Page 50 of Unbind

‘Why did you get into it, then?’ she asks.

‘Same reason you did, I assume. I enjoy beautiful things. It’s been my gift to myself after years and years of grafting in tech. Now I get to help talented visionaries like you bring those visions to life. But I’m not a charity. The sector’s inefficient, and I like efficiencies. Vega and the other brands I own all share the same central functions—book keeping, HR, that kind of thing. That’s a massive swing factor in improving their operational efficiencies. It also gives us more clout when purchasing—we can demand better terms from suppliers.

‘And I’m playing a long game. These core businesses are never going to make great margins, but I’m interested in theproduct extensions, licensing agreements, all the things that can build a lifestyle brand. Omar Vega doing a collaboration with Pottery Barn or Ruggable?That’swhat gets me excited.’

She smiles a little, and I hope I’ve reminded her that she’s not alone in this. That the rest of the industry is on its knees with her. Not that that makes her imminent cash flow squeeze go away.

‘It gets me excited too,’ she admits. ‘Our print designer is so talented. I’d love to see her prints on home furnishings down the line. But that’s not going to happen if I can’t pay this bill.’

Time for the ultimate push. She’s made it clear in the recent past how much she detests it when I interfere. She may not like me, but I know from last night that she trusts me on some level, and she’s also not stupid. I’m a successful guy with a portfolio of relatively high-performing brands in her sector. She’d be crazy not to pick my brains or use my expertise to help herself out of this crunch.

‘If you’re open to showing me your numbers,’ I tell her, ‘then we can go through them together and make a plan.’

I just need to text my assistant and get her to cancel my next couple of hours.

29

NATALIE

The thought of having a man as successful, as competent, as Adam look through the car crash that is my numbers makes me feel sick. My P&L is a source of great shame to me—a constant, conditionally formatted prompt for me to judge myself on what I’ve failed to achieve in the four years I’ve run Gossamer. The horror of its sea of red washes over me afresh every time I dare to pull it up. Even opening it makes me feel sick.

I do, of course, because denial on that scale is spectacularly unprofessional. Still, confronting the rows and columns that tally my achievements is the least palatable part of my job.

My fingers hover over my laptop keyboard as I stare at him. It doesn’t help that he’s so fine. So handsome. I could have swaddled myself in his beautiful black wool coat when I saw him standing in the doorframe. I know, without even touching it, that it’s double-faced cashmere.

He’s in a variation of his usual uniform today—steel grey trousers, a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and a pale grey merino V-neck sweater. His beard is immaculate, helooks as though he’s had twelve hours sleep, and his wavy hair is raked back with just the right amount of product.

Don’t get me started on his light eyes and full mouth and huge hands, because they’re perfect.

And they were on me last night.

All of them.

There’s a push-pull with Adam. It’s all driven internally, of course, but the conflict I feel between wanting to hate him and wanting to impress him is exhausting. It strikes me that there’d be nothing worse than having his pity. It would kill me, I know it would.

‘They’re not pretty,’ I tell him now. My numbers, that is.

‘Spoiler alert,’ he says quietly. ‘Nothing bad will happen if you show me your numbers. I won’t laugh. I won’t judge you. But Imaybe able to help you a little. Whatever’s stopping you, don’t let it. There’s nothing on the other side of that fear, I promise. Absolutely bugger all.’

So Adam Wright is a hot male version of Oprah with British swear words. Excellent.

‘Okay,’ I say with a sigh, and I open up the cash P&L we run and slide my laptop across the desk so he can see it, too. He scoots his chair closer until he’s right next to me and peers in, long fingers flexing on his coffee cup.

‘How often is this updated?’

‘Weekly by my book keeper. She’s freelance.’

He nods. ‘Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?’

‘Sure.’ I open up my large notebook to a blank page and hand it and a biro to him. He draws rough slashed lines along and down it and gets to work, scribbling years along the top and key metrics down the side: revenue, gross margin, operating margin, net margin, before populating it.

I watch in something approaching awe. I’m far more qualitative than I am quantitative. I think in ideas, notnumbers, and, while I’ve worked hard to build a strong grasp of the metrics pertaining to my business, it doesn’t come naturally. Clearly it does for Mr Maths Machine next to me, however.

He rips out the page and starts a new one, firing questions at me in a way that’s focused rather than abrupt but still makes my brain panic at being put on the spot. What’s the average production cost for each collection? How many collections do we do a year? How many drops in each collection? Average spend per photo shoot? What are my main marketing and advertising platforms? How much of each season sells through at full price? How heavily do we discount?

And so it continues for a good half an hour, during which my colleagues stay thankfully out at lunch. Adam also maps out a cash flow timeline for a typical production schedule, from the outlays we have to make up front right through to when we can expect our first sales.

Finally, he throws down the pen and sits back in his seat. I stare at him like a patient waiting for her doctor to tell her if it’s terminal.

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