43. Natalie

43

NATALIE

I ’m not prepared for the sheer scale of the huge glass building that looms over us as we thank Nigel for the lift and step from the car.

I glance up at Adam. ‘This isn’t all yours, is it?’

He laughs at the awe on my face. ‘Welcome to Wright Holdings’ European headquarters.’

It makes sense, I suppose. I know he’s worth billions. There have to be some seriously large businesses supporting that valuation. But still—holy crap.

‘Nice,’ I mutter, and he laughs again, taking my hand.

‘Come on.’

A huge man waves us through the revolving doors at the front of the building with a grin. Once inside, Adam shakes his hand and greets him by name, asking after his family. The lobby we find ourselves in is enormous—all glass walls and gleaming white floors and low white sofas.

The air is thick with the smell of the oversized floral displays that punctuate the huge space, and I spot perfectly fanned piles of glossy magazines on the coffee table as I walk past, featuring everything from Architectural Digest to the current French Vogue. The coffee table itself is at odds with the perfect whiteness of everything else. It’s hewn from a lustrous, irregular-shaped piece of wood—olive or eucalyptus, maybe—that adds warmth and character to the otherwise intimidating space.

If the rent on my tiny Soho studio cripples me each month, then I can’t compute the cost of this vast lobby that just exists without any real function beyond setting the tone for visitors to or associates of Adam’s businesses.

We pass an immense white marble reception desk with waterfall ends that probably houses a row of immaculate blond receptionists during the working week but is now empty save for another security guard. When we reach the bank of lifts, I cast my eye up the companies listed for each floor.

‘Are all your companies based here?’ I ask him.

‘Depends. Everything I’ve founded or want to keep a close eye on—our friend Vega most definitely included—is here.’ I giggle at that. ‘But if I buy companies as a going concern, then I tend to leave them where they are unless they’re in dire need of restructuring.

‘We’ve acquired a handful of luxury office furniture brands in Milan and Amsterdam. OfficeScape was throwing so much business their way that it made sense to bring them in house and improve their cost efficiencies, but it also made sense to leave their manufacturing bases where they were.’

‘What else do you own?’ Omar Vega I know about, obviously. I’m also familiar with Elysian, a beautiful high-end yoga brand focused on technical fabrics in statement prints.

‘Soft luxury, mainly. We own Whitechapel Leathers, though their production is all in the East End, and Obsidian, which does luxury leather tech accessories. When we bring them all under the same roof’—he holds an ID card to the scanner and presses the button for the lift—‘we can make vast improvements. Obsidian and Whitechapel now share the same suppliers, and all our companies use the same centralised HR and accountancy functions. Little things like that can slash a tonne of cost.’

He may think of them as little things , but they’re not. They’re huge efficiencies. Not only is Gossamer’s cost of goods sky high, but we have lots of fixed costs, like our book keeper and audit firm, that are far bulkier line items on our P I want to breathe in the air of success that he and his thousands of employees do; I want to spend a couple of hours feeling steeped in the abundance mindset that is so infectious in places like this.

And I want, on a less professional note, to see where my super hot new fuck buddy sits and runs that empire. Because if I find Adam attractive right now, in his jeans and gorgeous cream sweater, I might just die if I get a glimpse of him in CEO mode.

‘Sure thing,’ he says easily, pressing the button for the tenth and final floor. When we step out of the lift, I’m positively dazzled with the natural light that’s pouring in. Victoria isn’t an area overrun with high-rises, so at this height, Vega’s studio is bathed in uninterrupted winter sunlight.

The smug, high-maintenance twat even has first dibs on our limited supply of sunshine, for fuck’s sake.

Once my eyes adjust, what strikes me most about this space is that, unlike our poky studio, this vast floor in this fancy building is designed as much with beauty in mind as much as function. I’m certain, given Adam’s background, that every inch has been designed to be productive and commercial and ergonomic and all the rest.

But, categorically unlike Gossamer’s shabby home, there’s nothing utilitarian about this space. Every detail has been carefully plotted to provide inspiration and wellbeing to the fortunate people who spend their days here.

The floor is white and gleaming, as are the tops of every desk and cutting table I can see. The only items on display are items that are supposed to be on display: the sleek iMacs, the perfect tiles of framed campaign shots on the walls, and the draping mannequins.

Oh dear lord, the mannequins.

