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30
HEIDI
Zoe knocks lightly on the glass door of my office before peeking her head inside. “I have a man out here to see you, Ms. Turner,” she says, using her polite business voice that would indicate a potential client just walked through the door. “A Mr. Cherny.”
“Wonderful. Thank you, Zoe. Please, send him in.”
Zoe gives a polite nod and swings the door wide, gesturing for the tall rail-thin man to enter. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, his too-black hair slicked back with enough product that it shines in the overhead lights. He’s dressed in a midnight-blue designer suit and wears a smooth smile that looks like he’s hiding some mischief that he can’t wait to talk about.
“Hi, Mr. Cherny? I’m Heidi Turner,” I say cheerfully, rising to offer my hand.
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Turner. I’ve been dying to meet you.” Accepting my hand, he gives it a quick shake, and his smile broadens.
“You have?” I ask, surprised by the intensity with which he says it.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard nothing but praise about your work.”
He must be here on a referral, which is wonderful. I prefer earning business by word of mouth. “Oh. Why, thank you. I provide only quality work and do my best to ensure each customer is completely happy with the end product.” Flashing him my warmest grin, I try to calm the sudden wave of nerves. I’ve never gotten comfortable with the sales part of marketing my business.
And for some reason, selling to Mr. Cherny feels even more nerve-racking than usual. Maybe it’s because his accent reminds me of Maks, and right now, my body doesn’t know up from down when it comes to my Russian companion.
“Well, I’m sold,” he says, his smile oozing confident charm.
“And what is it that I can do for you today, Mr. Cherny? Are you looking to redecorate your home?”
“A few of my newly acquired restaurants, in fact,” he says, toying with the nameplate on the far side of my desk. “They’re in dire need of rebranding and a facelift.” At the end of the explanation, he drops his hands, folding them in his lap and looking at me directly with his dark, steady gaze.
“Restaurants?” I’ve done businesses before—usually corporate offices and such. But never a restaurant, and I wonder which of my clients might have recommended me for such a task. But I don’t want to ask and hint at my surprise or inexperience. Because, frankly, I would love the opportunity to decorate a restaurant, and if Mr. Cherny wants to put his faith in me, I don’t want to place any doubts in his mind.
“Are you up for the challenge?” he asks, as if he somehow heard my thoughts.
“Of course! It would be my pleasure. If you’d like, we can set up a time for me to come look at the floorplans. If you have any stylistic preferences you’d like me to work with, I’m happy to include them in my mockups. Once I have a feel for the space and your personal preferences, I can put together a few suggested plans, and we can go from there.”
“That sounds great,” he says and pulls out his phone. “Before we start that, can I get a picture with you? My friends are going to be thrilled when they learn that I intend to work with you.”
“Oh. Of course,” I agree, caught off guard by the request but flattered all the same.
“Great.” Mr. Cherny turns, raising his phone as I lean across my desk to ensure we’re both inside the screen.
Trying my best for a polite smile, I hold the pose long enough for him to take the picture. Then I straighten once more, smoothing my pencil skirt before I reclaim my seat.
Mr. Cherny dabbles with his phone for a moment, a broad smile stretching across his face. Then he returns his attention to me. “Sorry. I had to. They’re going to love that. Now, let’s set up a good time for you to come by.”
“Do you have the addresses of the locations you would like me to look at?” Pulling up a notes page on my computer, I wait patiently for him to say.
He gives me three different addresses, all within the confines of San Francisco. They’ll be easy to visit within a day or so.
“I’m hoping you can start with the Landmark. It’s the one I want to put back on the map as quickly as possible.”
“Great,” I agree, typing in my notes. Then I pull up my calendar. “It looks like I have some time midmorning tomorrow for that one. The other two, I should be able to take a look at around noon on Friday. Will that work for you?”
“Perfect.”
“Do you have any designs in mind, any concepts you would like me to use as inspiration?” I pause my typing to give him direct eye contact and show I’m listening.
“I want to see what you have locked away in that pretty little brain of yours. Feel free to get creative.”
Heat tracks up my neck and into my cheeks, and I try not to think too hard about the demeaning language. It’s not the first time a big businessman has talked to me like a little Southern lady rather than a professional businesswoman. Until my client roster is full, I can’t get too particular about who I’m working with. Besides, if he’s a referral, he must not be all that bad. I just have to suck it up and remember that this is part of the job.We can’t always love everything about our clients, right?
