The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  I feel heat inside. And when he pulls out to lay beside me, his seed trickles out. I have the presence of mind to reach down and tuck the armrest cover under us. Customers will sit here tomorrow. There shouldn’t be come stains.

  With Hampton’s arm around me and my pleasure draining back into normality, I wait for the shame to descend. For regret to creep in, because I never do this, and I barely know him, and I’m still not sure I like him at all.

  But the regret doesn’t come. The shame never arrives.

  It’s like Hampton can read my mind.

  “What does it mean,” he says from behind me, my ass spooned against his flagging member, “that I feel no urgency to call my pilot and tell him when I’ll show up?”

  I don’t know the answer to that question.

  I feel too satisfied to care.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HAMPTON

  I WONDER WHY I HAD any problem with Stacy’s designs.

  This thought dawns on me first on the plane after I leave her, then the feeling solidifies on the car ride back to my place. I should sleep; it’s late, and I have work to do in the morning. But I toss and turn, feeling odd, until I give up with my mind turning and sit at my desk. I don’t turn my monitor on like I normally do. I flick on the tensor lamp and pull the waterproof case from my bag.

  It’s strange. I can’t say why, but looking at Stacy’s drawings here — in my home and so far from Williamsville — feels out of place. But not just like a right shoe on a left foot or a modern chair amid farmhouse decor; more emotionally loaded. As if the pages have become something precious from a departed era. As if the sketches don’t just carry instructions for creating a wardrobe, but hold the recipes for life itself.

  I run through them two times, taking each top sheet and placing it on the bottom of the pile. Because I rumpled the sketches before smoothing them out and buying the case, the wrinkled papers rustle like dry leaves against one another.

  Why didn’t I like these?

  I thought it on the plane and think it again now, in the dark, beneath the lamp’s glowing white light. I can see what she’s trying to do, but it’s embarrassing that she had to explain it. Many major brands have sub-brands — or sister brands — that serve a different market segment than its first. When I tune into my original plans for Expendable Chic, what Stacy has drawn is more aligned to that.

  Especially if I consider our core values to be the ones Stacy suggested.

  Not cheap, but helpful to people who can’t otherwise afford to look nice.

  Not disposable, but making lives better, however we can.

  I almost laugh, thinking these things. Can they possibly be true? The whole thing sounds so damned Pollyanna. I’m not running a charity. This is a business. And we’re not manufacturing replacement kidneys or hearts. We make stupid party clothing. Our commercials don’t feature poor people who can suddenly afford clothing. The idea is ludicrous. No, we show obnoxious middle- to upper-middle-class kids who want to impress their friends with frequent wardrobe changes, then kick up their underage heels for nights on the town with Molly.

  It’s the height of materialism and in no way covert. I’ve said all these things about our spots in the past, with no regret. We chose our positioning because it sells clothes. With no apologies for being what we are.

  The idea that we aren’t serving the basic needs of human vanity is laughable. Still, holding these sketches in my hands makes me feel something new. I see what Stacy is trying to do, and how this line could fit in. It’d take a shift in at least some of our factories. But it might be genius.

  I call her the next evening. I got almost no sleep, mulling new ideas and scribbling notes. I still managed to do my morning routine and get through my meetings, but I was dragging ass by midday. It’s not until after dinner when I finally find the time to pick up the phone. By then, my sleepy brain is burning.

  “Stacy. Hello.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Hampton Brooks.”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “We should talk.” I might be getting a second wind already. It’s like a charge came through the phone. A nervous, jittery energy, like from caffeine or too much sugar. I’m pacing. My brain is bursting, but it’s hard to find the right words.

  “Yes,” she says. “I was thinking we should, too.”

  “Look. I’ve been thinking things over. All day. Hell, all night. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me either.”

  “I haven’t taken any of this to my team. I haven’t talked it over with anyone, but—”

  “Well, that’s good …”

  “—but I’ve got lots of ideas. Well, maybe the seed of one big idea.”

  “Ideas?”

  “I can’t get back there until after the weekend. Are you around Monday, Tuesday, maybe Wednesday of next week? What’s your load like?”

  “My load?”

  “Your customer load. How busy you are?” My words are coming flat and fast like gunfire.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Normal, I guess. But Hampton …”

  “Can you draw up some more sketches? Designs to match what you already gave me. No. Wait. Take what you gave me and bump it up a notch if you know what I mean.”

  “You want me to design more clothing for you? Why?”

  “I can explain later. The truth is, I’m just getting this idea myself. Like, I don’t fully understand it. It’s cool; this is how my head works. But the designs? Can you do that?”

  “New designs? And …” I can almost see her shaking head, that hay colored hair flowing. “Explain it again?”

  “The first round. What you gave me yesterday. They stretch what Expendable Chic is comfortable producing within budget, but if you’re going to break our model while still trying to stay within brand — and by brand, I mean the different values you suggested yesterday — then I want a few options to choose from. Good, better, and best. Cheap to make, middle-of-the-road, and expensive. Know what I mean?”

  “You’re talking about clothes? About my sketches?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That’s why you called?”

