My biggest disappointment came in my second year as Ariel Liquid Brand Manager, when I introduced a major cost-saving measure for P&G. As part of the 1986 introduction of the Arielette, the Ariel Liquid bottle had also been redesigned to include a pour spout, which served not only to hold the Arielette, but also to prevent the liquid, after the detergent had been poured, from running down the side of the bottle.

One day, a junior member of the Product Development team came to my office with the prototype of a new Ariel Liquid bottle. It looked like the existing one, but the pour spout was much smaller. The pour spout still did the job of preventing liquid from running down the side of the bottle, and it held the Arielette perfectly well, but the bottle looked a lot more elegant and, crucially, a lot less plastic was used per bottle.

I asked if the new bottle had been tested in the manufacturing plant. Yes, it had. Were there any problems with the packing machine? No, there weren’t. Were there any other issues I should be aware of? No, none. How much money would be saved per year by moving production to this new pour spout? ‘Yearly saving in the UK would be USD 3 million,’ the man said. ‘Wow, and on a European level?’ ‘USD 15 million,’ he responded. ‘How long will this change take?’ ‘Once we have the go-ahead, about two months.’ ‘OK,’ I said, ‘great job, order the moulds now and start production with the new pour spout immediately, in all European plants.’ ‘What?’ said the man. ‘You want to order this change immediately, now?? Don’t you need company approval first?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll write a memo, but this is a no-brainer, we are generating a huge cost saving with no consumer negatives.’ (Arguably, there was actually a consumer positive in that the bottle looked nimbler and more elegant). ‘We don’t have a minute to waste,’ I said, ‘we are generating for P&G USD 15 million savings per year for the foreseeable future.’

The puzzled, but happy man from Product Development gave me a document to sign and went off to start the production process. I had many things to do that week, and only got to writing the ‘smaller pour spout’ memo the following week. I sent my memo ‘up the line’ and didn’t think much about it.

Ten weeks later (we had already started production of the new bottle in the UK), I received my memo back. It had about two dozen cover notes. It had gone from my boss to my boss’s boss. From there it had gone to the UK General Manager, who had passed it onto the Regional Manager, who had shared it with the President, P&G Europe. From there, the memo had gone ‘down the line’ to the Head of Product Development, Europe, then to several of his team members. The memo had then resurfaced in the Manufacturing Department, where several people had added their comments. It had then returned to the President, Europe, who sent it for another round to Product Development, Europe, from where it had reached me via the UK Management. The last note was from a senior member of the Product Development team in Brussels. It said: ‘This merits a nine-month shiptest’.  

Shiptests were typically used by P&G in order to ascertain whether non-advertised changes in product or packaging went unnoticed by consumers. This involved taking a small area of a country, shipping the new variant in, and checking the sales results. A nine-month shiptest was in reality a twelve-month exercise. With the help of the Market Research Department, you had to select an appropriate geographical area, one which was large enough to have readable results, but small enough so that if the shiptest was not successful, the results on the overall brand’s sales would not be too adversely affected.

To conduct a shiptest, you had to speak to the National Sales Manager, then to the Regional one, to ensure that they were aware of the test, had no misgivings with the selected area and, crucially, could signal any potential issues in the identified zone that might adversely affect the future reading of results. Then you had to speak to the Advertising Agency, which had to ensure that advertising spending during the shiptest was comparable to what had been done in the past. This, again, in order to ensure that the results would be readable. 

Then, after nine months in the market, you had to analyse the results and get all P&G departments to concur that your analysis was correct. Finally, assuming that indeed there were no negatives, (that sales had not been, beyond reasonable doubt, affected by the product and/or packaging change), only then, could you issue a memo with your conclusions and your recommendation, to a full expansion into your country. Your own country, of course, never ever the whole of Europe, that would be much too dangerous! Further shiptests and careful analysis would indeed be needed before a national change could be expanded throughout a whole region as important as Europe. It was with methods like these that it had taken P&G seven years to launch Pampers nationally, and in only one country: the US. It would take another decade before Pampers, at the time a truly revolutionary product, would be available throughout the world.

When I received the memo back, I went into my boss’s office and told him that we had already been shipping the new product, nationwide, for the last two weeks. And that production had started in every other European plant manufacturing Ariel Liquid. ‘What???’ he said. His face was livid. Within an hour, an emergency meeting was called, at which eight people were present, including the UK General Manager, the UK Head of Production, the UK Head of Product Development and the man who had originally presented the new bottle to me. I had to explain several times what had happened. Yes, I was aware that a memo was needed before proceeding. No, the Product Development gentleman who came to see me initially was not to blame, it had been my decision to proceed with ‘the proper approvals’. ‘No,’ the UK Head of Production said, ‘we cannot stop the machines any more, it’s too late.’ It was no use that I reminded the group that there was no risk at all associated with this move and that the yearly savings were more than Ariel Liquid’s total European yearly advertising spending. In other words, with this saving, we would be fuelling the sales of this brand throughout Europe for free. After a while, and a few long silences, I was sent back to my office and the team decided, in my absence, to continue shipping the new bottle (they had no other choice) and that, somehow, the UK General Manager would handle his boss and his boss’s boss.

