longer than was comfortable, and then did the same with Matt.
And began.
“Romance novels represent more than forty percent of all books sold in the United States,” she started, eliciting the first eyeroll from Dave. She knew there would be more, but continued. “In 2008, according to the Romance Writers of America, the largest romance writing organization in the United States, seventy five million people read at least one romance novel in 2008.”
“And all of them women,” Dave muttered. Matt frowned.
She kept going. “That’s not true Dave. Actually, nine percent of all readers are men.”
Matt chuckled. “Men secretly pining to read bodice rippers?” he asked. It was a friendly question, more a shared joke than a taunt. Not at all as closed off or derisive as Dave.
Lydia turned to him and smiled, a conspirator's grin, and told him, “No one knows exactly, but it seems that a lot of husbands grab their wives' romance novels and check them out. Although, there’s a whole other component of g*y male readers reading romance novels that I’ll get into later.” She shot Dave a wink. Casting a sidelong look at Matt, Dave showed his first sign of emotion by cocking one eyebrow and making sure Matt knew he wasn't gay. Which he demonstrated by twirling one finger around his ear and pointing at Lydia, as if she'd been insinuating that.
Matt showed no emotion, instead ignoring Dave.
Thank you.
She forged on, undeterred. “The trend's on the rise and most of my statistics end in 2009, although the social media statistics are much more up to date. But, anywhere from twenty-four to twenty-nine percent of Americans regularly read at least one romance novel per year. And that trend is increasing.”
Matt leaned forward, his attention lasered in on her. Now she had him – she could tell, and it felt empowering, gaining his interest with her idea. Her vision. Hers and hers alone; she had carved out a niche for herself and damn if it wasn't finally being noticed.
Wait until she showed him where she could take them both. Umm...rather, the company's advertising division. Oh, dear. She could feel herself slipping, his face open and nurturing in a professional way. He wanted her to succeed; she could tell. It threw her off, because why should he want this? They were rivals, right?
Not really. He had the job already. She didn't. Was he patronizing her?
She didn’t think so, actually. There was something about the way that he was attuned, those bright green eyes taking inventory of her, of her words. The way that he leaned forward on his elbows, his forearms dotted with sandy hair, relaxed and composed all at once as if what she had to say really mattered. And she was glad.
Because it did.
“The distribution of people who read romance novels across the country is about what you’d expect. The majority, about fifty-three percent, are clustered in the midwest and the south. Although New Yorkers and Bostonians get their fill too. Older readers are spiking, too. In 2012, a survey done by Bowker Market Research shows that readers over the age of fifty are on the rise. The bulge of readers – ”
Dave snickered. Matt shot him a withering look, which carried more authority than it should have, leading Dave to glare back. She was watching a very real alpha match and knew who to lay odds on.
Her attention returned to Matt, as if he were the one she needed to woo.
Professionally, that is.
Lydia continued, “ – come in the 40-49 age range with the second largest group in the 26-39 range. Historically, romance novels were purchased in paper, and mass market paperbacks are by far the most popular format – but not for long. Nowadays those tend to priced at about $7.99 each. Trade book size is close behind, in terms of popularity, but with trade paperbacks floating anywhere from $12 to $20 each, it’s no surprise that people are rapidly adopting the eBook model.”
Matt smirked. She turned and clicked her Powerpoint, displaying the statistics as she popped through them, all of them reinforcing the point she was getting to. Dave looked at his watch and stopped any pretense of not being bored.
“What does this,” he waved dismissively at the screen, “have to do with advertising and social media, Lydia?” he asked.
“Good question, Dave.” She maintained her poise, working on trying very hard not to kill him. God knows how many run-throughs she had tolerated for him, letting him practice and drone on and on for pitches that he gave to higher levels of corporate or for going out and trying to snag new clients. Ungrateful ass. Here she was with an idea that could boost division profits and he acted like she was a little girl at a talent show.
Maybe she should stuff some marshmallows up her nose and start shooting.
This is how his director of communications treated an innovator. Mike took a good, hard look at Dave out of the corner of his eye as Lydia continued her presentation, breaking down demographics and talking about the impact of Fifty Shades of Grey, Bared to You, and The Virgin Menage series currently dominating the New York Times Bestseller List. As she went layer by layer deconstructing audiences, talking about market share, delving into numbers and specific profit levels, he watched as Dave systematically undermined everything she was trying to do, dismissed all of it out of hand, and wouldn’t even bother.
He knew what Dave earned; one of his assistants had researched it, when he made the decision to take the Director of Social Media job as Matt Jones, and from what he was seeing the guy was massively overpaid. He should have given Lydia the position – and by the time this presentation was done, he very well might.
Dave dressed well – a little too well. His look was crisp and clean, a bit overdone, with hands that spoke to never having touched a rake or a shovel or, Mike suspected, a keyboard, until he had no choice. He probably was a double thumber, proficient with a Blackberry, and the type who sent emails to his assistant so she could email them to others.
Corporate America was filled with Daves. What it needed was more Lydias. If he really were Matt Jones he’d be sitting here, probably adopting Dave’s crossed-arm blasé attitude in an attempt to fit in, trying to secure his place in the rat race, in the ladder climbing, in the petty world of one ups – of cut downs – of these social signals that permeated business life and took on meanings of their own.
But he wasn’t Matt Jones. He was Mike Bournham and he owned this company, which meant he owned Dave. Not really, but metaphorically speaking. He sized him up. Dave probably held no student loan debt. Those smooth hands told him he came from a pampered background. Mike guessed he probably had plenty of consumer debt. An overpriced car in his parking spot with a hefty lease fee – because these guys always leased up, flashing a car far more expensive than they should drive, but it projected status – right?
Was that a ring on his finger? Yup. Okay, married. Probably owned a house with a heavy, four figure monthly mortgage and at least another car for the wife. Maybe they had kids. If so, daycare costs. Undoubtedly the biggest cable package you could imagine, hundreds and hundreds a month. And of course they had to go to Disney every year and hmm... Guys like Dave radically underpaid their housekeeper and nanny and gardener and considered themselves great guys for giving ‘that type’ a job at all.
Dave was the kind of guy who left skid marks on his underwear for someone else to clean up. For Mike, that was a form of sacrilege as he sunk deeper and deeper into realizing how far he’d come from who he’d thought he would be by now. There were times when he skittered waaaaay too close to being a Dave, skidmarks notwithstanding.
Right now, though, wasn't one of them.
“And so, now that I’ve shown you the background, the demographics, the profit issues and where I think we can fit in, let me lay out the exact plan for how we can create a plug-n-play product, a set of services that will allow us to capture as much market share for these writers, bloggers, publishing houses, all of the people who are intimately connected with the romance industry. And how Bournham Industries and our advertising sector can reap the benefit financially.” Lydia's confidence was evident in the lilt in her voice, triggering a smile Mike couldn't contain.
This could really help Bournham Industries. He doubted the project could get underway fast enough to meet his needs, which were about eight weeks away – before the final board decision when he found out whether he was a billionaire or not.
On that he was confident, as long as everything unfolded according to plan. And why shouldn't it? So far, so good.
In the long run, for a fiscally healthy company and for more – for corporate responsibility, for feeding innovation, for growing internal employees like Lydia who cared, who were clever, who saw opportunities and went for them without any direct incentive – that? That was worth so much more than the money that they would see.
Dave held one hand up, palm facing her, “Hold on, hold on. I just...you know, Lydia.” He looked at his watch and shook his head, displaying a condescending smile. “I think that you've done a spectacular job putting together all this market data.”