Tycoon
Page 16
“Not a bad idea,” he murmurs. Impressed.
“It’s amazing what the right clothes can do for a woman,” I say, stepping back.
“Did it pick that out for you?” He motions to my black leggings and long sweater.
“No,” I admit. “I sold my wardrobe. To pay a software developer to help me chalk this up. But I kept some key pieces, mostly black or white, which I can mix and match. And my best pair of flats, stilettos, and boots.” I smile. “You realize you don’t need more if they’re well chosen.”
“One problem,” he frowns as he props back against his desk, folding his arms, “is the time it takes to input a closet.”
“I thought of that. But if we had representatives in every state, we could charge a small fee, like ninety-nine dollars, for one of our reps to go to your home and spend an afternoon inventorying your closet.”
For the next half hour, we discuss my expanded ideas on the store, and I tell him why I think it can be special, how targeting trendy women of all ages would be ideal.
He seems vaguely interested, until his assistant rings him up to tell him his next appointment has arrived.
“This meeting is adjourned.”
I quickly gather my things, hating that time flew by so fast. “So it’s a yes? Say it’s a yes, Christos. You want to say it. I know it,” I bluff.
“Work on it.”
His grin is so irresistible, I’m grinning too. “Can I wait for you outside to talk some more?”
“Don’t think so. I’m heading to the gym at 6.” He dials to his assistant. “Show him in.”
I force myself to leave, checking to see how much time I need to kill before it’s 6 p.m.
I spend the next hour walking Brooklyn, thinking of ideas as I wait for it to be six p.m. and corner him on his way to the gym.
My dad used to tell me the best thing he could ever give me was an education. I didn’t waste what I could get. Even when they died in the fire at the Las Vegas hotel and I quit college shortly after, I always tried using what education I did get. I went to live with my aunt Cecile, and kept thinking that I would do something with this education my parents had given me.
My first business, at eight, was a lemonade stand. It flopped. Nobody walked down the cul-de-sac where we lived—I had like one customer, total (my mom.) Even then, I always wanted to do something with my time. Something lasting. I wanted security and I knew, after losing my parents, only I could provide it to myself. I tried my hand at everything. But plants died. Even my goldfish died. Still, it didn’t keep me from wanting to put myself out there, create things, do things.
I promised my aunt Cecile that I’d be sure we were comfortable at all times in our lives. Even old age. I was thinking ahead. Unfortunately, my determination didn’t prepare me for failure times a dozen.
I always picked myself straight up by my bootstraps and kept going, though, certain that the wheel of fortune would keep turning and one day, I’d succeed.
It wasn’t until after the store closed, after Mom and Dad passed, that I realized I’d had a natural talent for dressing the mannequins, and later, for mending and revamping my own clothes.
And it wasn’t until after many bad jobs, and a shit-ton of tears, that I realized I wasn’t only good at it, I enjoyed it. And it wasn’t until my aunt Cecile died that I realized…I was in my mid-twenties, a college dropout (I’d had to drop out to take care of my aunt), and should definitely think about doing something about my situation before I turned thirty.
I’m thirty now—and I have no more minutes to spare.
So, at 6 p.m., waiting for my future business partner and investor outside the Christos and Co. building, I rehearse the rest of what else I’m going to say. My pitch, as they say.
Some tag line, some brilliant marketing idea, something the man will find irresistible.
He exits and immediately spots me outside, not once breaking his stride.
“I didn’t realize I’d have an escort.” He removes his jacket and slings his duffel behind his shoulders.
“You’re amusing yourself with me, but that’s not a problem if you give me twenty more minutes to discuss my project,” I say.
His lips begin tugging at the corners then. “I’ll give you an hour if you keep doing a good job amusing me.”
“Goodness,” I exaggerate. “Are you that hard to keep entertained?”
“Hard to please.”
“And I’m pleasing you?”
“Pretty close to that.”
“Hmm.” I bite down on my lip under my top lip, then I notice he’s staring at me. At my mouth.
I let go and exhale, then I jump into the rest of my presentation.
We walk past the woman who asked me for money on my way in, the one I promised to invite to dinner if all went well.
As I explain to Christos why I think this is the best business, best timing, everything, she approaches.
“Did it go well?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.
“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” I glance at my future business partner. “Say yes so I can take her out to dinner,” I order.
“No,” he says sternly, slipping her a bill. “Go to dinner on your own, she’s busy.”
I hope he means to talk to me when he suddenly makes a right turn and disappears into a gym. Ooops. I have to backtrack when I realize I was heading in the wrong direction.
I hurry into the gym after him. He signs in and gives me a stern sideways look, but then he motions me in with a jerk of his chin and scribbles down his signature again. Silently, I walk behind him as he heads into an area of private saunas.
