by Judith Gould
She was silent for a moment. “I won’t be just a figurehead, Leo,” she warned. “If that’s what you want, we don’t need to discuss it any further.”
He laughed. “That’s fine by me. I’m not looking for a figurehead; those come a dime a dozen. I want you.”
“You sound very sure of yourself. As if we are going to be working together.” She frowned slightly and held his gaze.
“Yep.” He grinned again. “That we are.”
“But you haven’t even seen anything I’ve done!” she protested. “For all you know, I can’t design my way out of a paper bag.”
“On the contrary,” he said levelly. “You’re good, Eds. Very good, in fact.”
She looked at him intently. “How do you know?”
He smiled slightly. “Because these tell me so.” He sat forward, reached over to an end table, and picked up a sheaf of drawing boards. Wordlessly he handed them to her.
One look, and she recognized them instantly. “How did you get hold of these?” she demanded, slapping them down on the coffee table.
“Will knowing that decide you one way or the other?”
She hesitated. “No,” she said finally.
He smiled. “Your ex-husband gave them to me.”
“Duncan?” She couldn’t believe it.
He nodded.
“But he . . . he hasn’t even been to the house since I did these!” she exclaimed. “How could he . . . ?”
“It seems the people around you care deeply about you, Eds. Your daughter gave them to him to show to me.”
Anger rose like boiling lava inside her. It was all she could do not to have a major temper tantrum. She crossed her arms and sat there tight-lipped and fuming, tapping her elbows. Vibrating lethal energy seemed to come off her like sparks.
“You’re angry,” he said.
He wasn’t prepared for the way her silver-gray eyes darkened to pitch black. “You bet your sweet patootie I’m angry!” she said bitterly. “No one—no one—had the right to take off with these! They’re mine, goddammit!”
As if on cue, a uniformed butler approached on silent feet, cleared his throat, and announced that most hackneyed of phrases: “Luncheon is served.”
Chapter 41
It was impossible for Edwina to sustain her anger over lunch. Especially with Leo’s charm and attentiveness, the luxury of the private dining room, and food that would have done the chefs at Le Cirque proud. There was a terrine of fois gras, followed by a saddle of venison with wild mushrooms, a salad, and warm rhubarb tarts. All washed down with Dom Ruinart Rosé and Château Pichon-Lalande, 78.
“Ideally,” Edwina said, her eyes fixed on his, “the first collection will be completed within the next eight months and be in the stores by the middle of next year.”
Leo was silent for a moment. “In other words, May or June,” he said thoughtfully. “That makes it the summer collection.” He frowned slightly. “Won’t it be a little late in the season for that?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Under normal circumstances it would be. But you see, that’s the beauty of it. We won’t be launching the first collection late.” Something sly came into her eyes and shone brightly. “We’ll be launching it early.” She picked up her wine, swirled it around in the glass, and sat back, waiting for his response.
He looked at her with new respect. “In other words, you’re proposing we unveil the fall collection in the beginning of summer?”
“Right!” She nodded, looking at him warmly and feeling very pleased with herself. If she had to say one thing about Leo Flood, she thought, it was that he caught on fast.
“Hmmm.” He chewed a bite of venison thoughtfully, then gestured with his fork. “Don’t you think that’s jumping the gun a little?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Remember, the fall collections traditionally land in the stores during the summer; likewise, the winter collections start being sold in the fall. All we’d be doing is starting a bit early, thereby getting a jump on the competition.” She looked over the top of her wineglass at him.
“Ah!” he exclaimed.
“Ahhhhh . . .” she echoed.
“Ah,” he said again, with relish.
“Ahhhh,” she repeated softly, and smiled.
For a long moment they stared at each other, two conspirators enjoying their secret plotting enormously. With her talent and experience and his wealth and business acumen, they could both almost sense the beginnings of a revolution in the making.
“You know, you’re no end of surprises,” he said admiringly.
“While you’re on the subject, there’s another surprise you should be aware of,” she warned. “The sketches you saw aren’t what I really have in mind. At least, not anymore.”
“They show you’ve got talent,” he said.
She gave a deprecating wave and laughed. “You and I both know that in this town talent comes cheap. Every other person has an artistic streak—or has at least fooled himself into thinking he has.”
Leo leaned across the table. “Well?” he asked quietly. “What do you have in mind?”
She met his gaze directly. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,” she said. “For the longest time I’d envisioned doing couture or expensive ready-to-wear.” She shook her head. “Now I’ve come to the conclusion that I was on the wrong track. There are altogether too many exclusive, expensive snob-appeal clothes out there already. Take a minute to think about it. Does this country—or the world— need another Oscar de la Renta? Another Antonio de Riscal?” She shook her head a second time. “I sincerely doubt it. Don’t get me wrong, Leo. I love wearing knockout designer clothes. They’re my passion—my single greatest weakness, in fact. Nothing under the sun makes me feel quite as good and at the top of the world as wearing something absolutely frivolous and outrageously expensive. But—and this is a big ‘but’—buying those kinds of clothes is a whole different story from trying to sell them. I believe that the market for them is just too limited. Not to mention dangerously failure-ridden.”
