The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  “You like some Chinese tea?” the office manager, Ms Barbara, asked.

  “Yes, lovely, thank you.” Helen was setting up her laptop at the boardroom table. “May I connect to your broadband, please?” she asked, twirling a connection cable in her hand. A rush of Chinatex people came to help. Within seconds she was on-line and the refreshments were on the table. Despite the elaborate introductions and mandatory small talk, less than five minutes had passed and now it was down to business.

  “So, Ms Helen, Mr Fred, may we see the designs you want us to make for you?” Ms Candy, a junior executive, asked.

  Although both Helen and Sarah tried not to stare, it was very hard not to. The Asian woman, true to her chosen Western name, Candy, looked like a painted doll – a plump one. Her face was plastered white, which was further set in pallid powder. Her small rosebud lips were coloured ruby red. But it was her cheekbones that held the most intrigue. It appeared she had stuck her forefinger into a pot of pink jelly and drawn two swirling circles on the apples of her cheeks. The whole look was topped off with straight orange-coloured hair – the result of a home-bleaching job.

  “As you’ve probably guessed,” Ms Candy smiled shyly, “I am responsible for the design development in Chinatex.”

  Helen resisted the urge to look at her colleagues. “Your artistic flare is evident, Ms Candy,” she smiled.

  “I think we should go through the current ranges first, the goods that are due for shipment this week,” Fred said, his mouth full of blueberry muffin, which had arrived courtesy of the male office skivvy. Fred watched as the man was ordered around by his female bosses. “The world is getting very topsy-turvy,” he said as he munched.

  “Of course, yes, we have production samples here from the factory,” Ms Barbara said, assuming Fred was referring to the order of business. “The first garments from the production line.” She barked an order in Chinese to her assistants.

  Helen threw Fred a look that would make hell freeze over, which he happily ignored.

  Ms Candy produced a handful of baby-doll samples.

  How apt.

  “Ah, yes, here we have ‘The Perfect Pussy Collection’.” Ms Candy smiled broadly at them. Her teeth appeared yellow in contrast to the white powdered face.

  Helen went pale.

  Sarah turned a bright shade of crimson.

  Fred began to choke.

  “You mean ‘The Glamour Puss Collection’, don’t you, Ms Candy?” Helen tried to keep the panic out of her voice, desperately reaching for the swing tag attached to the little satin pink-and-black number that would soon be Eden stock.

  Sarah got to it before her. “It’s okay, Helen. The graphics are correct.” She held up the swing tag, showing the silver-embossed Siamese twin kittens, with S-shaped backs and almond-shaped eyes, complete with false eyelashes.

  The tension eased until Helen flipped over the lacquered tag. Sure enough in beautiful, shiny, French Script font shone the words: “The Perfect Pussy.”

  Helen’s horror was palpable.

  The two Hong Kong women rummaged through paperwork, as if it somehow held the magical, get-out-of-jail card. They reverted to speaking Chinese, which now held a tone of panic.

  “You request the change, Ms Helen,” Ms Barbara finally said, waving a printout of an email.

  “May I see that, please?” Helen took the piece of paper from her and tried to remain calm.

  Fred took his turn at doling out the dirty looks.

  Sure enough, there it was. An email, bearing the name Helen Devine, directing that the “Glamour Puss Collection” she had worked on, solidly, for two months, be now renamed “The Perfect Pussy Collection”. It had been sent at 23:33 hours and the date indicated it had been a Saturday. This could only mean one thing – Rob Lawless – Helen’s not-quite-ex lover.

  “Helen?” Fred now reclaimed his position as boss.

  All eyes were on her.

  “Have the tags gone into print?” Helen asked with a calmness she didn’t feel.

  “Yes,” the two Asian women replied in unison.

  Sweet Jesus.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, Ms Helen – all thirty thousand of them.” Ms Candy wasn’t enjoying being the bearer of bad news.

  “Phone the factory immediately – tell them not to tag a single garment. How quickly can we get them reprinted?” Helen sat back down to steady herself. She had a lump in her throat and it was all she could do to keep her voice from shaking. She twisted the ring on her little finger.

  Bloody Rob and his idea of a joke.

  “We can get it done quickly, but it cost you extra for speedy turnaround,” Ms. Barbara said. “And you pay for labour. Factory will charge for removal of tags already ticketed.”

  “But nothing should be ticketed,” Fred weighed in. “These are supposed to be the shipping samples – first off the line for our approval before bulk production begins.”

  The Chinatex women were talking furiously. Their voices were raised.

  “And can you show me the fax approving the artwork for the label, please?” Helen added, regaining her composure a little. Whatever about Rob’s idea of a wine-fuelled joke, she knew the mistake should have been caught at the approval stage. Emails weren’t legally binding – faxes were.

  Ms Candy and Ms Barbara made a vain attempt to look for the authorisation with Helen Devine’s signature and the Eden company stamp, giving them the green light for production. Everyone knew they would not find it.

  “We don’t appear to have the signing-off fax,” Ms Barbara eventually conceded.

  “That’s because you proceeded with production without waiting for approval – yet again.” Helen had found her bargaining chip.

  “Why are the sequins melted?” Sarah held up the little baby-doll garment, adding another drama to the pot.

  “That’s how your original sample was received,” Ms Candy said.

  “Those samples are hand-made in our sample room in London – you know they are only a representation!” Helen said. “Obviously, an error by a solo machinist using too hot a hand-iron isn’t to be reproduced in bulk!” She rubbed her temples.

  China might be ready and willing to take the rag trade from Europe, but they still had a lot to learn.

