He quiets her by making a “five minute” sign, and then he nods me into his office. “You know you’re the first person who just walks in here expecting to be seen because she feels like it?”
“Well, it’s important.” I walk forward and take a seat across from his desk as he takes his.
“First of all, I need to ask: why are you helping me?”
He shoots me a look. “I’m not helping you yet.”
“I think you are. You’re being more than generous with your time and patience,” I say.
There’s a moment of quiet as we stare at each other. Christos then leans back, scraping his thumb along his lower lip as he looks at me. “You’re responsible, you’re honest, you take criticism well, you don’t retreat in your shell and cry about it. You go and fix what needs to be fixed, you have vision, and that’s what makes a great entrepreneur.”
God, I think my heart just skipped a thousand times, one for each word. “Do you mean that?” I ask.
“Do you have to ask that?”
The look he sends me clearly states he’s a man who means what he says…
I exhale and shoot him a look of gratitude.
“Okay. So I’ve got a great idea,” I tell him as I pull out my presentation. “I’ve even hashed out a business plan. Aside from our head department store in New York, and a kickass website—both carrying exclusive items that I will design along with the top-selling women’s fashion brands—House of Sass will be a personalized, trendy, fashion-stylist software. I have here some studies that prove that women dressed the part make better decisions and act more confidently and get more done when they’re confident about their looks. I want to offer them an app that will act as their personal stylist, with a push of a button. May I?”
I motion to approach, and Christos—hot in slacks and a white shirt—is watching me with a sparkle in his eye as he nods.
I take my phone and show him the small test application that I tried out with a developer this week.
“It’s not done yet, but you have the best tech people around,” I explain, blushing when I realize this must look so rustic to him. “This is homemade. I’m hoping with your loan…” I turn to meet his gaze, and look away when I realize he’s very, very close, “the software can be fully developed. Its database can include location and weather…top-selling products from around a certain mile range nearby…suggestions on what’s in style if you choose to amp up your spring, fall, winter, and summer wardrobes with a few must-have pieces. If the trends are thick belts, chunky bead necklaces, whatever’s up.
“It’s like a personal shopper and closet organizer in one. And it can be accessible to everyone, even people with no budget. All it would require of them is less than a day to input their closet pieces. Picture upload (keywords) and the software does the rest. It’ll save you so much time in the long run.”
I click on a button that reads “Night out.”
And a list of three options appears.
“See, these are actual pieces that I own,” I say, feeling his gaze over my shoulder as he studies it.
“It’s suggesting sweaters and leggings, boots, and wide belts, because that’s a current trend. And it’s supposed to be cool tonight. Now…if we want to make this edgier, we can have users interact with one another. I can give my friend access to my closet to either borrow pieces or vote on my suggested outfits for my occasions.”
“Not a bad idea,” he murmurs. Impressed.
“It’s amazing what the right clothes can do for a woman,” I say, stepping back.
“Did it pick that out for you?” He motions to my black leggings and long sweater.
“No,” I admit. “I sold my wardrobe. To pay a software developer to help me chalk this up. But I kept some key pieces, mostly black or white, which I can mix and match. And my best pair of flats, stilettos, and boots.” I smile. “You realize you don’t need more if they’re well chosen.”
“One problem,” he frowns as he props back against his desk, folding his arms, “is the time it takes to input a closet.”
“I thought of that. But if we had representatives in every state, we could charge a small fee, like ninety-nine dollars, for one of our reps to go to your home and spend an afternoon inventorying your closet.”
For the next half hour, we discuss my expanded ideas on the store, and I tell him why I think it can be special, how targeting trendy women of all ages would be ideal.
He seems vaguely interested, until his assistant rings him up to tell him his next appointment has arrived.
“This meeting is adjourned.”
I quickly gather my things, hating that time flew by so fast. “So it’s a yes? Say it’s a yes, Christos. You want to say it. I know it,” I bluff.
“Work on it.”
His grin is so irresistible, I’m grinning too. “Can I wait for you outside to talk some more?”
“Don’t think so. I’m heading to the gym at 6.” He dials to his assistant. “Show him in.”
I force myself to leave, checking to see how much time I need to kill before it’s 6 p.m.
I spend the next hour walking Brooklyn, thinking of ideas as I wait for it to be six p.m. and corner him on his way to the gym.
My dad used to tell me the best thing he could ever give me was an education. I didn’t waste what I could get. Even when they died in the fire at the Las Vegas hotel and I quit college shortly after, I always tried using what education I did get. I went to live with my aunt Cecile, and kept thinking that I would do something with this education my parents had given me.
My first business, at eight, was a lemonade stand. It flopped. Nobody walked down the cul-de-sac where we lived—I had like one customer, total (my mom.) Even then, I always wanted to do something with my time. Something lasting. I wanted security and I knew, after losing my parents, only I could provide it to myself. I tried my hand at everything. But plants died. Even my goldfish died. Still, it didn’t keep me from wanting to put myself out there, create things, do things.
I promised my aunt Cecile that I’d be sure we were comfortable at all times in our lives. Even old age. I was thinking ahead. Unfortunately, my determination didn’t prepare me for failure times a dozen.
I always picked myself straight up by my bootstraps and kept going, though, certain that the wheel of fortune would keep turning and one day, I’d succeed.
It wasn’t until after the store closed, after Mom and Dad passed, that I realized I’d had a natural talent for dressing the mannequins, and later, for mending and revamping my own clothes.
And it wasn’t until after many bad jobs, and a shit-ton of tears, that I realized I wasn’t only good at it, I enjoyed it. And it wasn’t until my aunt Cecile died that I realized…I was in my mid-twenties, a college dropout (I’d had to drop out to take care of my aunt), and should definitely think about doing something about my situation before I turned thirty.
I’m thirty now—and I have no more minutes to spare.
So, at 6 p.m., waiting for my future business partner and investor outside the Christos and Co. building, I rehearse the rest of what else I’m going to say. My pitch, as they say.
Some tag line, some brilliant marketing idea, something the man will find irresistible.
He exits and immediately spots me outside, not once breaking his stride.
“I didn’t realize I’d have an escort.” He removes his jacket and slings his duffel behind his shoulders.
“You’re amusing yourself with me, but that’s not a problem if you give me twenty more minutes to discuss my project,” I say.
His lips begin tugging at the corners then. “I’ll give you an hour if you keep doing a good job amusing me.”
“Goodness,” I exaggerate. “Are you that hard to keep entertained?”
“Hard to please.”
“And I’m pleasing you?”
“Pretty close to that.”
“Hmm.” I bite down on my lip under my top lip, then I notice he’s staring at me. At my mouth.
I let go and exhale, then I jump into the rest of my presentation.