by JD Hawkins
I stride past reception, between desks, and toward my corner office, never taking my eyes from Harriet’s design strategy, but still receiving and handing out hellos to all the usual suspects. I know the office and its people like the back of my hand, like intimate family. I could find my way around in the dark and tell who’s present by the smell of a particular cologne or the breeze from a certain window.
At the door to my office, I snap the folder shut and hand it back to Harriet.
“This is good. We’ll talk about it more in the morning meeting.”
She smiles and says, “Would you like anything with your coffee?”
“Whatever fruit’s lying around would be fine, thanks,” I say, waving her away as I turn to my door.
My office isn’t the largest, but it’s by far the most beautiful. Its gigantic windows offer a panoramic view of both the Verdugo mountains and the modest skyline of Downtown in the distance, the accumulations of my work—vendor samples, clothing racks, bolts of fabric, piles of fashion and architectural magazines and paper—lending it the atmosphere of an artisanal tailor’s. A mahogany desk weighs it down, but the scarcity and beauty of the objects on it makes it more welcoming.
Walls of art and photography, a corkboard that’s always cluttered in the most stimulating manner, a mannequin in the corner wearing some of our latest products—mostly decorative but occasionally useful. The office is beautiful enough that the magazine I did a piece with last month decided to take several pictures of me here, using the natural light from the breathtaking windows to create some rather nice images.
As always, I stand before the stunning view of the sunrise over the city for a few moments to center myself and slow my mind down a little, then I get down to work on the pile of paperwork, catalogs, and printed requests that have been placed on my desk.
Three coffees and two hours later I’ve got a handle on things and I’m ready to attend the typical Monday morning meeting that I have with Harriet and Brent—the two assistants I’m working most closely with these days. It’s held in a small, more modern, glass-walled meeting room on the other side of the floor, so I grab a few things as well as my half cup of coffee and leave my office.
I’m the first there, and take a seat at the head of the long table before bringing out some papers. Brent and Harriet arrive at the same time, carrying their laptops and coffees, both of them sitting to my left.
“So,” I say, spreading out Harriet’s folder, “let’s get started. We can begin with Harriet’s merchandising plan, which—”
“Actually,” Brent interrupts, and I stop talking to glare at him. He shares a look with Harriet that’s almost conspiratorial, then looks back at me. He’s a boyish-looking beach-blond with a preppy style and an energetic way of moving his hands when he talks. “We wanted to…”
“Present something to you,” Harriet finishes.
“Yeah,” Brent continues. “It’s like…our own idea.”
“A presentation.”
“No. More like a proposal.”
“Right,” Harriet agrees.
I fold my arms, swing my legs to the side to cross those too, and lean back in the chair.
“I’m all ears,” I say.
“Well…”
“We were thinking of a…sort of…”
“A jewelry line, basically.”
“Yeah.”
I smile at them and their nervousness for a moment, then shrug.
“Good idea,” I say. “I think it was inevitable anyway that we’d have to do something new with that. We sell well in the accessories department and we’ve got the capacity to increase it, but the problem is finding lines which are as high quality, well priced, and on trend as our clothing. Is that what you were so anxious about telling me?”
Again they look at each other like they’re sharing a secret.
“Not exactly…” Brent says.
Harriet leans forward. “Well, there’s more to it.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“You see, we were thinking of doing our own line—”
“Under the house brand.”
I lift a brow, but gesture for them to continue.
“I know we already have stuff under our house brand, but we were thinking more…”
“A brand within that brand…” Harriet puts in.
“Yeah, or, like, its own brand totally.”
“Which we might even be able to sell elsewhere.”
“Right.”
I look at them both, Brent biting his lip, Harriet giving the puppy-dog eyes, and immediately realize there’s more to what they’re saying than just collaborating with a vendor on a new jewelry line—something which isn’t remarkable or adventurous enough to warrant the nerves, even from assistants.
“Go on,” I say, my tone making it clear I’m anticipating the tough part.
“Well…” Brent says, twisting his fingers together.
“Brent and I were throwing around ideas—”
“For the brand.”
“And the marketing.”
“We had one idea that just sort of…”
“It makes sense.”
“Maybe not at first.”
“But the more we thought about it, the more we loved it.”
“It really would work.”
My assistants have become an adorable, excitable, manipulative two-headed monster. I let out a deep sigh, getting a little impatient.
“So? What’s the idea?” I ask.
“It’s…” Brent starts.
“You,” Harriet confirms.
Moments pass in which I feel like I know exactly what they’re getting at, though it’s so ridiculous I want them to confirm it themselves.
“Me?” I say.
They nod eagerly.
“The thing is,” Harriet says, “all our jewelry lines are already affordable, fun, and cool, but according to the data, what we really need is something more…”
“Glamorous.”
“Expensive. Investment piece-expensive.”
“Exclusive.”
