29. Natalie

29

NATALIE

T he thought of having a man as successful, as competent, as Adam look through the car crash that is my numbers makes me feel sick. My P&L is a source of great shame to me—a constant, conditionally formatted prompt for me to judge myself on what I’ve failed to achieve in the four years I’ve run Gossamer. The horror of its sea of red washes over me afresh every time I dare to pull it up. Even opening it makes me feel sick.

I do, of course, because denial on that scale is spectacularly unprofessional. Still, confronting the rows and columns that tally my achievements is the least palatable part of my job.

My fingers hover over my laptop keyboard as I stare at him. It doesn’t help that he’s so fine. So handsome. I could have swaddled myself in his beautiful black wool coat when I saw him standing in the doorframe. I know, without even touching it, that it’s double-faced cashmere.

He’s in a variation of his usual uniform today—steel grey trousers, a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and a pale grey merino V-neck sweater. His beard is immaculate, he looks as though he’s had twelve hours sleep, and his wavy hair is raked back with just the right amount of product.

Don’t get me started on his light eyes and full mouth and huge hands, because they’re perfect.

And they were on me last night.

All of them.

There’s a push-pull with Adam. It’s all driven internally, of course, but the conflict I feel between wanting to hate him and wanting to impress him is exhausting. It strikes me that there’d be nothing worse than having his pity. It would kill me, I know it would.

‘They’re not pretty,’ I tell him now. My numbers, that is.

‘Spoiler alert,’ he says quietly. ‘Nothing bad will happen if you show me your numbers. I won’t laugh. I won’t judge you. But I may be able to help you a little. Whatever’s stopping you, don’t let it. There’s nothing on the other side of that fear, I promise. Absolutely bugger all.’

So Adam Wright is a hot male version of Oprah with British swear words. Excellent.

‘Okay,’ I say with a sigh, and I open up the cash P&L we run and slide my laptop across the desk so he can see it, too. He scoots his chair closer until he’s right next to me and peers in, long fingers flexing on his coffee cup.

‘How often is this updated?’

‘Weekly by my book keeper. She’s freelance.’

He nods. ‘Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?’

‘Sure.’ I open up my large notebook to a blank page and hand it and a biro to him. He draws rough slashed lines along and down it and gets to work, scribbling years along the top and key metrics down the side: revenue, gross margin, operating margin, net margin, before populating it.

I watch in something approaching awe. I’m far more qualitative than I am quantitative. I think in ideas, not numbers, and, while I’ve worked hard to build a strong grasp of the metrics pertaining to my business, it doesn’t come naturally. Clearly it does for Mr Maths Machine next to me, however.

He rips out the page and starts a new one, firing questions at me in a way that’s focused rather than abrupt but still makes my brain panic at being put on the spot. What’s the average production cost for each collection? How many collections do we do a year? How many drops in each collection? Average spend per photo shoot? What are my main marketing and advertising platforms? How much of each season sells through at full price? How heavily do we discount?

And so it continues for a good half an hour, during which my colleagues stay thankfully out at lunch. Adam also maps out a cash flow timeline for a typical production schedule, from the outlays we have to make up front right through to when we can expect our first sales.

Finally, he throws down the pen and sits back in his seat. I stare at him like a patient waiting for her doctor to tell her if it’s terminal.

‘Well? How bad is it?’

He blows out a long breath before answering. ‘You’ve got to tighten this up.’ He draws a big circle around the production schedule. ‘You’re getting shafted by your suppliers and your stockists. It’s not cool. I can help you with that, if you’d like.’

‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘It’s been even worse since we started stocking a few of the big retailers. Their terms are brutal.’

‘They really are. But everyone in this chain is benefiting except you. You’ll have more sway with your suppliers. You need to push them to accommodate you better. Call every single one of them and talk up a big game about how well everything is going, how you’re getting picked up by the big retailers but that changes your working capital requirements and you’re looking for suppliers who can partner with you on this exciting transition.’

My face must show my scepticism, my distaste. I know he’s right, but I can’t help it. Unless the other party is Adam Wright, confrontation is my biggest horror. I’m awful at uncomfortable conversations and I’m equally useless at both hustling and haggling. I can’t negotiate for shit, and I’ve always taken pride in appearing to be a counterparty for all my suppliers and stockists that’s reliable and professional, who’s got everything under control.

But while going cap in hand to these partners might terrify me, I also know he’s right. Without the credit lines and deep pockets its larger competitors have, Gossamer simply can’t survive this cash flow model in which we’re bogged down. It’s financial quicksand.

‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely, despising myself for my lack of backbone.

He takes out his phone. ‘Pull up the invoice.’

‘What are you doing?’ I demand.

‘Renegotiating your terms. Let’s start with these guys who are breathing down your neck.’

I make a face I hope communicates my lack of comfort and pull the invoice up on my screen. It’s for just under nine grand which, in my world, is an enormous chunk of cash.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Who’s your contact there?’

‘Gui Mercier.’

‘Is he in Accounts?’

‘No, he’s my sales rep there.’

‘Let’s call Gui then.’ He pauses. ‘How long have you been buying from them?’

I consider. ‘Three years at least. ’

‘Ever been late with a payment—ever had the goods sitting on their warehouse floor because you can’t afford to take delivery?’

‘Never.’ I shake my head.

‘Excellent. Watch this.’