by T. S. Easton
Trey led me outside and opened the rear door to a huge black Cadillac with tinted windows. I felt like a crime boss.We pulled out into traffic, a taxi giving us a welcoming blast of his horn.
‘Screw you!’ Trey screamed at it.
I knew the Priapia Offices were on 5th Avenue, what I hadn’t realised was that they were in the Flatiron Building, that iconic piece of 1920s architecture shaped like the incredibly thin wedge of cheesecake Mum always asks for before helping herself to seconds.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually going to be inside the Flatiron Building.’
‘It looks better from the outside’, Trey said. ‘Everything’s all screwy inside. None of the furniture fits, and the plumbing is a nightmare.’
Trey pulled up out front and hopped out to open the door for me. You’ve got to tip a man who opens a car door for you, even I can see that. I fumbled in my pocket as I got out but Trey cleared his throat and shook his head. OK, so no tip for a chauffeur, but a tip for a taxi driver? Maybe because I’m a guest of the company? How does that work? The minute I think I’m getting the tipping thing someone changes the rules. It’s not doing my nerves any good. He walked me into reception. I was starting to feel nervous. Mr Hollis had said this was going to be an informal chat. But the building was opulent, the receptionist was beautiful, they’d sent a chauffeur to pick me up. How informal could this be? I got a text from Brandi.
Good luck with your big meeting. Knock ’em dead!
Brandi was clearly another one who seemed to think this was my big chance. I was glad I’d washed my clothes. Imagine turning up here wearing my father’s chinos with the frayed cuff.
‘I’m gonna go park the car,’ Trey said. ‘I’ll wait and pick you up after your meeting.’
‘Thanks, Trey,’ I said.
‘Hey, good luck in there,’ he said, looking genuinely anxious for me.
Was everyone trying to make me as nervous as possible? They were acting like I was going to play a game of chess with Death.
‘It’s just an informal chat,’ I said, dry-mouthed.
Trey shook his head. ‘You’re seeing Robert D’Angelo, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That guy doesn’t do informal chats. You’ve got fifteen minutes of his time, which is the most valuable piece of real estate in this goddam city.’
I swallowed. I didn’t want to have this meeting. I wasn’t ready. There were three dropped stitches in the Hoopie sample.
Without Trey it suddenly seemed very quiet. The receptionist tapped at her keyboard. Suddenly feeling I needed to break the silence, I spoke up.
‘I hear you have trouble with your plumbing,’ I said. She looked up at me in alarm.
‘I mean, in the building,’ I explained quickly.
‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘Yeah, we do.’
Her phone buzzed and she answered it quickly, no doubt relieved to not have to talk to this weird English kid any more. Why can’t I just learn to keep my mouth shut?
‘Mr D’Angelo and his colleagues will see you now,’ she said, hanging up. ‘Take the elevator to the eighth floor.’
Colleagues?!
‘Knock ’em dead, kid,’ Trey said as he came back, chucking me on the shoulder. He watched as I made my way to the lift then he called out.
‘One shot!’
The lift doors opened on the eighth floor and I was met by another beautiful lady. ‘Ben Fletcher? I’m Gloria Tevez,’ she said, extending her hand.
‘Like the footballer,’ I replied, shaking her hand.
‘Excuse me?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I mean soccer player,’ I said.
‘There’s a soccer player called Gloria Tevez?’ she asked, interested.
‘No, his name is Carlos. And he’s a man. Doesn’t matter.’
Shut up Ben, shut up.
Please come through,’ she said, as though I hadn’t just acted like a prat. ‘We’re all excited to meet with you today.’
‘Me too,’ I said. Though for excitement read scared witless.
Gloria led me into a room shaped a bit like a cartoon wedge of cheese, with a table squashed into the thin end of the wedge. Two men and a woman sat facing me. It was like the Dragon’s Den studio had been rammed into the bow of an America’s Cup yacht. The window behind them looked out towards the Empire State Building, framing it perfectly. If a team of top scientists had designed a scenario with the sole purpose of causing me maximum anxiety, they would have come up with something very much like this. Though they would have painted it cerise, of course, a colour which also brings me out in hives.