“Avant-garde.”
“High fashion.”
“Bold.”
“Yeah, bold.”
“Adventurous but…”
“In a classic way.”
“And that’s…well, that’s…”
“You.”
“So…” I say blankly, knowing this is not what they mean, “you want me to choose the designs for the pieces in this new range?”
“We want you to be the face of it!” Harriet says, smiling triumphantly at being able to deliver the final blow.
I unfold my arms and rest on the table, tapping my fingers on the surface.
“I can see why you might think that’s a good idea,” I say carefully. “But there’s a big problem: I’m not a celebrity.”
“Oh, but you are!” Brent says with glee.
“You’re the perfect celebrity!”
“Ever since you did that magazine piece people have been talking about you.”
“And how stylish you are.”
“And funny.”
“Smart.”
“On forums you’re getting a sort of cult status.”
“Photos of you at premieres and parties are popping up all over online in people’s fashion idea blogs.”
“And that documentary you participated in two years ago about that Italian designer.”
“You were the best part of it.”
“Even though you were only in it for a little bit.”
“Somebody clipped your part and put it online—it’s still getting a decent amount of views.”
“We’re getting more and more requests for interviews with you.”
“Podcasts…documentaries…”
“Aspiring fashion critics who just want to work with you.”
“You’re perfect.”
They stop on this note, and I have to admit they’re certainly passionate. Enough to flatter me, even though they know I hate it.
At least at work. I let the silence go on a little before speaking—though I don’t need to think about the idea much, it’s just a question of letting them down gently.
“I really like that you’re both thinking creatively,” I say, “and looking for innovative, fresh ways to do things. But a few fashion obsessives posting on obscure forums isn’t really enough to launch an endeavor as challenging as this.”
“It’s not just a few obsessives though,” Harriet says, pushing another folder toward me.
“It’s pretty influential people,” Brent adds. “Last week a girl with two million subscribers did a video on your look at the premiere you went to in June.”
“The magazine you did that piece in did a follow-up piece the month after with items you’d worn at the photoshoot.”
“All these stories about you are circulating.”
“Good stories,” Brent emphasizes.
“About how you’re always at the hottest parties, how you’re so empowered.”
“Always with a hot guy.”
“Incredibly talented.”
“How you don’t take shit from anyone.”
Harriet nods. “People want to be you.”
“Or at least dress like you.”
“You’re becoming a style icon, Maeve.”
“Whether you want to, or not,” Brent concludes, looking a little afraid to say it.
This time I don’t take so much time to answer.
“Even if that’s all true,” I begin, “it’s not really something we can do—you know that. You’ll have to run it by the data department to get a proper industry analysis and a P&L forecast—”
“Already did,” Brent says.
“They say the online analytics of your name are all really great.”
“Certainly good enough to act on.”
I’m suddenly feeling like I’m losing power in this exchange.
“Okay. There’s still the question,” I say, “of the marketing department—”
“They love it,” Harriet interrupts.
“It’s not just publicity for the jewelry, but for the brand as a whole.”
“They see it as purely additive.”
“The accounting people like it too, you know, since they don’t have to set aside cash for a celebrity.”
Now I’m starting to realize I never had power in this discussion from the start.
Carefully, I say, “Home office has the final say, though. They’ll want to see a full presentation, and the executives still need to give their approval for something as big as a new—”
“They’re up for it if you are,” Brent said.
Finally, I’m stunned. “What?”
“I bumped into Mr. Greer three weeks ago and just mentioned it casually.”
“He’s very friendly.”
“So nice.”
I uncross my legs and lean forward over the table, staring down at the folders before me as I consider an idea I would have laughed at half an hour ago.
“It’s totally up to you, Maeve,” Harriet says. “If you’re not up for it, then that’s that.”
“Right. It’s all up to you. It’s just… It would work.”
I take my time turning it over in my mind. It’s not that the idea of me having my own line, of essentially becoming a public celebrity, is strange, intimidating, or even challenging. The reality is that I’m already well-known on the L.A. circuit of lush parties and trendy events. I’m already a name that people talk about more to each other than me, I already have interested parties investigating who I’m fucking and where I’m going—I already have most of my style ideas stolen.
If anything, Brent and Harriet’s idea makes almost too much sense. It’s too easy and obvious. If I have any hesitation, it’s in knowing that nothing is ever that simple. There’s also the fact that it would make my status somewhat “official.” I enjoy the fact that I’m talked about, but also the fact I can claim innocence of it. This would be like I’m finally acknowledging something which I enjoyed pretending didn’t exist. I suppose it was only a matter of time, however.
I look back at them and smile.
“All right,” I say, and they immediately squeal and jog in their seats at each other. “I’m up for it. But this is something that will need a lot of forethought.”
“Of course,” Harriet says, grabbing the largest folder yet.
“We’ve already worked a lot of things out.”