  I nod to no one. “I was up all night.”

  Pause.

  “You still there?” I ask.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “You want a higher quality of the same designs, or something brand-new?”

  “Whatever suits your muse. Surprise me.”

  “How many?”

  “However many you can do for what I paid you last time.”

  She laughs, but I haven’t made a joke.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Never mind. Yes, I can do it.” Her voice has changed. Before it was soft, kind of lazy like mine would have been before this adrenaline boost. Now it’s on-point like I’m a customer. “Can you take pictures of the sketches you already have and send them to me?”

  “The ones you gave me yesterday?”

  “Yes. The sketches you bought the case for.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “When you came to see me last night.”

  “I’ll send them as soon as we hang up.”

  “When you came to my shop in the rain.”

  Another pause.

  “Do you know which sketches I mean?” she asks.

  “Yes. What other sketches are there?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible we weren’t on the same page.”

  “I got it.”

  “Okay. Then yes. Send them.”

  “No problem.”

  The room feels darker. It feels quieter.

  “Stacy?” I say.

  “Yes, Hampton.”

  “Everything okay?”

  And she replies, “Everything is awesome, Boss.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  STACY

  THREE DAYS LATER, AFTER I’VE made the new round of sketches, I decide to make some mock-ups.

  What the hell. I nee
d to make stuff to sell on FairTraded anyway, and I’m pretty sure that Crazy April will buy just about anything I aim in her direction. Besides, I recently received some fantastic fabrics that I haven’t had a chance to use, and the designs I have in mind for Expendable Chic — especially if I’m allowed to “bump it up a notch” — are things I’d like to try my hand at anyway. So why not? I’ll make some stuff to show Hampton when he comes back into town. If he doesn’t like it, then I’ll sell it online. Nothing gets wasted.

  The plan sours when I realize that I’m not making the right dresses, the right slacks, or the right shirts.

  More accurately, I’m making exactly the dresses, slacks, shirts, and other garments that I’ve drawn on my pad, but there’s zero chance they’ll be a fit for Expendable Chic. They’re some of the finest articles of clothing I’ve ever made, once finished. They aren’t particularly fancy, but you could drop bombs on them. They’re so meticulously made and wearable that whoever buys them will be able to list them in their wills.

  I’ve only finished two items by Wednesday: a dress and a man’s dress shirt. I’m stupidly proud of both, but as I eye them on their hangers, I wonder why I made them. I doubt that either is practical to manufacture at large scale. And they’re not even Expendable Chic type clothes. They’re beautiful but basic. Expendable Chic, on the other hand, is the opposite. Their clothes are the most commercial definition of “fashion.” The rage today and stupid tomorrow.

  I can’t explain my actions. And what’s more, I don’t know what I’ll tell Hampton. Not only have I failed to craft the mockups I wanted to show him, the sketches aren’t any good. They’re all of pillar items. Timeless rather than trendy. Foundation instead of frivolous. At least with my last round of sketches, I followed the Expendable Chic ethos. My first attempts managed to be things that would fit with their lines while also reflecting me enough that they weren’t embarrassing. But these? They’re all me. It’s like I sewed these garments with my ears closed to the customer’s wishes. Like I sewed them out of spite.

  I have exactly fifteen minutes to freak the hell out. Hampton clearly has something in mind, and judging by the way he was on the phone last week, it’s something that excites him. We haven’t talked since. I’ve had questions, but didn’t feel like picking up the phone. Now he’ll be here soon to see how royally I’ve screwed up.

  I probably can’t sketch anything new in fifteen minutes, but figure I might as well try. Three crumpled sheets later the door chimes and Hampton enters.

  I’m not prepared for what I feel. It’s not quite nerves, though I feel plenty of that. It’s not lust, although my body does respond to the memory of our last encounter. It’s not anger. It’s not even resentment. I was beyond annoyed when Hampton called and pitched me more work instead of helping me to figure out what happened between us. Maybe he’s still processing. Guys are weird. My emotional life winds into everything I do, like a hair in a braid. Men seem to have separate selves, each compartmentalized away from the other.

  I watch his eyes. I want to see how he looks at me.

  And because I’m looking I catch what flickers across Hampton’s features before he’s all business. A flash as we don’t just look at each other, but lock eyes.

  It’s amazing how much can pass unsaid, in only a glance. For a moment, I feel naked before him, though I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I’m a bit embarrassed, given what happened and what hasn’t happened since. But at the same time, I’m accepting — it was what it was, whatever that might mean. And lastly, though I’m not sure if I’m proud of it, I feel desire.

  I remember his touch. I remember the obstacles we stepped past, as our lips mashed and our bodies blended. I remember what we knocked against. Right beside his left leg, is the couch where he spread my legs and licked my pussy until I came.

  The moment passes, and whatever connected us is gone.

  I’m dizzy from the flurry of memories. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or where to look. Should I face him fully, as business partners? Should I go to him like a lover? Or should I stand here stiffly like a confused dolt as I’m doing now, with legs together in the middle of my shop like a mannequin?

