han three shaky seasons in a row . . .
That wouldn’t happen to her, she thought fiercely. Plus, William had been huge. And she wasn’t there yet. Not quite.
The elevator dinged, and the whimsical “Victory Ford” logo lit up. She got out and walked the few steps to the frosted glass door etched with her logo. Her stomach suddenly dropped in fear. The rent on the space was $20,000 a month. That was $240,000 a year . . .
“Hello, Clare,” she said cheerfully to the receptionist, as if nothing were wrong. Clare was young and pretty, a hardworking Citizen Girl who was still thrilled at having landed a dream job in the glamorous fashion industry.
“Hi,” Clare said eagerly. “How was your trip?”
“It was great,” Victory said, sliding out of her coat. Clare made a motion as if to take it, but Victory waved her away. She would never be comfortable asking subordinates to do what every normal person should do for themselves.
“How was Japan?”
“Hot,” Victory said.
“Two huge packages just arrived for you,” Clare said.
Victory nodded. She’d been dreading their arrival all morning, ever since she talked to Mr. Ikito and he had reiterated the brilliance of his plan in hiring Ms. Matsuda to do the designs. In fact, he said, she had already done them, and they would be arriving at her office today. “No take no for answer,” he’d said.
She was really beginning to hate him. Why hadn’t she realized how much she disliked him before?
“Thank you, Clare,” she said.
Across from the receptionist’s desk was the elegant showroom where buyers and celebrities were shown the line. The walls and carpet were a dusky pink, and the ceiling was hung with two small Baccarat crystal chandeliers. It had taken weeks to get the color just right. The idea of pink was brilliant—women had a natural attraction to it, and it was flattering to nearly every complexion—but the reality of pink was usually a disaster. Too bright, and it was juvenile; while the wrong shade reminded everyone of antacid. But this pink, mixed with an undertone of beige, was perfect, creating an atmosphere that was sophisticated and soothing.
In the front of the showroom, however, was a jarring note: A nearly full rack of samples from the spring line. The clothes had been sent to Neiman Marcus in Dallas just three days ago, and they weren’t scheduled to return until the end of the week. Victory’s stomach dropped to her knees.
“Clare?” she asked. “When did the line come back?”
“Oh,” Clare said, looking up nervously. “It came back this morning . . .”
“Did Neiman’s call?”
“I don’t think so,” Clare said, adding hopefully, “but I had to go out to the drugstore. Maybe Zoe took the message.”
“Thanks,” Victory said, trying to maintain a nonchalant demeanor. She started down the long corridor to her office, passing the large pattern and cutting room, where four women were sitting behind sewing machines; two more rooms divided with cubicles where various publicists, assistants, and interns sat; another small office belonging to her corporate and media liaison; and finally, a small office in the back in which sat Marcia Zinderhoff, the office manager and accountant. Marcia’s door was, as usual, closed, and was adorned with a beware-of-killer-cat sign. Victory knocked and went in.
“Hi,” Marcia said, matter-of-factly, looking up from her computer. Marcia was only a couple of years older than Victory, but she was one of those women who had probably looked middle-aged since high school. She lived in the same Queens neighborhood where she’d grown up, and had had the same boyfriend for the past fifteen years. Marcia was dull but brilliant at numbers, and Victory considered herself lucky to have her. “You could get a job at a big accounting firm on Wall Street, Marcia,” she’d once said. “You’d probably have more job security.”
“My best security is making sure your books are done right,” Marcia replied. Marcia didn’t like change, and Victory knew that she could probably get away with paying her less. But she was a firm believer in the fact that when it came to employees, you got what you paid for, and that people deserved to be paid what they were worth. Marcia made a hundred thousand dollars a year, plus five percent of the profits.
“I think we’re going to have a problem,” Victory said, sitting down on the small metal folding chair in front of Marcia’s desk. Marcia could have had a bigger office with nicer furniture, but said she liked her office like this—cheap and messy—because it discouraged visitors.
“Yup.” Marcia nodded, taking a piece of gum out of the top drawer of her desk.
“Shit,” Victory said. “I was hoping you were going to tell me that it was all in my head and not to worry and everything was going to be fine.”
“It is all in your head,” Marcia said, chewing vigorously. “You know this stuff as well as I do, so, well, you know.” She hit a couple of buttons on the computer. “If the Japanese licensing comes through like last year, we should be okay. But the sales from the department stores are down fifty percent from last year.”
“Ouch,” Victory said.
“Hurts, doesn’t it,” Marcia said, nodding. “Bastards. That puts us back to where we were about three years ago.”
“And if Japan is a disaster too . . . ?”
“That wouldn’t be so good,” Marcia said. “That was two million and seventy thousand dollars last year in profits. We don’t really want to lose that.”
“Bastards,” Victory said. Marcia looked at her questioningly, and Victory felt sick.