Ariel Liquid’s UK sales continued to improve month by month. There was no consumer reaction to the new bottle, with the exception of about two dozen consumers, who called P&G asking where they could get the ‘new’ Ariel Liquid. They thought that the new bottle, which ‘looks a lot nicer than the old one’ must include a new and better formula, so they wanted to know where to get it. And, they all said, they liked the idea of not throwing away so much plastic. 

Despite the ‘new bottle’ drama, which had made the rounds of P&G UK and for a while became a company soap opera, I received another ‘outstanding’ rating. The UK management proposed to me a promotion and a much bigger job, covering several UK brands. But I had had enough of P&G UK and its arcane cobwebs. I had also had enough of the Newcastle weather, which was rainy and windy almost every day of the year, the only difference between summer and winter being the temperature at which rain fell. Even that was quite consistent, from a maximum of 18°C (in August) to about 4°C in January.

Before leaving Geneva, Josée and I had bought a piece of land in Chamonix, on which a chalet was to be built. The construction had been finished by early 1988, and I longed to be back in the city I loved so much and in the wonderful Chamonix valley.

So, in April of 1988, after 18 months in the UK, we headed back to Geneva. We left behind many memorable moments and a lifetime friendship with the Blacketts, which would be strengthened even further when their daughter Flora was born in July of 1989 and I would become her godfather.

I received a big promotion in Geneva: I was appointed ‘Country Manager, Ireland and Portugal’. It was the fastest promotion ever in E&SO and, worldwide, I was the youngest person in a position of such responsibility. Moreover, because of a number of vacancies in Geneva, I found myself reporting directly to Samih Sherif, E&SO’s President and the mythical founder of the Geneva operation. I also received a big salary increase. Josée was assigned to the Swiss group, which conveniently involved less travel. We quickly found an attractive apartment in Geneva, in the rue du Cendrier, not far from the lake, the train station and P&G’s new office in the avenue Giuseppe Motta.

It all sounded fabulous, but I was uneasy. The experience in the UK had shown me that the higher you went up in the P&G hierarchy, the more it became a bureaucracy. I also realised that, sooner or later, I would be shipped out of Switzerland again. I had had enough of travel and wanted to stay permanently in Switzerland, if possible in Geneva, and as close as possible to our chalet in Chamonix. 

I confided in my friend Thomas Kunz, who worked in P&G’s Swiss group and would become a lifetime friend. He was well connected, and a few days after we spoke, someone from Egon Zehnder, the world’s leading headhunting firm, was on the phone. Would I be interested in a position at Jacobs Suchard? he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said.

The interviews at Jacobs Suchard, first with Nico Issenmann, the 38-year-old General Manager, then with Klaus Jacobs, the owner, all happened in the following days, and within a week, I had a contract on my table. I was proposed the position of Marketing Director, in charge of Jacobs Suchard’s chocolate business in Switzerland, its largest and most complex, as well as to run—globally—Toblerone and Sugus, two mythical brands. My salary, including a bonus, would be CHF 220,000 per year (the equivalent of USD  150,000 in 1988), significantly more than P&G was paying me, and, at the time, a fortune for a 30-year-old. The office was in Neuchâtel, about an hour away from Geneva.

In parallel, I had been contacted by Bjorn Johansson, another headhunter. Would I be interested to meet Klaus Schwab, the president and founder of the World Economic Forum? ‘Of course,’ I said. The WEF had been created by Schwab in 1971, and in 1988 it was very well known. The annual meeting in Davos brought together heads of state from most countries, the world’s best academics, and CEOs from the largest companies. Professor Schwab was a celebrity. 

He received me in his office in Cologny, Geneva and for almost two hours pontificated about his personal achievements, the people he knew and the WEF’s extraordinary contribution to the world’s well-being. He then asked whether I would join his Executive Board. When I asked what this would entail, he was vague and slipped back into name-dropping and describing his and the WEF’s great accomplishments.

I left the meeting with Schwab with mixed feelings. On the positive side, I was attracted to the extraordinary exposure that the WEF gave you to world leaders, and the intellectual stimulation of working on ‘setting the global agenda’, as Schwab called it. Also, the location, in Geneva, was very attractive. If I joined the WEF, I would not be transferred around the world any more, I thought. But the big problem with the WEF was Klaus Schwab. I saw him as arrogant, aloof and unpleasant. I had also heard that at the WEF he behaved like an erratic dictator. He controlled every aspect of the WEF, and saw everyone else as his servant. The titles people received were impressive, but their jobs were subject to constant control and scrutiny by ‘the Professor’.