  Blessedly, I see the same uncertainty in Hampton. He’s paralyzed, too. It’s as if he’s just remembering now. As if until this moment, he’d forgotten what happened the last time.

  He breaks first. He comes forward, and for a terrible moment we don’t know how to greet each other. His hand flinches as he’s going to raise it to shake. Then he stops. Then it flinches again, and we save each other with an awkward hug.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he says.

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “I’ve had a crazy week,” he goes on. It’s possible this is an apology for not being in touch more, though I have no idea.

  “Me too.”

  “Lots of customers?”

  “About the usual amount.”

  “Making a lot for your FairTraded store?”

  I don’t know if I told Hampton about that or if he looked it up on his own. I wonder what it means if it’s the latter. Nothing, I’m sure, other than that he was evaluating the designer he keeps trying to pay so much money.

  I think of the new garments before answering. The dress and the shirt that are all I’ve done to fill his request that won’t work for him even a little. Those will go online, I’m sure, after Hampton fires me, or whatever the appropriate thing is for him to do.

  “Some.”

  “How’s your family?”

  He hasn’t met my family. I only mentioned that they live upstairs. I did mention Hampton to them, though. Dad last heard how much I hate him, then how my opinion suddenly and inexplicably changed. Emily told me she heard noises downstairs the day Hampton was here. She said it sounded like two animals wrestling. Later she pointed at a stain on the couch, gave me an obnoxious wink, and laughed.

  “They’re fine.”

  “Have you been outside? Beautiful out there.”

  Wow. We’re discussing the weather. I don’t know how the rest of the day is going to unfold, but I do know it’s going to be painful.

  “Sure is. A lot nicer than the last time you were here.”

  Hampton’s eye twitches. There’s a second of contact, and then he becomes very interested in his hands. I really shouldn’t have returned his weather volley. The rain was almost as much a part of our encounter as we were.

  “So. Do you have anything to show me?”

  Like your tits?

  The mental non-sequitur takes me off-guard. I scramble for something to say. I should rip off the Band-Aid. Blurt that I don’t have any designs ready that will do him any good. I can argue that I had too much going on. Or for a creative block that wouldn’t let the muse in to bless my ideas. I should apologize. Tell him I’ll do better next time.

  But there’s something weird between us.

  “I …”

  He saves me. As I hang on my single syllable, wondering what “I” am about to do in this verbal scenario, Hampton’s agitation breaks. I can tell he doesn’t like being in here, not without the air cleared. He can tell there’s something with me because he’d be blind if he missed it. “Have you eaten?”

  “What?”

  “Food. Lunch.”

  “No. Why?”

  “I just wonder if this would go better with lunch.”

  “You want to buy me lunch?”

  No. He doesn’t. He clearly just doesn’t know what else to say, but the odd vibe got him thinking he needed to say something to the girl he stuck his dick into. “Why not?”

  “Okay. Sure. Now?”

  He’s flustered. “Unless you’re busy. Unless you’d just like to hand me the sketches and get back to work. I don’t want to put you out. I was just thinking—”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Didn’t he just invite me? I can’t tell whether this is something nice or something terribl
e. I can’t tell whether he’s happy to be going to lunch with me or somehow resents me for making him feel like he should ask, then accepting.

  Was I supposed to say no?

  I need a copy of the rulebook, please.

  But I’m in too deep. And it’s better than handing over the sketches I don’t have.

  I don’t answer. I just tidy up, lock the register and move toward the door. I’m out of the store before Hampton, who follows bewildered.

  I lock the door, and we walk down toward Main Street with two feet of distance between us.

  Hampton looks at my empty hands and then behind us. “You forgot to bring the sketches to show me over lunch.”

  “I’ll show you later,” I lie.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HAMPTON

  IT’S BETTER AFTER LUNCH. THE weirdness is gone. Out here in the fresh Williamsville’s air, it’s easier to see Stacy as some woman who happens to be walking the town by my side. A guide. A business acquaintance.

  And that’s good because after thirty seconds of being in her alterations shop, I was starting to see her as I last saw her. Naked on the couch, beneath me as we moved together, in my arms after it was over.

  And that made me respond in several telling ways. My hands started to sweat. I wanted to touch her. Lord help me, I wanted to kiss her. A week’s worth of distance had dulled most of that — truth be told, I’d hit pause on it all, hoping it could resume when I got my head straight — but in her shop, Stacy’s orgasmic cries are like echoes.

  And that made me want to nudge things in directions they ought not to be nudged. Not that I was uninterested. But Stacy? She seems distant about the whole thing. Weirded out, maybe. I wouldn’t want to push her. Maybe what we had was a one-night stand, and if so, maybe she’s embarrassed. I don’t want to blow this and lose her as a designer.

  Things thaw over lunch. We don’t discuss our exact business and sure as hell don’t discuss our history. It’s interesting. And by that, I mean pleasant. The only reason it takes me time to admit to myself that I’m enjoying her company is a sense that I shouldn’t — that I should keep an arm’s length distance between us, for obvious reasons.