“Assuming you secured those funds, what’s your plan to legitimize the operation and forge ahead?” Asher asked, leaning forward.
“First I’d get a real studio,” I said, ticking my points off on my fingers. “And then I’d start hiring apprentices and training them in my techniques, to increase production. Obviously I’d increase inventory and continue to source materials as needed.”
“You mentioned advertisers,” he pointed out. “What would be your strategy there?”
“I’ve done well on word of mouth, but that can only take you so far,” I said. “Still, at the same time, the kind of high-end stuff I do isn’t really the right fit for a thirty second TV spot or a local radio ad. I’d like to sponsor some fashion podcasts, get the word out that way. Maybe send some of my products to fashion bloggers in exchange for reviews. A few appearances at fashion shows or in art films wouldn’t hurt either; do you have any connections there we could use?”
“A few,” he said, but before he could expand on that, dessert was served, and the conversation was derailed by a discussion of the crispy warm flan with pear liqueur sauce and whipped cream, the fried ice cream made with freshly ground vanilla beans, and the grilled watermelon slices dusted with chili powder and chocolate—hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And try someone else’s slice, because I am eating mine.
Yup, the whole meal was going pretty much perfectly, until Asher decided to ruin everything by opening up his big mouth.
“So here’s the main strength I see with your business,” he said, wiping said big mouth with a napkin. “You’ve built up a good client base, and established a brand identity that’s got a lot of trust and reputation behind it. But the main problem I see with your business as it stands: high production costs, and low output. Fortunately, that’s a pretty simple issue to tackle.”
I leaned forward, interested.
Asher pulled up some maps on his phone and showed them to me. “This is an unused factory in China. It’s an area with high unemployment, so we should be able to keep wages low without much discontent, and the officials will be less likely to come down on us with a bunch of regulations about foreign companies. You would move solely to design work, and we’d outsource production to the China factory.”
I could feel the floor falling out from under my feet. “You want me to outsource to a factory?” I said, horrified, hoping that somehow I had misheard. “In China?”
Asher misunderstood my reaction. “Well, just one factory for now,” he said placatingly, “but with the sales I’m projecting, by 2018 we could have as many as—”
I felt my rage building inside me, like the magma of a volcano simmering and bubbling and threatening to blow the top off of a mountain. “That goes against everything I love about my designs! My whole thing is that they’re special, that thought goes into them, that they’re hand-made—”
“Oh, they’ll still be hand-made if you want,” Asher said, as if he were throwing me a bone. “That’s good for the brand, and that saves us the cost of sewing machines for the factories. Every little bit adds up.”
I imagined nine-year-old little Chinese girls carefully hand-stitching lingerie until their fingers bled, and I felt sick.
“You’re not listening!” I said, biting my tongue and trying to keep my voice even. If I could just make him understand… “I put thought and consideration into every design for every client—”
“That could be our slogan!” Asher said enthusiastically. “‘Thought and consideration in every design’—I can see it on a billboard, just above a mall. It sounds just high-class enough to tempt people into making an unbudgeted purchase.”
“A mall?!” I said, aghast.
If I’d have been a ship sending out a distress signal, Asher would have interpreted it as ‘full steam ahead.’ He seemed to read my horror as mere surprise, because he took my hand and looked soulfully into my eyes. “I believe in you, Kate. With your designs and my business connections, we can have your lingerie in every department store in the country.”
This was a nightmare. This was the worst nightmare I had ever had. Worse than the one with the clowns!
“I can’t believe you,” I whispered venomously, yanking my hand back.
Asher looked confused. “Of course you can. If you look at the projections—”
I could see only one solution to this communications divide.
I picked up a glass of that so-French-it-could-sneer-at-you wine and threw it in his face.
EIGHT
The thing about a dramatic exit is, it super helps if you have somewhere to dramatically exit to.
My rage powered me all the way to the lane before I realized that I didn’t have a car, couldn’t exactly call a taxi, and didn’t know how to drive Asher’s helicopter even if I could steal the keys (and oh, how tempting that sounded right now).
So I sucked it up and trudged back to the hotel in my heels, muttering curses under my breath, and made my way to the front desk. A room here would probably cost me an entire month’s rent, but maybe they would take pity on me and let me take a pallet in the kitchen or something.
“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist.
She looked up and smiled as brightly as if she had just been told that she had won a trip to Disneyland. “Ah, there you are, ma’am. Here’s your key. Would you like a wake-up call, or a complimentary continental breakfast with our freshly squeezed orange juice, made from local oranges?”
I stared at the key in my hand like it was an alien artifact. “Wait. What?”
“Your cabin,” she chirped cheerfully. “Mr. Young reserved it for you.”
“Oh, I bet he did.” I could just picture Asher smugly setting the seduction scheme, thinking I’d buy his patter hook, line, and sinker. Too bad he hadn’t done his research on my company, or I just might have fallen for it too. “Just the one cabin, huh?”
“Yup!”
This girl was so fresh-faced and innocent, I almost felt bad about what I was about to do.