I drift forward without quite realising it, drawn to a linen-covered one wearing a half-finished sheath dress. The entire thing is crafted from ultra-fine horizontal strips of scarlet satin, their perfectly frayed edges softening what could be a severe silhouette. It’s breathtaking in the flawlessness of its execution. I run a reverent hand over the hundreds of thin bands, appreciating how the satin flutters under my touch.

‘Like it?’ Adam says from behind me.

I turn to see that it’s me he’s appraising, hands in his pockets, and not the craftsmanship in front of us.

‘It’s perfect,’ I tell him.

‘Go on.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the vast space to our right. ‘Have a snoop. I won’t tell.’

I take him at his word, heading past the banks of desks, which probably belong to the production, design and merchandising functions, towards the huge cutting tables. Evan would lose his life. Each table must be twelve feet long at least, affording space to cut even the most audacious, extravagant patterns from the fabric.

Best of all, Vega’s fabric collection lies under each table. I assume the bulk of the current season’s fabric is at the factories, but every fashion brand accumulates excess fabric, which is often used when sampling future collections. On the shelves under the table at which I’m standing lie roll after roll of tweed. I recognise the fabulous, metallic-heavy signatures of two of the top mills, Mahlia Kent and Linton, both of whom are beloved by brands such as Chanel and Balmain. The rolls are organised by colour: from duck-egg blue to azure at one end while pink shades ranging from salmon to magenta lie at the other.

Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory has nothing on this. It’s dazzling, the sheer scale of Vega’s resources. The fun I could have playing with these fabrics.

The magic I could weave.

What really hits me hard, though, is when we get to the far end of the room, only to find that it’s actually an L-shape. Around the bend is a sumptuous area that is clearly where Vega sees his most important clients. The flooring here is walnut, the walls a pale pink silk that also covers the changing area, and the fixtures rose gold. It’s feminine and indulgent and stunning.

And hanging on that silk? Photo after photo mounted on perspex, showing the great and good of the entertainment industry wearing Omar Vega’s admittedly gorgeous creations.

Margot Robbie in aqua-coloured ruffles on the red carpet at Cannes.

Emma Watson at some premiere.

Queen Rania of Jordan in a frothy emerald green tea-dress .

A sketch of a silver sequinned dress commissioned by Taylor Swift, signed with Vega’s trademark flashy scrawl.

Images that credentialise the man who dressed these women as the real deal.

And just like that, the childlike excitement I felt at being let loose in this inner sanctum dissipates, leaving only a crashing, sickening sense of imposter syndrome.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ I tell Adam, giving him a smile I hope reflects none of this. Clearly, I’m a worse actor than I give myself credit for, because he takes my hand and pulls me down to sit next to him on a plum-coloured velvet sofa that’s supported God knows how many famous bottoms.

‘Remember what I told you,’ he murmurs into my hair as he wraps an arm around me and pulls me to him, ‘raw talent and commercial potential and financial strength aren’t the same things—well, neither is a business’s size. This isn’t all him . Sure, it’s built around him, but we have three hundred people working for this brand, and that’s not including any of the centralised functions I mentioned, nor the PR agencies we pay an arm and a leg to every month.

‘This is a machine, and it’s a fucking cash-hungry machine at that. All this gloss is the result of massive investment and hundreds of people who are very, very good at what they do. It takes an astounding amount of time and money and hard work to translate one person’s vision into this .’

I nod a little too vigorously. ‘I know,’ I say, my throat so tight it aches.

‘That wisteria dress I saw on your mannequin yesterday,’ he continues. ‘You know more about this stuff than me—a lot more—but I swear to God, you put that up on the rail over there and get some celebrity in and she’ll bite your hand off to get her mitts on it. It was spectacular. Exquisite. That hardware you had going on on the shoulders? Just beautiful. Honestly, sweetheart, I’m not exaggerating. From what little I’ve seen, your creative talent is just as good as his. Better, possibly.’

I start to roll my eyes at what is an absurd proclamation from a businessman who’s astute enough to know better and most likely still sex-drunk, but he reaches up with his free hand and grabs my chin gently.

‘Listen to me. The only thing separating you from Omar Vega is circumstance. The only thing. And if you’d like to chat at any point about taking steps to change the circumstances of your brand, then I promise you I will do anything in my power to support you through the process.’