“My sentiments exactly.” He nodded approvingly.
“I’m glad you feel that way. Now, take the late Willi Smith. As far as I’m concerned, he was on the right sales track with his Williwear.”
“Which was?”
“Which sums up what I’d like to offer the consumer—a wide range of affordable clothing that can be mixed and matched a thousand different ways.” She sat forward, her words now tumbling out excitedly. “In other words, Leo, an entire coordinated collection! Oh, it’s been done before, I know that, but never on the scale I envision. Colorful stretch tops. Mix-and-match bottoms. Bright vests and sweaters. Tunics that do double duty as long shirts or short dresses. Psychedelic panty hose. And all topped off with a choice of one hundred and one shades of blinding, irrepressibly bright leg warmers, practically sheer ones for summer, and heavy wool ones for winter.” She paused, bright-eyed and breathless. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s pure genius. And, demographically speaking, it’s aiming at the largest fashion-conscious group of consumers in the country.”
“I hope you’ll still feel that way after you hear me out. To make it in this business, to really, truly make it, we need to have our own in-store boutiques in at least every Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, Shacklebury-Prince, and Marshall Field store nationwide. That would virtually guarantee us overnight success.”
He looked at her intently. “Go on,” he said slowly.
She reached for her Pichon-Lalande and took a fortifying sip. “I know that getting our own space in department stores will be not just difficult, but next to impossible. The competition for that, even among established, high-volume firms like Donna Karan and Ralph Lauren, is lethal. But we’ve got to have it. Without it, everything’s far, far too iffy.”
“Then what makes you think we’ve got such a good chance of getting it?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Did I say we did?”
“Perhap
s not in so many words.” He smiled. “But you wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.”
“True.” Her eyes reached across the table, burning into his. “You see, Leo,” she said quietly, “I’ve come up with a brand-new marketing concept. At least, it’s brand-new as far as fashion merchandising goes. To my knowledge, it has never been tried before.”
He was silent for a moment. “You certainly know how to pique someone’s interest.”
Setting down her wineglass, she placed her forearms on the edge of the table and ran a finger around the rim of the glass. Then she pushed it aside and folded her hands. “Going mass market will take big money,” she said in preamble.
A shadowed smile crossed his lips. “I have big money,” he said without boastfulness.
“I know that,” she said. “But we’re talking millions here. You are aware of that?”
He wasn’t fazed. “The old saying might be trite, but it is true: you’ve got to spend money to make money. Money’s to invest and reinvest.” He laughed. “Forget casinos. Business is the biggest game going.”
She was suddenly annoyed. “Is that how you view fashion? Simply as a game?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “as an investment. A successful investment, I might add. With your designs and marketing ideas, I’m convinced only the sky’s the limit.”
“In that case, the in-store boutiques are essential. And they’re also where a big share of the costs will go. We’ll have to supply everything—and that includes the custom-built boutiques themselves. In order to cut costs, and to make them instantly recognizable, I came upon the idea of having them all prefabricated—they’d be identical—sort of like big kiosks that’ll come with every last hook and shelf and hanger in place. I want them designed so they can be set up or come down in a day. That way, all they’ll need is to be stocked with our collection, and—bingo!—we’re in business.”
“Sounds to me like you’re planning a Pizza Hut,” he said cheerfully.
“Or a McDonald’s.” She smiled.
He looked amused. “Move over, fast food, here comes fast fashion.”
“Don’t laugh. Hamburgers and clothes really aren’t all that different.”
He laughed and shook his head in wonder. “What is this world coming to? First there was junk food. Then came junk bonds. And now we have junk fashions.”
“Watch it,” she growled. “They’re not junk fashions. They’ll be high-quality, well-designed, and affordable clothing. But they are not junk.”
He bowed his head slightly. “I stand corrected.”
She looked at him narrowly. “I know I’m oversensitive on this issue, but I won’t, nor will I ever, try to market junk.”
“It was just a manner of speaking. But you’re good, Eds, I’ll give you that. No, not good,” he corrected himself. “Better than good. In a word, you’re terrific! Has anybody ever told you that?”
“At least once each day, and if I’m very, very lucky, more often. Now, before you get swept away, Leo, there’s more.” Her meal was totally forgotten and her voice had dropped so low that he had to strain to hear her. “Here’s the crowning touch. Granted, it’s more a marketing ploy than fashion, but like I said, what works for hamburgers should work for clothes. The bottom line’s the same. Right?” She raised her eyebrows prettily.
“I’d say so.” He nodded solemnly.
“That’s why I suggest—no, make that demand—that all our cash registers, every last one, be hooked up to a central computer. That way, each and every sale will register instantly at our central office. Not only will this facilitate restocking and show us instantly what is and what is not selling, but we’ll be able to generate no end of excitement. Each boutique will have a large computerized sign atop it with constantly changing numbers showing how many items have sold up to that instant all across the country. Well? Can’t you see it? And does it, or does it not, go one better than Burger King?”
Leo’s mouth had dropped open. “Well, I’ll be goddamned!” he whispered in awe.
