VELOCITY - DEE JACOB [56]
Including Amy, there were four business-unit presidents. Excluding her, all were men. This was the first time a female of equal rank had been in this type of meeting, and the others treated her a bit like delicate glass.
“Why don’t we abide by tradition,” said Nigel, “and declare that ladies should go first.”
Amy in fact was glad of this, happy to get it over with. She stood next to her chair, introduced herself and began. Half an hour later, she sat down again, feeling confident that she had done well. Yet as Nigel pressed the rocker switch to bring up the lights, she was struck by the hard glints in the eyes of her peers, and on the face of at least one, the trace of an icy smirk.
“Amy, are you truly satisfied with what you have forecast?” asked Nigel.
“Yes. Absolutely,” she said.
“You’re banking very heavily on the Lean Six Sigma stuff to come through, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and according to Wayne Reese, it will.”
“All right,” said Nigel. “Who would like to be next?”
One by one, the others delivered their presentations, and as they did, Amy felt the cold sting of inadequacy. Each of the other presidents in his forecast was much more aggressive than she had been. Whereas Amy had promised year-over-year net income growth of 7 percent – a rather conservative number that she felt Hi-T was all but certain to meet – the others had predicted growth in the double digits, from 11 percent to as high as 22 percent. A game of one upsmanship was being played here. By the end of the presentations, she felt like hiding under the table.
“Very well then,” said Nigel. “I think it’s time for the awards.”
He pressed a switch under the table, and into the room came an assistant bearing what appeared to be a small treasure chest. This was set before Nigel, and the assistant withdrew. Nigel then stood and looked at Amy.
“Miss Cieolara, come here, please. I have something for you.”
The other presidents were either stone-faced or smirking, seeming to know what was coming. Amy nervously approached, and Nigel took from the treasure chest a box the width of a salad plate. The box, as Amy saw, was covered in purple velvet of a garish shade, with fake gold embroidery that was unraveling, and the lid bore a dark stain. Opening it, Nigel produced a green, outsize lapel button, large enough to be read from the far side of the room, and on the face of the button was the cartoon character Bart Simpson taking aim with his slingshot.
“Let me read for you, Amy, what the button says,” said Nigel. “It says, World’s Greatest UNDERACHIEVER! Now, let me pin this on you.”
“Oh, please …” she murmured.
“No, no, you’ve earned it,” said Nigel, smiling as he plunged the sharp pin into the fabric of her jacket’s lapel and fastened the clasp. “There. Go and take your seat.”
Her cheeks burning, she did so – even as Nigel was working himself into a rant against her.
“Seven percent?! That’s the best you can do, Amy? Well, that’s not going to satisfy Peter Winn! Or our investors! And it certainly won’t satisfy me! Our corporate objective is for year-over-year, bottom line earnings growth of double digits. Ten percent … um, let me do the math … yes, that would be the minimum acceptable gain for a projection such as you have given. I take it you were not aware of that?”
“I based my projections on what I think is realistic,” she told him.
“Realistic? Or easy?”
“I didn’t want to overpromise!” she insisted.
“Good. Because I don’t want you to overpromise either,” said Nigel. “I want you to deliver! Your predecessor delivered eleven percent his very first year! What ever made you think you could deliver less?”
“We have a lot going on. A lot of changes. It’s going to take time.”
“Time for what? I do not want excuses; I want results. The only time this corporation relaxes the double-digit, ten percent growth threshold is in times of recession