Bjorn, the headhunter, tried very hard to get me to accept, whispering in my ear that ‘Klaus is not eternal, you know, and someone will have to run the WEF after he’s gone’, but I was sceptical whether Schwab would ever let go of his baby (as of 2021, he’s still firmly in charge). So, I politely declined, despite a personal call from Klaus, inviting me to dinner. We did, however, stay in touch for many years thereafter. I attended the WEF meetings in Davos in 1991, and Klaus did me the rare honour of giving a speech at the Harvard Club in the 1990s, when I was in charge of the club.

With the WEF out of the way, it didn’t take me long to sign the Jacobs Suchard contract. Immediately after I did, I sent a message to Samih Sherif telling him that I was resigning. Within minutes, he asked me to come to his office. Whether he had read my note correctly, he wanted to know, was I really resigning? ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And have you signed the new company’s contract already?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said. He then stood up, signalled that the meeting was over and asked me to leave his office. My jaw dropped. But he just added: ‘Go to your office and continue your work. You will hear from me in due course.’

At the time, it was customary that when people resigned at P&G, especially people in more senior positions like myself, they would be let go immediately. P&G reasoned that there was no sense in keeping employees around who had their hearts set on another company; they would not be able to give P&G their best, it was better to pay severance and ask them to leave immediately. I was therefore surprised by Samih’s reaction.

For the next three days I heard nothing. Then Samih called me back to his office. I was no longer facing the kind and jovial man I had grown so fond of. In front of me was a polite, but cold-mannered man, who said: ‘When you returned from Canada, did we listen to your needs and put you to work on Ireland, so you would travel less?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When you married and Josée needed work in Geneva, did we listen to your and her needs?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When your career development indicated that a transfer to a bigger unit would be needed, but you didn’t want to be too far away from a chalet you were building in Chamonix, did we arrange things in such a way that you would be well?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Did we also make sure that Josée had a good job in the UK, against P&G’s usual practice of not encouraging dual-career couples?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And when you didn’t feel like staying any longer in the UK, did we quickly transfer you back to the place you wanted to be in, gave you a swift promotion and a salary increase?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And did we also take care of Josée, who needed a job in Geneva?’ ‘Yes you did,’ I said.

‘And you, Pedro, how have you treated P&G? You just sent me a little note, saying that you have resigned. There was no dialogue, no discussion, not even reasons given for your abrupt departure.’

I then explained to Samih that I wanted to settle permanently in Switzerland and that it would be impossible to do so with P&G, that it would only be a matter of time before I would be shipped to another destination, and it was not what I wanted. So, Samih said with a cold smile, ‘You have not only already decided on your next promotions within P&G, you have even figured out where, geographically, they will happen!’ Then, with a smirk he said: ‘You are a bright young man, Pedro, but you have a lot to learn. This is not the way to treat friends.’ He then stood up and said: ‘You will leave the company immediately.’ He shook my hand and added: ‘And I don’t want to ever see you again.’

The last sentence would not turn out to be true. I did reconnect with Samih many years later, under very special circumstances. However, his departing words in May of 1988, kept ringing in my ears for many years thereafter. He was right in what he had said, and I felt ashamed of my behaviour. He was also right about my arrogance and my naïveté— a few years after our conversation, P&G set up its European headquarters in Geneva, offering a whole range of extremely interesting opportunities, especially for senior personnel.

I left Samih’s office, returned to mine and started packing my belongings. Then the phone rang. It was Ed Artzt, by this time P&G’s Global CEO. I had met Ed during my interviews in 1982, thereafter had had sporadic contact with him. It was highly unusual, if not unheard of, that the CEO of the company would call directly someone in my position.

‘I hear you’re leaving us,’ Ed said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And do you mind me asking where you are going and what you will be doing?’ I explained. He then said: ‘You know Pedro, we had big plans for you, we thought that one day you would be one of the people running this company, you have everything it takes to sit in my chair.’ I was totally moved by Ed’s words, but tried to explain more in detail why I was leaving. I said that I needed a more entrepreneurial environment and told him the story of the new Ariel Liquid pack in the UK. He listened very attentively, then said: ‘That’s why we need people like you. We need to make this company more nimble, reactive and faster. You are silly to leave, this is a place where you could have grown and developed. And you would have had fun doing it too.’

Many years later I bumped into Ed in Milan airport. He had already retired from P&G. He recognised me immediately and we sat down for a cup of coffee. After a short catch-up, Ed said: ‘Remember that chat we had the day that you left P&G?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I remember every word.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘your story about the Ariel Liquid bottle stayed with me. I’m not saying that it was only because of you, but the example you gave me really made me think. In the years after our conversation, we reduced our management levels considerably and introduced incentives for Brand Managers to act more entrepreneurially. I have to thank you for what you said to me at the time.’