Page 42 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Where do you go to school?”
“London Business School.”
“You travel far for a summer job.”
Hamed smiles. “It’s more than a summer job. Prince Rashid pays for my schooling, and when I graduate, he will help find a placement for me at one of his family businesses. If you need anything else, please let me know.”
After Hamed leaves, I soak deep in the tub and mull over the brief conversation I had with him. Rashid may not be a bad boss, but he damn well stole that painting and framed me for it. At some point, I’ll search the suite, but for what exactly? Will I findMistress in a Red Dresshanging on a wall above the mantel?Doubt it.I tilt my head back against a padded pillow suctioned to the tub, and close my eyes. Jack. I have to get my hands on a new phone.
Pounding startles me, and I thrash about in the tub. Regaining my equilibrium, I catch my breath and listen to the bangs against a door downstairs. Someone, most likely Hamed, answers. A door squeaks open down the corridor from my room, and footsteps hurry along, then strike the marble staircase. Raised voices are muffled by the time they reach me; the sound echoes in my cavernous bathroom. I emerge from the tub and,still wet, slip into the hotel’s robe. Outside my room, I press myself against the wall and will my legs forward to view the floor below. My heart races and pumps fear through my veins as I edge closer. Within seconds, I spot Rashid with his arms wrapped around another man, half holding him, half carrying him into a room below, and closes the door. On his hands and knees, Hamed mops what appears to be blood on the white and gray marble floor.
***
The next day, my fingers work the fabric. Cashmere. Expensive. I unclasp the topcoat button, slide my hand in, and scrutinize the stitching on the inside. The male model stares straight ahead, avoids eye contact with me as I continue with my inspection.
“The stitching on the inside is poor,” I tell the young designer, Anton. He nods from a few feet away, his hand cups his chin, blue eyeglass frames set against dyed blond hair.
I step back to take in the whole ensemble, my head cocked, lips pursed in concentration. “Who’s your customer?”
Anton clears his throat. “The young professional in his twenties, thirties. He works hard and enjoys the finer things in life. He wants to stand out as a hipper version from his father’s generation.”
I turn to Rashid, settled on the sofa of a private office in the hotel suite, his mobile phone in his hand. I raise an eyebrow his way. Earlier, he encouraged me to speak the truth to this young designer, but I worry just how strong a reality check Rashid will be comfortable with.
“What’s your price point?”
Anton is too quick to answer. “In American dollars, nine ninety-five.”
“Really?”
Anton’s eyes skitter to Rashid, then he returns his attention to me. I can tell he’s getting nervous and defensive. There was a time when my opinion mattered, when I could lift a designer from obscurity, and people hung on my every word. God, I miss it.
“It’s the right price point,” Anton says, watchful of my examining hands. “We feel we’re targeting the below a thousand market which is accessible.”
“Not to twenty-something males. They can’t afford it. It’s a fantastic fit, clean, but bland. If you’re targeting a hipper crowd, then they’ll want to stand out. Have you considered doing a color block version?”
Anton stammers, “N-no, but we’re open.”
“Good. Now take off the coat, and let’s have a look at that blazer.”
The young model, whose name escapes me, hands the coat to Anton. He hangs the outer coat on the clothing rack he had rolled into the suite earlier. I quietly inspect the stitching and fit, periodically motion to the model to turn around. Having him face me again, I shake my head.
“This is fine work, but it’s missing something. How about a little fun pocket square?”
“No,” Anton says, “that’s something his father would wear.”
“Pocket squares come in many fun colors and patterns. A man can never have too many. Yes, a pocket square with a custom-made shirt. You don’t make shirts do you?”
Anton shakes his head.
“Once you go custom, you never go back, and cashmere socks – the ultimate orgasmic high.” I turn to see both Rashid and Anton stare at me. “So, I’ve heard. All right, Anton, a buyer at Nordstrom’s wants this jacket. How many units can you give them?”
“What?” says Anton, his mouth gaping.
“Hypothetically speaking,” I elucidate, “a buyer at Nordstrom’s wants to purchase them. How many units can you deliver?”
“When?”
“Now. Buyers are purchasing ahead of time. You need to know how many units you can provide, what price point makes sense, you need to know what your customer is wearing now. Three months from now. Six months from now. Be a risk-taker. And color block.”