Harriet drops the folder in front of me and it makes a loud slap, several photos slipping out. She turns to Brent.
“Should I start or you?”
Our Monday morning meeting ended up becoming a lunch one, and it’s only by putting my foot down that I can finally stop Brent and Harriet from assaulting me with a never-ending stream of mood boards, logo ideas, advertising concepts, and taglines.
Once I break free of the terrible twins I head back to my office to make some calls. Brent and Harriet had the foresight (or perhaps deviousness is a better word) to clear my schedule of meetings before their kidnapping, but I still need to speak to a few people before they leave their own workplaces.
I’m halfway to my office when I hear my name called in a distinctly quiet but flinty tone.
“Maeve?”
I turn to the blonde girl who’s getting up from her desk to come toward me. She’s a quiet girl with a tortured, icy beauty that would have made her a film star in the sixties—though she’d probably have turned down every offer.
“Yes, Annika,” I say. “Everything all right?”
“I wanted to ask you something…” she says, with atypical cautiousness.
I turn my body to dedicate my attention to her fully.
“Of course. What is it?”
She hesitates a moment and looks a little uncomfortable.
“It’s kind of silly. It’s not really about work.”
Her careful tone is enough for me to dismiss my previous urgency.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward my office.
She follows me there and shuts the door behind her as I lean back against my desk to face her.
“Tell me, sweetie,” I say in a more compassionate tone I reserve only for the most sensitive of people.
She stands there, probably feeling a little nervous but struggling not to look utterly beautiful.
“As I said, it’s sort of silly.”
“Nothing’s silly if it’s making you look like that. Go on, get it off your chest. You know you can trust me.”
She looks at me, her face as still as her beauty, only her eyes darting about a little revealing her nerves.
“I met a guy—well, he hit on me. I guess,” she says, taking a step toward me. “It was weird, but…”
“Weird?”
She reaches into the breast pocket of her loose, blue-striped linen shirt and pulls out a small card.
“He gave me his card and… Anyway, I probably wasn’t going to… But I was sort of thinking about calling him. I don’t know. I guess I was just bored…”
I nod sympathetically. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had come to me for advice on romance, and I know that despite Annika’s beauty she’s fairly inexperienced. There’s such a thing as too beautiful, and Annika probably intimidates all but the biggest assholes from approaching her.
“Okay,” I say. “Well, tell me about him. Take your time.”
“That’s the thing,” she says, looking down at the card. “I checked his name online and… I found a picture of him at some of the events you’ve been to. I thought you might know him…”
She hands me the card and I have to pretend to clear my throat to maintain any kind of poker face. Toby Taylor. MIRACLE ISLE. Owner, Full Service Fine Jeweler, GIA Certified AJP + Gemologist. Bespoke design, stone setting, jewelry + watch repairs.
There’s a sudden knocking at the door and I instinctively yell, “Not now!” in my sternest voice. Then I look back at the card as if to double-check.
“I don’t know…�
� Annika says. “You weren’t even standing together in the pic… I just wondered if you might have met him before.”
“Yeah, I know him,” I say, smiling up at Annika.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Pretty well, actually,” I say, pushing away sudden memories of being slammed against my refrigerator. “When did you meet him?”
“Saturday evening,” she says. So right before he arrived in my neighborhood. “So… What do you think of him?”
I take a deep breath, then sigh it out. That knocking at the door again.
“Get lost!” I yell, then relax my attention back on Annika. “Honestly?” I say, handing her the card back. “I don’t think you should call him.”
“Oh… I see… How come? He’s not as nice as he seems?”
“No. Actually, he’s a really nice guy. He’s generous…funny…charming… He’s a good guy.”
Annika almost frowns at the card—as close to expressive as she gets.
“I don’t understand. So what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s…” It takes more than a few seconds before I can figure out how to say it. “When it comes to women, Toby’s somewhat…reckless.”
“He cheats?”
“No… He doesn’t do that. He just sort of…believes his own bullshit. He’s incapable of thinking long term. He enjoys the chase more than what comes after. He plays the field quite a bit, but every once in a while he’ll convince himself that he’s ‘in love.’ But he’s not really, he’s just…a hopeless romantic.”
“I see…”
“And in a way,” I continue, “that’s even worse. He’ll end up hurting you, and you won’t even be able to hold it against him.”
She nods, and then there’s that irritating knocking at the door again.
“I’m gonna fire whoever I see out there!” I shout out.
“It’s all right,” Annika says, pocketing the card and turning to go. “I don’t wanna take up more of your time, Maeve. Thanks a lot.”
“If you’re interested in dating, I could—”
“No, I’m fine. Really,” Annika says, looking back to smile at me so I know she genuinely means it. She puts her hand on the doorknob. “Thanks.”
I smile back and she leaves, her effortlessly striking presence replaced by the insidiously annoying figure of the man who was knocking.
