Page 48 of Unbind

Sales have beenslow.It’s that horrific time of year where an unseasonably mild October meant no one was buying new season collections that month, and November is always a write-off because everyone waits for Black Friday to buy anything at all. The world and his wife will discount then, and we won’t, both because mid-season discounting doesn’t reflect well on our brand and because it trains customers not to shop at full price. Inevitably, though, that means we’llsee none of the wallet share from the biggest shopping weekend of the year.

So here we are, with my entire life savings sitting in unsold inventory, and a hideous cash flow model that always, always works against us, and insufficient funds to pay my amazing, hardworking team, and it’s all enough to make the anxiety that’s been coursing through me all of yesterday (well,mostof yesterday) and this morning turn to fully fledged panic, a panic that twists my stomach like two hands might wring out a wet dishcloth.

‘I don’t get why you’re being so blasé,’ Evan says now, and and I press my lips together before answering, because what I want to shout at him isn’t appropriate or cool. He may be one of my best friends, but he’s also my employee. I’m the business owner, and our finances are my problem, no one else’s. Neither Evan nor Carrie nor anyone else can ever know how close they come to not being paid every single month.

They can never know how fortuitous it is for them—and for me—that my Alchemy pay cheque hits my personal account the day before Gossamer’s pay day is due each month. And they candefinitelynever know how often I have to top up Gossamer’s bank account with my own Alchemy salary. Or that Alchemy is pretty much paying my bills on its own, because my original plan to pay myself a small salary from the business is categorically not an option right now.

It will be, at some point, but there are always so many bills to pay, so many parties clamouring for their funds—mills and factories and the landlord for this studio, obviously. It’s a never-ending tunnel of keeping the panic to a manageable level while I spin plates and run to stand still and try very, very hard to keep the following from myself and from everyoneelse: that this dream of running a beautiful fashion brand has become more of a nightmare, and thatI can’t see the dimmest, tiniest speck of light at the end of that tunnel.Not any more.

But I won’t say any of that to my lovely Evan, who works so fucking hard and is so fucking loyal to me, despite the fact that he could easily get snapped up by a bigger brand. He claims he’s here for the autonomy a small brand gives him, but I know better.

Nor will I say any of it to myself. I may have no idea what lies ahead for us, but spiralling over that fact prevents me from doing what I need to do: keep my head down and focus every day on living to fight another day. Another week. To make another payroll.

So I plaster on a smile for my dear friend and I tear my eyes from the horrible sight on my screen. ‘Definitely not blasé,’ I manage. ‘Not with my track record. Just trying to get through the to-do list.’

I force myself to banter with him for a few more minutes, because God knows he doesn’t deserve to have a miserable cow for a boss. But when the doorbell rings downstairs and he ambles off to answer it, I let my eyes drift closed. The tears are there. They’re so close that my lash line is damp. My entire face aches from holding it in. There’s a well of pressure building behind my face, and it’s all I can do not to let it release.

I try taking slow, even breaths in and out. Maybe I can trick my body into regulating itself. Maybe I can breathe away that bank balance. That invoice from the mill that’s blinking at me on my screen. They’re waiting for me to send them a payment confirmation before they’ll release the fabric, and I really need DHL to pick it up by tomorrow. If they don’t, we’ll lose our slot at the factory.

But I’m so fucking exhausted, and I know my antics lastnight—delicious though they were—didn’t help. It’s hard enough holding down a late-night job when I’m a morning person, but it’s far harder when I’m getting naked in my place of work afterwards and crawling into bed at one in the morning. Even without ill-advised sexy times, I’m burning the candle at both ends, and the candle is feeling pretty useless. Exhaustion is making me less resilient when I need every ounce of resilience I can muster in this business.

A tear rolls out of my tear duct and down the side of my nose, and I dab it carefully with a tissue so as not to mess up my perfect makeup. Maybe I’ll go treat myself to a fancy coffee that I can’t afford. The caffeine hit will be worth the investment. Sure, it’ll make me even more jittery, but I’ll also be more productive, and that can’t be a bad thing. If only I could find the energy to get up from my chair.

It turns out I don’t need energy to get up. I simply require a big fat shock. Because when I jerk my head up at the two sets of heavy footsteps clomping up the narrow staircase that leads to the front door and see Adam Wright standing in my studio, I’m out of that chair like a rocket.

28

ADAM

She’s not okay. It’s obvious as soon as I look at her.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have pushed her like that last night. Shouldn’t have been so bloody selfish as to bundle her into a room with me and sweet-talk her into something she’s clearly regretting. But even as I mentally berate myself, I’m grateful that I listened to my gut and followed up with her today. Because the red-eyed woman who’s shot to her feet at the sight of me is not the same post-orgasmic one I tucked into a cab last night.

This Evan guy who answered the door to me and is, I now know, an exquisite cutter, looks from me to her as though he’s even less certain that letting me up here was the right thing to do. I ignore his hovering and stride towards Natalie, extending one of the two lattes I just picked up at an artisanal place on the corner. It was a typically pretentious Soho coffeehouse but it smelt like heaven. I have no idea what she drinks, but this seemed like a safe bet.

She looks from the cup to me as she accepts it, and our fingers brush.

‘It’s a latte,’ I say. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

‘It’s perfect. And this is my favourite coffee shop. Thank you.’

‘Excellent.’ We stare at each other for a moment. She definitely looks teary, which I absolutely can’t have, but she’s polished perfection in skinny jeans and a black, slim-fitting sweater with little pearls in her ears, her glossy hair pulled back. So elegant, so stunning, as always. There isn’t a hair out of place, and I can tell her makeup has been immaculately applied, but beneath it she looks fucking exhausted.

‘Can I talk to you?’ I blurt out, wedging my free hand into my coat pocket and breaking our gaze to glance around the space. It’s a decent size but by no means huge, and rails on wheels cover most of what space there is. On the rails hang dress after dress, each in its own clear plastic garment bag, and behind them I see picking boxes containing folded garments.

It seems the left-hand side of the room is used for pattern-cutting, sewing and designing while the right-hand side is a makeshift warehouse. I guess they do their own fulfilment direct from here, which is laborious and possibly not the best use of prime Soho real estate when that side of things could be outsourced to a third party fulfilment centre in a location where square footage is far cheaper. They’d be better off refurbishing this entire place and using the extra space as a showroom for clients.

Natalie looks around, too, no doubt taking in the fact that we have company and that her colleagues appearveryinterested in my having turned up out of the blue. ‘Um, yeah. Sure. Why don’t we…’ She trails off.

Behind me, Evan claps his hands. ‘Gail, Carrie, how about we take an early lunch? We’ll give you an hour, sweetie,’ he adds to Natalie.

‘Have a seat,’ she says, sinking back down into hers with weary resignation. I do as she suggests and wheel over a swivel chair from the table nearby so it’s facing her. Once I’ve set down my coffee and shrugged off my coat—a move that has her eyeing my body with what looks like memory in her eyes—I take a seat opposite her. She really does look pale.

‘Do you need to grab some lunch?’ I ask once the others have cleared off. It seems to me the most diplomatic way to ask her if she’s keeping on top of her blood glucose levels, but it gets me a tired eye roll.

‘I think my favourite thing about last night was that you didn’t once ask to see my CGM.’

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