28. Adam

28

ADAM

S he’s not okay. It’s obvious as soon as I look at her.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have pushed her like that last night. Shouldn’t have been so bloody selfish as to bundle her into a room with me and sweet-talk her into something she’s clearly regretting. But even as I mentally berate myself, I’m grateful that I listened to my gut and followed up with her today. Because the red-eyed woman who’s shot to her feet at the sight of me is not the same post-orgasmic one I tucked into a cab last night.

This Evan guy who answered the door to me and is, I now know, an exquisite cutter, looks from me to her as though he’s even less certain that letting me up here was the right thing to do. I ignore his hovering and stride towards Natalie, extending one of the two lattes I just picked up at an artisanal place on the corner. It was a typically pretentious Soho coffeehouse but it smelt like heaven. I have no idea what she drinks, but this seemed like a safe bet.

She looks from the cup to me as she accepts it, and our fingers brush .

‘It’s a latte,’ I say. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

‘It’s perfect. And this is my favourite coffee shop. Thank you.’

‘Excellent.’ We stare at each other for a moment. She definitely looks teary, which I absolutely can’t have, but she’s polished perfection in skinny jeans and a black, slim-fitting sweater with little pearls in her ears, her glossy hair pulled back. So elegant, so stunning, as always. There isn’t a hair out of place, and I can tell her makeup has been immaculately applied, but beneath it she looks fucking exhausted.

‘Can I talk to you?’ I blurt out, wedging my free hand into my coat pocket and breaking our gaze to glance around the space. It’s a decent size but by no means huge, and rails on wheels cover most of what space there is. On the rails hang dress after dress, each in its own clear plastic garment bag, and behind them I see picking boxes containing folded garments.

It seems the left-hand side of the room is used for pattern-cutting, sewing and designing while the right-hand side is a makeshift warehouse. I guess they do their own fulfilment direct from here, which is laborious and possibly not the best use of prime Soho real estate when that side of things could be outsourced to a third party fulfilment centre in a location where square footage is far cheaper. They’d be better off refurbishing this entire place and using the extra space as a showroom for clients.

Natalie looks around, too, no doubt taking in the fact that we have company and that her colleagues appear very interested in my having turned up out of the blue. ‘Um, yeah. Sure. Why don’t we…’ She trails off.

Behind me, Evan claps his hands. ‘Gail, Carrie, how about we take an early lunch? We’ll give you an hour, sweetie,’ he adds to Natalie .

‘Have a seat,’ she says, sinking back down into hers with weary resignation. I do as she suggests and wheel over a swivel chair from the table nearby so it’s facing her. Once I’ve set down my coffee and shrugged off my coat—a move that has her eyeing my body with what looks like memory in her eyes—I take a seat opposite her. She really does look pale.

‘Do you need to grab some lunch?’ I ask once the others have cleared off. It seems to me the most diplomatic way to ask her if she’s keeping on top of her blood glucose levels, but it gets me a tired eye roll.

‘I think my favourite thing about last night was that you didn’t once ask to see my CGM.’

Ouch. But also—interesting that she’s gone straight there. I wasn’t sure if she’d opt to ignore our scorching hookup.

‘My bad.’ I pick up my coffee cup. ‘Seems I had other things on my mind. And, from the excellent memories I have, I wouldn’t have guessed that was your favourite thing about last night.’

‘Maybe you should stop trying to guess what I’m thinking then,’ she retorts with a flush.

‘I can’t imagine you’ll welcome more interference, in that case, but you looked a little upset when I walked in. I stopped by because I wanted to check you were okay with what had gone down’—unfortunate choice of words, but I forge gamely ahead—‘and you weren’t regretting it too much.’

Jesus, that sounds like a plea for her to admit the exact opposite. I’m not sure what I’m expecting—probably an outright denial that she’s upset or a vehement protestation that she hasn’t given her orgasming all over my tongue a second thought .

As usual, she surprises me.

‘It has nothing at all to do with last night. You just caught me at a bad time.’ She looks down at her coffee cup and carefully peels the lid off it. I survey her.

‘Work stuff?’ I guess.

She shrugs without looking at me. ‘And then some.’

I’m treading carefully here. ‘So you’re okay about last night? You don’t have any more regrets than I’d expect?’

She sighs. ‘Not everything is about you, Adam, shocking though that may be. But I have far bigger things to worry about right now than how much I should slut shame myself, so honestly, you should just leave me to it.’

‘You know,’ I begin slowly, ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of running a luxury brand like you do, but I do know how fucking brutal things can be in this industry, so if you want to talk it through with someone who has some grasp of the lay of the land then I’m happy to listen.’

That gets me a mirthless little laugh. ‘Yeah, right. I’m sure things are brutal over at Omar Vega’s.’