Gloria asked me to take a seat on this side of the table, then she moved around to the other side, the weird geometry of the building meaning she had to squeeze her way past the end of the table.
‘Please take a seat, Ben,’ one of the men said. ‘I’m Robert D’Angelo.’
‘Hello,’ I said. I sat on the chair and clutched my Bloomingdale’s bag on my knees.
‘This is Miles O’Flynn, and this is Liz Hanson.’
‘Hello, hello,’ I said.
‘You’ve already met Gloria Tevez,’ he said.
‘The soccer player,’ Gloria said, with a taut smile.
‘Ha ha. Yes.’
‘So, Ben,’ Robert said. ‘What have you come to show us today?’
Suddenly, I didn’t want to open the bag. I had no idea what they were expecting, or what they were hoping for, but I was convinced the Hoopie wasn’t it. These people were in charge of buying for the textiles and clothing arm of a multinational corporation. I was a beginner knitter from Hampton who apparently couldn’t even spell Hampton. What could I offer these people?
Nonetheless, here I was. Here they were. I had to show them something. Mr Hollis, Mrs Tyler, Brandi, my parents. Trey. They all wanted me to give it my best shot.
So I pulled out the Hoopie.
‘This is my design,’ I said. ‘I call it the Hoopie. It’s like a hooded cardigan with a loose knit.’
‘Could you bring it here, please?’ Liz asked. I laid it on the table and the four of them began poking it, peering at it, subjecting it to a forensic analysis. You know those dreams you have, when you’re naked at school and all your friends are looking at you and laughing, and then Miss Swallow walks in and then you realise it’s not Miss Swallow, it’s actually your MUM?
Anyway. That’s how I felt. The Hoopie was such a personal thing. And this was far from the finest example.
I watched as Robert fingered a hole where I’d dropped a stitch.
‘You knitted this by hand?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about the dropped stitches. My room-mate was trying to get to sleep and kept throwing cushions at me because of the clicking. I went and finished it in the bathroom, hence the toothpaste on the sleeve.’
‘You finished this last night?’ Gloria asked, looking up at me. She wore those trendy big glasses, making her nice eyes look huge, like a woman from a manga comic.
‘I knitted the whole thing last night,’ I said.
‘You knitted the whole thing in one night?’ she asked, eyes even wider. She began scribbling on a pad sitting next to her. But the weird thing was, she didn’t look at the pad as she wrote. She just carried on looking at me with her massive eyes, her hand writing away as if it had a mind of its own. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
‘Yes. I can do one in less than an hour if I’m really in the zone,’ I said. ‘That’s how I won the Knitting Championship.’
Robert sat back in his chair and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I heard about that,’ he said.
Liz was whispering to Miles, who was tapping away on a tablet.
‘You know what else I heard?’ Robert asked.
‘Um, no?’
‘I heard you can knit faster than a machine.’
Oh no.
‘Well, I … ’
‘I didn’t believe it at first. But I don’t know … ’ he looke
d down at the Hoopie. ‘Maybe you can.’
I shook my head. ‘I need to explain, I –’
‘So you run a business?’ Gloria cut in, her independent hand still scribbling on the pad.
‘Yes. I mean I sell these on Etsy. I also do tank tops and football scarves.’
‘How many employees?’
‘Erm. Just … just the one, really. Just me.’
Miles and Liz stopped talking. Robert dropped his pen. They all stared at me. Even Liz’s independent hand stopped writing.
‘No employees?’ Miles asked.
‘Er, no?’ I said, wishing I could be giving a different answer.
‘How many machines?’ Robert asked slowly.
‘Machines? Er … I don’t have any machines, as such,’ I admitted.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Robert said. ‘It’s just you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And everything knitted by hand?’ As he asked this he pointed to the dropped stitch in the Hoopie.
