Chapter 3
Two hours of sleep. What a great way to start a new day. And what a lovely view that meets me in the mirror. Black rings under your eyes and transparent skin really have something. Shoot me.
My heart is pounding when I brush my teeth, when I get dressed, and when I sneak into Starbucks to buy some breakfast. What the hell did I dream about during my micro sleep? Running? How can I be panting without exercising? So stupid. I have to stop. This is ridiculous.
I’m just about to walk out on the crosswalk when someone roughly pulls me back with two firm hands on my shoulders.
A second later, a garbage truck rushes past in front of me, the wind from it hitting my face like a smelly slap.
And the green juice in my hand hitting my chest like a well-digested vomit.
“Are you okay?” a voice from behind asks me.
I turn around and look at my savior—an old lady with a worried little divot between her eyes.
Her eyes look almost violet, and her hair is steel gray and curly.
I stare at her in shock for a couple of seconds before I manage to nod.
Did I almost just die and did my white blouse just get Hulked?
On the day I have not one but two very important meetings? ! Fuck!
I try to think; do I have something suitable to change into at the office? I can’t remember. I check the time. Fuck again! I don’t have time to go home and change. My first meeting starts in twenty-eight minutes. Fuuuck. “Are you okay, love?”
That’s when I remember the lady in front of me and notice her British accent. Her divot is deeper now. I take a lungful of air, paste a smile on my face, and nod. “Yes, thanks to you. Thank you so much for saving my life.”
“No worries. Things move so fast in this city. I’ve been living here for thirty years, and I never quite get used to it. It feels like you’re risking your life just by living here.” Then she catches sight of my blouse, and her eyes grow wide. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. You must let me pay for that.”
“What? Let you pay me for saving my life? If it weren’t for you, I’d be glued to the front of that truck right now.”
“But that’s a beautiful blouse.” She sounds upset, and I kind of get her. It is in fact a beautiful blouse. A blouse that will now make me look like a maniac in my meetings. F u c k.
“It’s just a piece of fabric,” I assure her.
She doesn’t look convinced, more like she’s about to open her big purse and pull out her wallet, which I don’t have time for.
I’m already behind schedule. Besides, I truly don’t want her money.
I hurry to beat her to it. “I mean it. Thank you for saving my life. If I had more time I’d buy you a coffee, but unfortunately, I must hurry to work now. ”
“Coffee is for pussies,” she says with a smile and a shrug. “You be careful now, love.” I can’t help but chuckle at that.
“You, too.”
I text Clara immediately. She hates coffee.
Clara: I’m sooo going to print that on a T-shirt.
Me: You should.
Clara: I will. And I’ll send one to you.
I barely make it outside the elevator doors at work before I meet Lydia, my boss. She raises her eyebrows in horror. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“What? No. Why?”
She gives my blouse a worried look. “Is that puke?”
“Ew, no. It’s spinach juice.”
She relaxes. “Oh, okay. That’s nice. Well, not nice, but still nice that it’s not puke.” She starts walking down a corridor. “See you at the meeting, preferably puke-free. Grab something from the sample room.”
Oh, the sample room. I had forgotten about its existence.
One of the perks of working in the buying department at one of the world’s fanciest department stores: all the samples of clothes that are sent to us from different factories.
Some of them never even reach production.
Some of them do, but the samples remain here.
I send Lydia a thankful thought as I run over there and ignore the weird looks from other early coworkers as they see me running in my green —kind of turning brown now—blouse. As if they’ve never had a near-death experience and showered themselves in a green juice.
Five minutes later, I’ve changed into a plain white shirt that goes well with my midi skirt, and I can finally relax. Well, not relax maybe since my meeting starts in five minutes and I haven’t gathered myself or my things yet. I hate not feeling totally prepared.
I smooth out invisible wrinkles on my skirt and hurry to the conference room where, to my great annoyance, people are already waiting. And even though I’m not running, I feel out of breath.
“Nice to see you without the puke, June,” Lydia says with a wink.
Her boss, a bald man with almost no lips, arches his eyebrows. Does he even look a little bit frightened? “Puke? Are you sick? I assume you’re aware of the policy regarding coming to work when you’re sick.”
