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The bread basket in front of them goes untouched as Wilson relays an email to my father about the mid-month numbers from our Southeast Asia market. We’re keeping careful watch on it because GHV’s fashion group opened twenty new stores there earlier in the year, ten in Singapore alone.
“As we expected, the region’s large population and growing purchasing power present quite a lucrative opportunity for GHV,” Wilson declares. “Revenue in the luxury goods market amounted to $5.1 billion in just the first half of this month.”
My father nods at me and points to the seat across from him as he asks, “What topped the list?”
“Watches and jewelry,” I answer before Wilson can.
I read the report in the car on my way over.
I reach out for a piece of bread, still warm, and drop it onto my plate before adding, “That category made up nearly forty-two percent of total revenue, followed by fashion at twenty-eight percent, cosmetics and fragrance at sixteen. Leather goods made up the rest. Is there butter?”
A waiter materializes behind me, placing a chilled dish of butter down near my plate.
“Sir, could I get you a drink?”
“He’ll have a bourbon neat,” my father says, waving the waiter away with an air of impatience.
“I’ll take a beer, actually. A stout or a porter, whichever you have is fine.”
The waiter bows. “Of course.”
My father’s hard eyes assess me from across the table. He hates that I contradicted him in public, no matter that it was only in front of Wilson and some twenty-year-old kid paying his way through college by working at Menton. Yes, my father’s only just left Paris and for lunch he’s chosen a French restaurant. God forbid he eats a cheeseburger.
His gaze roves over my attire and I’m sure he’s looking for something out of place to comment on, but he won’t find it. In some ways I feel bad for him. An aging lion sitting across from his son, knowing his days on Pride Rock are numbered. I’m not planning to oust him from the company or have him murdered—this isn’t The Godfather—but even without my assistance, time marches on. The gray hairs at his temples and the wrinkles starting to appear at the corners of his eyes are proof of that.
“We’re doing the tasting menu,” he says, trying to assert dominance over me any way he can.
I don’t have the heart to argue about food.
“Sounds good. Now why are we here?”
Wilson’s typing away on his laptop. Likely he’s been instructed to take meeting minutes.
For all I know, he’s documenting every detail.
12:36 PM Emmett slathers an alarming amount of butter onto the right side of his bread.
12:36 PM Emmett takes a bite of the bread, ingesting every ounce of the butter he applied.
12:37 PM Emmett goes back for more.
12:38 PM Emmett gives me a dirty look.
“Before the end of the week, news outlets will catch wind of a change that’s been made within our family’s holding company. I wanted you to be alerted first.”
How gracious of him.
I put down my bread since it appears we’ll actually be talking about something interesting.
“As you’re well aware, my aim is to have you and Alexander run the company after I step down, though don’t get excited—that’s still a few years away.”
I respond with a short laugh. “I appreciate the reassurance that you haven’t called this lunch to share news that you’re on your deathbed, but just to clarify, I’m not chomping at the bit to take your place.”
The battle of succession within the Mercier family is a story the media likes to drum up on slow news days, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. I have plenty of issues with my father, but they don’t include the way he runs GHV. I’m fully aware that he’s a powerhouse in our industry, and most days I’m still in awe of him.
He nods, seeming obliged to believe me.
“To protect our ownership stake, the Mercier family holding company will be turned into a joint-stock partnership. The majority of the share capital will be held by you. The remaining forty-nine percent will be held by Alexander, and for now, I will remain the managing general partner.”
None of this is all that shocking to me. He’s been grooming me to take my position at the helm of GHV since I was born. We’ve talked about this joint-stock partnership on multiple occasions, though now that it’s happening, it feels as if it will come with strings.
He straightens his already straight salad fork—ensuring it’s exactly aligned with his lunch plate—before continuing, “It’s my intention that the Mercier family will control and run GHV ad infinitum.”
“Of course. You have my word that should anything happen to you, I’ll continue to run the company, following your best practices and standards.”
“That’s no longer enough. I intend on safeguarding GHV’s future beyond you.”