“I thought you’d like it.” Edwina sat back and smiled.
“Like it? I love it!” he crowed. “It’s . . . it’s pure genius!” he could only shake his head and marvel. “My initial instincts were right; I see that now,” he said. “The way you’re approaching it, only the sky is the limit! It can’t fail!”
Waving him to silence, she sat forward once again. “Yes, it can,” she said darkly. “Which is why I want you going into this with your eyes wide open. I don’t believe in bullshit, and I won’t pull the wool over your eyes by trying to paint a pretty picture.”
“A girl after my own heart.”
She ignored his humor. “First, there are the sheer logistics to consider. Coming up with the designs within eight months, as I plan to, is not impossible. Even having the patterns made up for everything by then is feasible. So is having the samples run up. But what might not be feasible, where things are liable to get royally screwed up, is in filling the orders, Leo—especially huge orders—in the time they’re supposed to be in the stores. That’s what I’m really worried about.”
“Why? We won’t be doing the manufacturing end of it ourselves. That would be all subcontracted. It’s what other designers do, don’t they?”
“For ready-to-wear, yes, they do. But do you have any idea of the sheer numbing logistics involved? Leo, I don’t need to tell you that manufacturers are loyal to their existing big accounts; they’d be fools not to be. They go out of their way to dine and kiss ass and supply them with wine, women, song, and possibly even drugs to keep the big bucks rolling in. But the new kid on the block? He not only takes a backseat, but . . . Boy oh boy! You’ve never seen a backseat until you’ve sat in one of those! And the same goes for the fabric wholesalers and the distributors. So you see, what good is getting an avalanche of orders coming in, and having the boutiques set up nationwide, when the merchandise can’t go out on time? I’ve seen plenty of successful—yes, successful, Leo—firms go under precisely because they weren’t able to fill their orders on time.”
Leo frowned. “I don’t understand you. First you’ve sold me on this, and now you’re trying to scare me off. Why?”
“I’m not trying to scare you off,” she said, “I’m only being realistic. I’m telling it like it is.” She smiled. “From the look on your face, you are, I take it, still up on this?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Now, then. Let’s segue into the root of all evil. How much of the green stuff are you willing to commit to this?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Whatever it takes. But I did have the round figure of three million in mind.”
She snorted and her lips curved into a dangerously provoking smile. “Three million, did you say? A lousy, paltry, pocket-change three million? You’ve got to be kidding . . . You’re not? Well. Then, let me tell you something about the facts of life. If we were planning a small couture operation with a limited, exclusive ready-to-wear line, I’d say fine. Three mil would be plenty. But to do what we want to achieve? Prefab in-store boutiques and all? Well, you’d better pour yourself another glass of that exceptional wine—you’re going to need it.”
“Then what,” he asked as he poured, “do you think a realistic start-up figure would be?”
She sighed. “Who knows? Fashion is a filthy, dirty, fickle business, about as easy to predict as the date the world will end. First, there’ll be the battle to get our boutiques into the stores. Retail space is tight, highly prized, and high as a kite. Don’t expect any giveaways, especially as far as prime selling space is concerned. We may have to pay outrageous rents for that privilege.”
“Okay.”
“Second. The stores are liable to demand consignments instead of buying an unproved company’s merchandise. That means it could be forever until money starts rolling in—if, in fact, it rolls in at all.” She paused
“I’m still with you.”
“Third. Advertising and promo
tion will most likely be up to us.”
“Go on.”
“And fourth, the biggest doozie of them all. The stores might want ...” She gave a low laugh. “No, make that demand again, outrageous discounts on all our things they do sell. And that doesn’t take into account number five, the not-so-occasional scoundrel who might demand kickbacks.” Winded, she sat back to catch her breath.
He looked unfazed. “Are you through?”
“For now,” she said, nodding, “only for now.”
“For now’s fine with me. You see, Eds, despite everything you just got through telling me, despite doing your best to dissuade me and save me from almost certain ruin, would you believe I’m more excited about it than ever?” His eyes were shining.
“You are?”
“Oh, more than ever! First, I can’t resist a challenge. And second, I truly believe that once we’re past the initial start-up stage, we’ll be able to write our own ticket. That’s when the really big bucks will come rolling in.”
She looked at him narrowly. “I’ll want the company named ‘Edwina G.’ “
“Hmmm.” He considered that. “Not bad,” he said, tapping a finger against his lip. “I like the sound of it.”
“And I like the sound of this: I want to draw an annual salary of three hundred thousand dollars, to be paid in weekly installments.”
“Agreed.”
“Half of which will be automatically deducted to go toward owning a thirty-percent voting share of the company,” she added.
He looked amused. “Anything else?”
She nodded. “Full medical and dental coverage, life insurance, and retirement plan.”
“Fine.”
“Also, there’s the little matter of profit sharing. Since this is a new and untried company, and liable to go bust, I want five percent of the profits.”
“Maybe I should get you a stall in a bazaar.”
She ignored him.
“Gross, not net.”
“Gross . . . gross . . .” He looked apoplectic.
“Gross,” she said flatly.
“What makes you think you’re worth all this?”
