1. Rose
ROSE
My first potential client meeting since leaving my misogynistic design firm, and I’m running late.
It’s not my fault the client chose to build their house out in the middle of nowhere.
It’s as if they don't want people to find their property. There aren’t even street signs out here.
They just sent me a location pin with coordinates, and I’m praying the GPS knows where it’s going because I’m following it without question.
I take what appears to be the final turn from the directions down a long winding driveway, if you could even call it that.
It’s flanked by two large gray stone pillars, which I’m assuming will eventually have a gate added for additional security.
It's only wide enough for one car and still dirt and gravel.
Apparently, the contractor is waiting on some specialized material needed to complete the pavement.
The rest of the drive past the entrance is beautifully framed by massive cottonwood trees that seem closer to the cloudy sky above than the damp ground below.
The driveway path looks like it was created to follow the natural pattern of the forest rather than cutting a straight track forward.
I can appreciate the respect for nature, especially this deep into the woods, but it definitely lacks practicality.
This driveway must be at least half a mile long, if not longer.
It will be an absolute cluster to get moving trucks in here to drop off all the items I’ll need to fully design and furnish this place.
That is, if I get the contract, and that’s a big if.
Typically, I would insist on having a contract signed before making it this far along in the process, but I’m willing to take the risk since I make the rules now.
Plus, I really want to sign this client.
Everything we have discussed over email for his property is straight out of my literal dreams. Some of the design ideas could be from my own personal sketches of my dream house.
While I have over ten years of experience working in luxury design, that was all with Franklin I gave a perfectly manicured middle finger to the head partner, who I thought was my mentor and had my back, until he stabbed a knife in it, metaphorically speaking.
In reality, Thompson (yes, that’s his first name) couldn’t physically hurt anyone.
I dedicated ten years of my life to that company just to be passed over three times for open partner positions, which were eventually filled with less experienced male counterparts whose projects generated half the revenue.
All the late nights and early mornings—wasted.
The countless weekends I spent catering to the whims of New York socialites, instead of having a little fun, making friends, or going on dates.
Just so they could brag about a stupid (and usually ugly but god forbid they take my advice and taste into account) vase or lamp or sculpture—insert whatever useless object here they hyperfixated on—that I spent weeks or sometimes months to source only to serve no practical purpose other than to showcase their wealth and complete lack of taste.
Instead of acting the part of the demure, polished, professional, tailored suit-wearing, effortless-blowout-having (which, in fact, is not effortless), emotionless, plastic Botox face (yes, I get Botox, relax), perfectly Barbie-formed feet from hours in sky-high Christian Louboutin heels, I gave them the real me in all her perfect glory.
And the real me is confident, loud, loves bright clothes, tacky chunky jewelry, and most importantly…
flat shoes—no high heels or pointy toes in sight.
Just comfortable, casual, and cute. God forbid I wear leggings in public too—the horror.
So, when I marched into the senior partners’ weekly meeting three months ago, wearing leggings (I mean they were Lululemon, I’m not an animal), a tie-dye Nirvana crop top, white platform Converse, and my naturally curly chocolate-brown hair, and told them I quit, I have never felt more alive.
Did security immediately escort me out? Yes, but for those glorious three minutes it took for security to arrive, I felt like I had finally accomplished something in my life.
The days to follow, however, were not all rainbows and sunshine as one would expect after quitting a high six-figure job with no backup plan.
I’m no stranger to living life on the other side of the metaphorical tracks, but I thought I had finally made it and broken out of the poor, orphan life I was destined for.
While my childhood wasn’t all bad, I never had a sense of security or a feeling of family or true friends.
I bounced from foster home to foster home and eventually aged out of the system after high school.
Usually when kids enter the foster care system as babies, as I did, they have a better chance of being adopted, but I didn’t have that kind of luck.
After quitting my financially secure job without a plan or family or friends to fall back on, I needed to come up with something quick, and being my own boss sounded like the perfect solution.
I didn’t want to work for someone else ever again.
I never wanted my ideas, decisions, or voice to ever be questioned or dismissed by some entitled man with more nose hair than brains, so starting my own design firm has been a breath of fresh air.
After I spent a few days wallowing in the despair I created with my own actions and decisions, I rolled off my fuchsia velvet midcentury modern couch in my Upper East Side loft, paused whatever trash reality television series I had on, and decided to make my own way in life on my terms.