“It’s amazing what the right clothes can do for a woman,” I say, stepping back.
“Did it pick that out for you?” He motions to my black leggings and long sweater.
“No,” I admit. “I sold my wardrobe. To pay a software developer to help me chalk this up. But I kept some key pieces, mostly black or white, which I can mix and match. And my best pair of flats, stilettos, and boots.” I smile. “You realize you don’t need more if they’re well chosen.”
“One problem,” he frowns as he props back against his desk, folding his arms, “is the time it takes to input a closet.”
“I thought of that. But if we had representatives in every state, we could charge a small fee, like ninety-nine dollars, for one of our reps to go to your home and spend an afternoon inventorying your closet.”
For the next half hour, we discuss my expanded ideas on the store, and I tell him why I think it can be special, how targeting trendy women of all ages would be ideal.
He seems vaguely interested, until his assistant rings him up to tell him his next appointment has arrived.
“This meeting is adjourned.”
I quickly gather my things, hating that time flew by so fast. “So it’s a yes? Say it’s a yes, Christos. You want to say it. I know it,” I bluff.
“Work on it.”
His grin is so irresistible, I’m grinning too. “Can I wait for you outside to talk some more?”
“Don’t think so. I’m heading to the gym at 6.” He dials to his assistant. “Show him in.”
I force myself to leave, checking to see how much time I need to kill before it’s 6 p.m.
I spend the next hour walking Brooklyn, thinking of ideas as I wait for it to be six p.m. and corner him on his way to the gym.
My dad used to tell me the best thing he could ever give me was an education. I didn’t waste what I could get. Even when they died in the fire at the Las Vegas hotel and I quit college shortly after, I always tried using what education I did get. I went to live with my aunt Cecile, and kept thinking that I would do something with this education my parents had given me.
My first business, at eight, was a lemonade stand. It flopped. Nobody walked down the cul-de-sac where we lived—I had like one customer, total (my mom.) Even then, I always wanted to do something with my time. Something lasting. I wanted security and I knew, after losing my parents, only I could provide it to myself. I tried my hand at everything. But plants died. Even my goldfish died. Still, it didn’t keep me from wanting to put myself out there, create things, do things.
I promised my aunt Cecile that I’d be sure we were comfortable at all times in our lives. Even old age. I was thinking ahead. Unfortunately, my determination didn’t prepare me for failure times a dozen.
I always picked myself straight up by my bootstraps and kept going, though, certain that the wheel of fortune would keep turning and one day, I’d succeed.
It wasn’t until after the store closed, after Mom and Dad passed, that I realized I’d had a natural talent for dressing the mannequins, and later, for mending and revamping my own clothes.
And it wasn’t until after many bad jobs, and a shit-ton of tears, that I realized I wasn’t only good at it, I enjoyed it. And it wasn’t until my aunt Cecile died that I realized…I was in my mid-twenties, a college dropout (I’d had to drop out to take care of my aunt), and should definitely think about doing something about my situation before I turned thirty.
I’m thirty now—and I have no more minutes to spare.
So, at 6 p.m., waiting for my future business partner and investor outside the Christos and Co. building, I rehearse the rest of what else I’m going to say. My pitch, as they say.
Some tag line, some brilliant marketing idea, something the man will find irresistible.
He exits and immediately spots me outside, not once breaking his stride.
“I didn’t realize I’d have an escort.” He removes his jacket and slings his duffel behind his shoulders.
“You’re amusing yourself with me, but that’s not a problem if you give me twenty more minutes to discuss my project,” I say.
His lips begin tugging at the corners then. “I’ll give you an hour if you keep doing a good job amusing me.”
“Goodness,” I exaggerate. “Are you that hard to keep entertained?”
“Hard to please.”
“And I’m pleasing you?”
“Pretty close to that.”
“Hmm.” I bite down on my lip under my top lip, then I notice he’s staring at me. At my mouth.
I let go and exhale, then I jump into the rest of my presentation.
We walk past the woman who asked me for money on my way in, the one I promised to invite to dinner if all went well.
As I explain to Christos why I think this is the best business, best timing, everything, she approaches.
“Did it go well?” she asks, eyes wide with hope.
“Oh, I’m not sure yet.” I glance at my future business partner. “Say yes so I can take her out to dinner,” I order.
“No,” he says sternly, slipping her a bill. “Go to dinner on your own, she’s busy.”
I hope he means to talk to me when he suddenly makes a right turn and disappears into a gym. Ooops. I have to backtrack when I realize I was heading in the wrong direction.
I hurry into the gym after him. He signs in and gives me a stern sideways look, but then he motions me in with a jerk of his chin and scribbles down his signature again. Silently, I walk behind him as he heads into an area of private saunas.