‘That’s right.’
Robert shook his head and sat back in his chair, looking away. If this was Dragon’s Den he would be out.
‘Have you considered buying some machines?’ Gloria asked slowly.
‘I’ve got nowhere to put them,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose I could get rid of the ziggurat.’
‘You could rent premises,’ she pointed out.
‘I need cash for that.’
‘How much do you need?’ Miles asked, a finger poised over his tablet.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know!? Where are your revenue projections? Where’s your five-year plan?’
‘I haven’t really done one.’
Miles looked disappointed. He sat back.
‘You’ve got a good design here,’ Liz said. ‘But how many of these can you knit by hand in a week?’
‘Not so many at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘I have exams in July. I’m doing AS levels. I had to turn down a couple of orders in fact. Tank tops and scarves are quicker.’
‘What’s your margin on a tank top?’ she asked.
Thank God. I knew this one. Thirty per cent.’
‘And on a scarf?’
‘About fifty per cent.’
And what was your profit last year?’
‘I haven’t been going for a year. My profit last month was £67.’
Liz stared at me for a while. Then she sat back in her chair. No more questions, m’lud.
‘Thanks so much for coming in, Ben,’ Gloria said silkily, standing up. It looked like she was out as well.
‘Sorry,’ I said, meaning sorry for wasting their time. I stood and she helped me get the Hoopie back in the Bloomingdale’s bag while the other three sat quietly, the only sound the cheerful honking in the streets below.
I shook hands with the others and Gloria walked me to the lift.
‘Goodbye, Ben,’ she said.
‘Goodbye.’
‘Good luck with the Hoopie,’ she said. ‘It really is a great design.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Good luck with Juventus.’
‘How did it go?’ Trey asked excitedly as I walked back out into reception. He was leaning over the desk.
I shook my head. ‘I think I missed my one shot.’
‘Oh damn, seriously?’
‘Yeah. I wasn’t prepared,’ I said. ‘I thought … oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it, dude,’ Trey said. ‘There’ll be another opportunity.’
‘That’s not what you said before.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘That probably was your opportunity.’
I sighed.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to a bar, we can get drunk.’
Once I’d explained to Trey that I was underage and didn’t much like alcohol anyway, he took me back to 38th Street and parked outside Dino’s.
‘Hi, Ben,’ said Denise, pointing us to our usual table in the window.
‘Hi, Denise,’ I replied.
‘Bad day?’
‘It’s that obvious? Could I get a flat white?’ I wasn’t in the mood for flirtatious banter, even though Denise was wearing a nice low-cut top.
‘Make that two, honey,’ Trey said.
‘So,’ Trey said, once Denise had gone. ‘You wanna talk about it?’
I shrugged. ‘Not much to say. I wasn’t ready. I mean, I’m not ready. I’m small potatoes, you know? I shouldn’t be having meetings with big multinationals. I’m just a boy with one design and not enough time.’
‘So, hire more people,’ Trey said.
‘I can’t afford to pay people with the revenue I’d be getting. It takes too long to knit each Hoopie.’
‘Can you mechanise? Like Henry Ford?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose. But are people going to want to buy a Hoopie if it’s not hand-knitted? People want home-made. They can get cheap machine-bought stuff in the supermarket. I can’t compete with that.’
‘Hold up. I need to ask: what the hell is a Hoopie?’
So I showed him.
‘This is beautiful,’ he said, feeling the wool. ‘You knitted this by hand?’
‘Yeah, there are a couple of mistakes.’
‘My girlfriend would love this.’
‘Pity she wasn’t one of the Dragons,’ I said gloomily.
‘What’s that?’
‘Never mind. You know what? Take it,’ I said suddenly. ‘It’s yours. Give it to your girlfriend.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure. I want you to have it.’
He looked at me long and hard. ‘You’re a good kid.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Seriously,’ Trey said. He reached into his pocket and handed me his card. ‘You call me any time. You need driving somewhere. I’m at your service.’