Gaining her trust and, perhaps, the opportunity to help her, is more important than discretion right now.

‘They’re difficult. Omar has to be kept on a tight rein, creatively and financially. He’s very much Creative Director only. His decisions on what to produce and how much he can spend doing it are driven by the Finance Director and the merchandising teams. He’s told how many dresses to design versus trousers and jackets each season. He’s told what colours will be most commercial.

‘What I’m trying to say is that he’s operating within far tighter parameters than you are and he only has to wear one hat. You have to wear all of them. You’re CEO and FD as well as creating. It’s tough. So please know how genuine I am when I say I’m impressed and I’m sympathetic. ’

What I don’t explicitly say is that Vega is an unhinged coke head who’s a fucking liability, and that Natalie has more professionalism—not to mention discipline—than a guy like him could ever hope for. Right now he’s playing ball, but Vega’s perception of his disposability is vastly different from mine and that of his management team.

I also don’t say that my ability to provide level-headed advice right now is being seriously tested by the sight of Natalie’s neck, slim and pale and showcased to perfection by her low, sleek bun. That I had my nose and mouth buried in that neck last night, let alone in more sacred, delicious places, seems miraculous to me.

‘Well, thank you for saying that.’ She sounds not prickly, exactly, but brusque. Still, it’s not a total brush-off.

‘Cash flow problems?’ I hazard.

She stiffens, wrapping her delicate hands around her coffee cup. ‘Understatement.’

‘Can I ask how bad it is?’

There’s a pause where she’s clearly evaluating my entitlement to any of her confidences. Then she sighs, yielding. ‘There’s a supplier I need to pay tomorrow. It’s a hefty invoice, and it leaves payroll next week looking… difficult.’

I grimace. ‘Okay. Will they give you credit?’

‘They don’t do terms,’ she says quickly. ‘They’ve made that clear before. They have a strict policy of not releasing the fabric unless they’ve got their payment, or at least proof that it’s been sent.’

‘Have you pushed them recently to see if they can change that?’

‘No. There’s no point.’ Her shoulders are rounded like they’re bearing the weight of the world, and it kills me. I need to tread carefully here. She must feel so alone in this, yet I’m not someone whose help or pity she wants. I’m sure this invoice is looming large in her head, but I bet it’s no more than ten grand. Obviously, that’s still a sizeable chunk for a company of Gossamer’s size, but it’s also something I could write a cheque for right now and not bat an eyelash.

Not that that would ever be an option in this reality we have. So I’ll give her the next best things: advice and perspective.

‘Look.’ I lean forward and rest my elbows on my thighs, steepling my fingers and enjoying far too much the way her gaze brushes over my hands and back to my face. ‘You’d be amazed at what they may be willing to do if you just put your cards on the table and ask. If you’re not already aware, then you need to be very clear that you’re not the only person in this industry who can’t pay their bills.

‘I mean, the entire fucking fashion sector is built on sketchy shit and everybody constantly cajoling and begging and going quiet when bills are due. It’s a bloody nightmare. The cash flow model is heinous, and you guys, as a small outfit with no economies of scale and no critical mass are always going to get squeezed at both ends.’

‘Why did you get into it, then?’ she asks.

‘Same reason you did, I assume. I enjoy beautiful things. It’s been my gift to myself after years and years of grafting in tech. Now I get to help talented visionaries like you bring those visions to life. But I’m not a charity. The sector’s inefficient, and I like efficiencies. Vega and the other brands I own all share the same central functions—book keeping, HR, that kind of thing. That’s a massive swing factor in improving their operational efficiencies. It also gives us more clout when purchasing—we can demand better terms from suppliers.

‘And I’m playing a long game. These core businesses are never going to make great margins, but I’m interested in the product extensions, licensing agreements, all the things that can build a lifestyle brand. Omar Vega doing a collaboration with Pottery Barn or Ruggable? That’s what gets me excited.’

She smiles a little, and I hope I’ve reminded her that she’s not alone in this. That the rest of the industry is on its knees with her. Not that that makes her imminent cash flow squeeze go away.

‘It gets me excited too,’ she admits. ‘Our print designer is so talented. I’d love to see her prints on home furnishings down the line. But that’s not going to happen if I can’t pay this bill.’

Time for the ultimate push. She’s made it clear in the recent past how much she detests it when I interfere. She may not like me, but I know from last night that she trusts me on some level, and she’s also not stupid. I’m a successful guy with a portfolio of relatively high-performing brands in her sector. She’d be crazy not to pick my brains or use my expertise to help herself out of this crunch.

‘If you’re open to showing me your numbers,’ I tell her, ‘then we can go through them together and make a plan.’

I just need to text my assistant and get her to cancel my next couple of hours.