THE key to the executive washroom remains one of the most desirable
power symbols in American society. Although it officially offends
corporate etiquette to talk shop within such sanctums, everyone knows
that it is inside these retreats that the true deals are struck, that
mighty secrets are exchanged against symphonic melodies, and that
loyalty is pledged with a few Masonic tugs of the towel dispenser.
All this covert ritual came to mind, the other week, with the sight of
Oliver North touting his memoirs. When the Irangate outrage was at its
height, the story which most intrigued the Washington cocktail set
concerned the notion that North and Admiral John Poindexter plotted
their shifty operations not on some long-range golf course, or even in
the back of the darkened limo, but in one of the top-brass lavatories on
Capitol Hill.
The theory was never confirmed, but on reflection it is not as
fanciful as it sounds. As a demonstration of leadership, Poindexter and
North will have each possessed a personalised washroom equipped not only
with the usual conveniences but, very probably, with confidential
telephones and fax machines and -- who knows? -- a shredder. Given an
effective lock on the door, this kind of bathroom becomes the integral
filing cabinet, a central focus of power in any organisation, and
obviously well worth possessing within the perimeter of your office, no
matter how much space it demands.
''As a rule the occupants of such facilities work from 8am to 8pm and
they may go straight from their desks to a black-tie dinner or a
television interview'', says Barbara Schwartz, a Manhattan decor
designer. ''So at the very least they require a shower and heated towel
rail.'' But once you are into the business of personalised water closets
there follows an entire industry in their executive upkeep. I once
encountered an office where the MD had no sooner acquired his
gold-plated taps than the building's head cleaner decided to describe
himself as Interiors Supervisor. Effectively he was elevating his own
position to something resembling the omnipotent role of Master of the
Bedchamber.
In his watchful way this man knew every move the chief executive made;
knew, too, the calibre and clout of every guest received into the
management suite. Should they be given the bathroom key, they were worth
cultivating with a new bar of Czech and Speake soap. Should the VIPs be
female then a bottle of Penhaligon's rose water would be produced.
With such snobby fussiness disguising his treadmill attention, the
supervisor was ideally placed to act as spy. If somehow an underling
managed to invade this sacred territory, the man with one hand on the
Brasso -- the other on a replenishing roll of Andrex -- would report
back to the boss, and indeed the news of such an impudent intrusion
appeared to cause more apoplexy at the top than any threat to company
profits.
But for women, the executive loo scarcely exists, since few managers
ever stop to consider that women might one day join their ranks. Except
in the bowels of pedigree hotels, the door marked Ladies opens on to
egalitarian country where women swop confidences with the same mirthful
enthusiasm as they swop information on keep-fit classes or timeshare
apartments on the Algarve.
However, amid the rococo splendour of the powder room at the Ritz
things are different. There, the attendant presides like the guardian of
a hierarchical coven. With her regulars she exchanges intimate gossip:
''The last I heard he'd sent her a bouquet of camelias, always a sign of
desperation . . .'' She smiles effortlessly on the arrivistes in their
new-money Fendi furs, a faint curl of disdain on her old vermilion
mouth. But her real scorn is reserved for the passing pedestrians who,
beneath her intimidating eye, are shamed into exposing the full squalor
of their make-up bags as they
try to apply magic with a broken lipstick.
Back in the office Ladies a sense of liberated abandon governs the
atmosphere every Friday from 4.45pm. The place is scattered with
hairdryers, costume jewellery and patterned stockings, perfume aerosols
and shop-rail coathangers as new outfits are tried on and critically
assessed for the impact they will make later that night
in the wine bars of reckless assignations.
Up and down the land this is where the secret life of female workers
is charted and plotted, where clandestine Bette Midlers fall out of the
vanity cabinet to entertain the girls, and where married women
synchronise those alibis they hope will hide a little heartlessness and
tingly cheating. Outside in the open-plan, the men still at their desks
may never suspect how adept women have become at playing the office
wolves at their own game. By whatever name, though, the universal
lavatory cleaner knows better.
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