I go for a smile even though I’d prefer an eyeroll instead. “I’m not sick, Mr. Murphy. I just spilled some juice on my blouse this morning on my way to work.”
“Hm, really.” He narrows his eyes. Does he think I’m lying?
Wow, I think he does. He’s examining me like I’m a (lying) patient and he’s my doctor.
Lydia clears her throat, an unmistakable sign that this conversation is over and that the meeting should begin.
Stan Murphy gives me one last skeptical doctor-look before he turns his gaze back to the screen in front of him.
It’s a room that, except for me and Lydia, is filled with men.
Five men with various levels of baldness and dressed in different kinds of ill-fitted suits.
One would never guess that these men work with high-end fashion.
Well, they don’t really. They work primarily with numbers. High-end fashion numbers.
“Okay, let’s get straight to the point,” the man next to Mr. Murphy says.
Ed Neville. He’s known for cutting to the chase.
No small talk or sugar coating with him.
He’s not as bald as Murphy but let’s just say his hair follicles are working on it.
“Times are tough all over the world right now. The stock market is like a stormy sea, and you can’t trust the customers—they’re not as loyal as they used to be.
” He takes a deep breath and looks at us seated around the table.
If Stern Face had a spokesperson, it would definitely be Ed Neville right now.
“And after doing some calculations, we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re not completely satisfied with the mark-up prices. Our profits are too low.”
Lydia knits her eyebrows together. “We negotiated the prices with many of our suppliers two months ago, all according to our forecasts and budget, and you all seemed satisfied then,” she says, leaning slightly forward, looking like a rattlesnake ready to bite.
And frankly, I feel exactly the same. They have no idea what they’re asking for.
Ed doesn’t seem bothered by this; he just shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say, we’ve made new calculations, and we want other prices. The times are changing, and we have to keep up if we want to continue being on top.”
Then you call the suppliers and tell them that.
Negotiating prices is an extensive job that also demands careful balancing to keep the relationships with suppliers as good and reliable as possible.
You need to be tough but at the same time very careful, so you don’t end up damaging the relationships.
To start negotiating again now would be idiotic.
Besides, we have good mark-up prices, I know we do, because I know our numbers almost by heart, even though I’m not working in the finance department.
I know we’re making good profits, actually significantly better since I became the head of buying. Not to brag, but it’s true.
“We are on top, Ed,” Lydia says as if she’s read my mind.
“We can do better.”
“And risk the relationships with our suppliers? June is the best negotiator we’ve ever had, we’re already doing well, especially since her latest negotiations.”
“We know, that’s why we want her to start again.”
I’m flattered by both their words, but Lydia is right.
I don’t know if I can do this without damaging my relationships with many of the suppliers and manufacturers.
But if that’s what the company wants, I have no other choice but to follow orders.
I’m just a brick in this big game. It doesn’t matter that I’m the head of buying because at the end of the day, I’m not really in charge.
It’s the men around this table who are. That’s the way it is, and I accepted that a long time ago. I had to.
“But . . .” Lydia starts but gets cut off.
“No buts, Lydia. It’s already decided.” Ed turns to me. “Make sure to get started right away, June.”
All I can do is nod. Lydia tries to protest again but is silenced by an irritated look from Ed.
I think of all the work I put into this just a couple of months ago—how I had to cancel a trip to visit my mom because of it.
And now I have to do it again, and risk all the important relationships I have built.
And as if that weren’t enough, Fashion Week Haute Couture in Paris is in two weeks, which means I’m leaving for Europe in less than fourteen days.
The timing couldn’t be any worse. And this really is the cherry on my freaking work top because we’re about to finalize all orders for next year’s spring/summer collection.
But that’s not Ed Neville’s and Bald Co’s problem. They want the work done, whatever the work is. I clench my hands under the table.
“Great, then everyone’s on board. I’ll email you the details with what we expect in numbers, June.”
“I want a copy of that, too,” Lydia says with a short and hard tone. Ed nods with Stern Face?, before he turns to another man, the one I secretly call Kevin Costner because (surprise!) he looks like him. “Mitch?”