The Art of Negotiation

She had risen to fame relatively quickly, from virtual obscurity 5 years ago to president of her own multi-national company. Her products had been written about in newspapers and featured on the covers of magazines. Not much was known about her except that she was 35 (and even that wasn't certain) and that she had a knack during interviews of turning questions about herself into answers about her company. It was generally agreed that she was clever. Not an attractive quality in a woman.

She needed a loan. She needed it quickly. R & D had come up with a radical new product that would sell like water in a desert. (She had a nose for that sort of thing.) But they had spent to their limit on research and over their limit to complete the first stages of production. She personally had gone out on a financial limb to back it but once the product was on the market they'd be home free. All she had to do was find the money for the final stage of production (quickly) before her creditors put 2 and 2 together.

She knocked on his office door and entered. He came from behind his desk to shake her hand (after all her company was nearly as big as his).

"I need a favour," she said quietly.

"Oh," he said guardedly. (This was a new approach. He wasn't used to it.) She sat down and smiled at him pleasantly. (No one would have guessed she was desperate.) He realised more was expected. The silence was getting uncomfortable. He mumbled something about circumstances permitting and if it were in his power . . .

"I need $750,000," she said with a disarming smile. (Actually she only needed $500,000 but when it came to money her policy of more is better taken over of its own accord.) He blinked. (Women's Lib had certainly killed subtlety.)

"I'm sorry," he said, "that amount is out of the question."

(Didn't she know there were channels to go through. If it had been anybody else she'd have been out the door and down to the Accountant's office like everybody else.)

"I could probably manage with $700," she said. ($700,000)

"We might be able to lend $250," he said magnanimously. (He could probably toss a couple of hundred thou her way.)

I really need $700," she said.

"We might be able to go to $300," he said. (Didn't the woman know anything about the art of negotiation?)

She shook her head slowly. (She knew damn well what he could go to. She had accountants too.)

"$350," he said firmly. (She was putty in his hands.)

"You'll have the $700 back within 12 months," she said. "I'll pay interest at 10% over the going rate. I thought perhaps if the company couldn't come up with the entire amount you might consider a small personal loan." She smiled winningly into his eyes.

Was she mad? Did she think he was just going to up and loan her $700,000; some out of his own pocket. And what was it for, anyway? (Not that one asked.)

"I'm sorry," he said in his most formidable tone, "$350 is our best offer." (And not one cent out of my pocket, lady.)

She sighed thoughtfully. And waited. He said nothing. (Skilled negotiators - such as he - knew when to talk and when to keep quiet.) He tapped his pen on the desk impatiently.

"I really need $700," she said conversationally. (Never give in was another policy she had always found effective.)

"You know "Well, he said, standing up. (He had work to do.) My final offer."

"Of course," she said, graciously. "I know you'd help if you could." She smiled pleasantly at him, still- seated, and for no reason at all he felt a slight premonitory shiver steal up his spine. He had had them once or twice before at the negotiation table. They meant trouble.

"Luckily," she said, "I do have one final avenue."

"Excellent," he said heartily. (Why wasn't she leaving?) "I thought I'd write an article," she said.

He looked at her blankly. (How interesting.)

"Yes," she said, "a sort of autobiographical sketch."

She paused. (An autobiographical sketch? Oh shit. Just what he needed.)

"One or two magazines have indicated an interest in my personal life." She shrugged deprecatingly and stood up. "It was just a wild thought, really."

He was sweating. (It was a hot day.) "Perhaps we could see our way clear to make you a loan of, say, $500,000," he said carefully.

"That would be very generous," she said.

He nodded magnanimously. (Phew)

"And then perhaps I'd sell my article to only one magazine. To make up the remaining $200,000," she continued.

"No need, no need, he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. "I can arrange a loan to cover that." She was still standing. "I'll do it now," he said. He picked up the phone and asked to be put through to his bank. She placed her account number before him on the desk.

When it was finished he said that he would have the company loan credited to her account by the end of the week. She smiled warmly and shook his hand. He smiled warmly in return. (He had 4 days to back out of it. They hadn't signed anything.) At the door she turned:

"You might as well throw these in your shredder," she said, digging some papers out of her brief case.

"The ... uh ... original?" he asked (casually) as she handed them to him.

"Oh no," she said. "Just a copy." She switched on his shredder. "Of course I won't need the original after Friday."

"Of course not," he said unhappily, watching it shred.

She smiled as she walked towards the lift. She had no intention of putting her past on public display. That door was staying firmly closed. For the present, anyway. Until it came in handy again. She'd negotiated with a lot of businessmen over the last 5 years (which probably explained why she was still single). She had, in interviews, been accused once or twice of going for the jugular. She had smiled modestly and let it pass. She knew where men were most vulnerable. It wasn't the jugular.

He sat back in his chair and mopped his face again. She'd changed a lot in 10 years. Held first met her when she was 23. Her young husband had been killed in a speedboat accident and she had been left with a big mortgage and some phenomenal hire purchase repayments. He'd been a bank manager back then and her plight had stirred his ... paternal ... instincts. Held explained her financial situation to her and suggested that he could be of help, and perhaps dinner that evening ... (His wife understood about business dinners.) Over dinner he had pointed out that given the right ... motivation ... he could be a great deal of help, otherwise, well, she could lose everything. She understood and over the next few months, on his advice, she had prospered.

Held suggested she increase the term of her mortgage and showed her where to invest the balance of the money. He'd personally paid off her car and furniture and when, 6 months down the track, she'd said she was selling the house and going flatting with some friends from college, he'd been quite taken aback. It was for the best, she said. They both knew it couldn't last. (Held been hoping it would.) She'd kept her account at the bank though and what with her investments and the sale of the house she'd made a substantial amount of money thanks to him. (He was, after all, a philanthropist by nature.) But that sort of thing did not look good in print. In the cold hard light of day (especially in the wrong hands) his ... benevolence ... might be misconstrued. Who would have thought she'd do this to him - after all held done for her. And who would ever have thought she'd be somebody one day. His eye caught sight of the shredder. He picked up the phone hastily and feeling deeply aggrieved he arranged her loan.

---

Return to CONTENTS