Denise brought our coffees. ‘Here you go, boys,’ she said.
‘So you got a girl?’ Trey asked. Or a guy?’
‘A girl,’ I said quickly. ‘Definitely a girl.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Megan.’
‘She pretty?’
‘Yes she is.’
‘So how come she didn’t come with you?’
‘Her grandmother is unwell,’ I said. ‘Her family needs her.’
Trey raised an eyebrow. I took a sip of my coffee.
‘Yeah. I know how that sounds,’ I said. ‘And I’m worried she’s going off me.’
I told Trey all about my concerns with Megan and Sean. As I poured my heart out, I noticed Gex outside peering in through the window. Keith stood behind him looking up and down the street as if he was waiting for someone. I waved at them and they both came in and sat down and I introduced them to Trey. To his credit, Trey wasn’t too appalled by Gex’s appearance, even though Gex’s jeans were so low slung that the tops of his Primark underpants were fully visible.
‘You gotta fix it, man,’ Trey continued after the introductions were complete. He licked coffee foam off his spoon.
‘Fix what?’ Gex asked.
‘Megan’s been seen with Sean,’ I said.
‘Sean?’ Gex spat. ‘Not that guy again.’
‘You can’t let this Sean guy just walk in there and steal her away,’ Trey said. ‘What a dick!’
‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do.’
‘You want me to fix this guy?’ Keith asked, cracking his knuckles.
‘What did you have in mind?’ I asked.
‘I could arrange for him to have a little visit from some friends.’
‘You got friends in East Hampshire?’ Gex asked eagerly. ‘Sean lives in Liphook.’
This meant nothing to Keith, of course.
‘I saw someone use a lip hook once,’ he said, a faraway look in his eye. ‘The guy paid up.’
‘I think sending the Mob around might be a little heavy-handed in any case,’ I said. ‘We don’t know what’s been going on, exactly.’
‘Call her,�
�� Trey said. ‘You got a phone?’
‘I have a BlackBerry,’ I said.
‘Call her now.’
So I did. I skyped her. To my surprise, she answered straight away.
‘Hi, Ben,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How’s the Big Apple?’
‘It’s amazing,’ I said. It was so good to hear her voice. She was blurry on the little screen but she looked great. ‘I’ve done some interviews and … stuff.’
‘Is Gex there?’ she asked.
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘Ask about Sean!’ Gex hissed. I shook my head. It wasn’t the right time.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, peering at the camera.
‘I’m in a diner.’
‘Are you eating Philly cheesesteak again?’
‘No, just coffee. But I might have Philly cheesesteak for lunch.’
‘Have you had any fruit and veg since you arrived?’
‘A little. But mostly just Philly cheesesteak.’
‘Are you going to come back looking like Eric Pickles?’ she asked.
I laughed. ‘No, I have a fast metabolism, I never put on weight.’
Gex made a strange sound then. A bit like a strangled laugh. I gave him an odd look.
‘I have a fast metabolism too, said Megan, laughing. ‘My body converts food very quickly into fat and stores it on my thighs.’
I glanced up at Trey; he was listening to all this with narrowed eyes.
Denise walked by and swiped an empty water glass off the table. Then she leaned across me to grab another one on the far side.
‘Who was that?’ Megan asked.
‘That was Denise, the waitress.’
‘She’s pretty.’
‘Is she? I hadn’t really noticed.’
‘You didn’t notice that she just flopped her breasts out in your face?’
‘She was reaching for a glass.’
‘I told you, Ben,’ Megan said, with a little sideways smile. ‘Watch out for American girls.’
‘The nerve,’ Gex muttered. He made a grab for the phone, but I slapped his hand away.
‘What about Sean?’ Trey asked loudly.
‘What?’ Megan asked. ‘Who was that?’
‘Just some guy at the next table,’ I said.
‘Yeah, what about Sean?’ Keith asked.
‘Two guys at the next table,’ I said. ‘Anyway, better go now, Megan.’