  “Factory follow sample!” Ms Barbara snapped.

  “Factory no think. That why we pay you commission – to think!” Helen wasn’t sure why she was speaking in broken English.

  After an hour of haggling, agreement was reached. The Chinatex factory would replace the melted sequins with regular ones, at no cost to Eden. The Austin-Powers-inspired pussy tags would also be replaced within forty-eight hours, the two companies splitting the costs.

  Ms Barbara wasn’t happy. She would have gladly stayed at the negotiation table until midnight arguing over two cents. She banged files down on the table. Helen knew she would try to recoup some of her lost American dollars on the quotation she’d give for the new designs they were now starting on. It was going to be a long day and she still had to face Fred’s dressing-down later. At least he hadn’t belittled her in front of Sarah and the suppliers, but she didn’t doubt there would be a price to pay.

  Chapter 9

  A few streets away, yet another bewildered tourist exited Tsim Sha Tsui station – but Jack Taylor was heading in the opposite direction to Haiphong Road, towards Salisbury Road. He had picked up a city map, which he held in one hand. In the other hand was a piece of paper with his uncle’s address. The New World Building, Salisbury Road, was to be his stop-over home for the next few days. He turned the map around a few times to be sure he was heading in the right direction because there were so many possible exits out of the MTR station. He took exit J, as per the instructions on his uncle’s email printout, politely but firmly saying “No, thank you” to the onslaught of sellers outside.

  In less than five minutes he was standing in the affluent marble lobby of the harbour-facing Renaissance Hotel, which was incorporated in
side the New World Building. Jack shifted his backpack awkwardly on his shoulder – he was feeling scruffy against the backdrop of his surroundings. Checking the next lot of instructions, he found his way to the residential lobby, away from the main hotel. It was an oasis of calm after the noise of the street. The floor was high-shine granite, the long corridor adorned with rows of stone and wood wall-hangings, which stood like soldiers in line. Thinking he was alone, Jack stopped to admire the artwork and scratch his two-day-old chin-stubble. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a uniformed man behind a small desk. The guard didn’t speak but he didn’t take his eyes off Jack. He stared as though Jack was scratching his balls instead of his chin.

  “I’m looking for Apartment 3306.”

  “Name?”

  “Jack Taylor, my –”

  “You Mr Tom nephew. Welcome. Yes, he told me to expect you. Please, this way.” He smiled, ushering Jack to an elevator, its wood-panelled façade blending with the walls. “When door open, you see small flight of stairs to right, go up steps, then left, to Mr Tom’s apartment. Enjoy your stay, Mr Jack.” With that the man pushed a button on the elevator control, without stepping in himself.

  When the elevator arrived at the thirty-first floor, Jack tried to remember if he was to turn left or right. His brain was travel-weary. He walked along a dimly lit hallway – plush carpet muffling the sound of his footsteps. Eventually he found the right walnut-coloured door.

  A petite Asian woman in a black-and-white maid’s outfit opened the door. Until then, Jack had thought people dressed liked that only in movies or strip clubs.

  She spoke in her mother tongue, having no English. She showed Jack around the small apartment. Because he spoke no Chinese, to save them both stress Jack nodded profusely, indicating that he’d be okay.

  The housekeeper closed the door behind her with a quiet click – a sound Jack exalted in. At last he was alone. He plopped down on the pebble-coloured sofa and looked around the apartment. The furnishings were bland and functional, reminiscent of hotel rooms around the world – magnolia and yet more magnolia. It didn’t matter, because from the oversized living-room window was a stunning view of Victoria Harbour and Hong Kong Island. Jack was awestruck – the sight brought renewed energy as he tried to identify the buildings. His thoughts were interrupted by the shrilling of a telephone.

  “Jack, it’s Tom!” his uncle’s voice bellowed out into the room from the answering machine. “Stop screwing the hired help and pick up the phone!”

  “Hi, Tom, how are you doing?”

  “Ah, Jack, you made it, great! So are you settling in alright?”

  “Great, Tom, thanks. Some place you’ve got here! I’m glad I took you up on your offer. I had booked a hostel near the fish market.”

  “Wouldn’t hear of it. You’re family. What do you think of the view?”

  “Awesome.”

  “Isn’t it? My work colleagues live on the Island, for prestige, but the view of the Island from the Kowloon side is unbeatable. And I don’t have to face that God-damn sardine-tin MTR commute every day.”

  “You work close by then?”

  “Just a five-minute cab ride. The company covers that and the apartment too of course. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to the grindstone so I can duck out early. I should get home by seven. You up for a few beers and some food about eight thirty?”

  “Sounds good. I can hook up with you somewhere if you like?”

  “No, I’ll come home, get changed. There’s something I want you to see anyway. Any plans for today?”

  “I thought I’d lie down for a few hours, and then wander up Nathan Road. I’ve read up on some of the sights. I’d like to see the goldfish market.”

  “Okay, there’s beer in the fridge. I told Ella to leave a key for you on the kitchen counter – did you get it?”

  “Eh, let me look – yup, I have it. Is Ella the girl in the maid’s costume?”

  “That’s her, lovely girl – no English but she gives a great service. She comes as part of the package too.”

  “That’s a hell of a package, Uncle Tom.”

  “Less of the ‘uncle’ bit, if you don’t mind. We’ll eat in one of the harbour-front restaurants downstairs tonight, then head over to Wan Chai or Lan Kwai Fong, on the Island, if that’s okay with you?” Tom’s mobile buzzed in the background.

  “Sounds good,” Jack replied, but Tom had already taken the other call.

  Feeling hungry, Jack examined the contents of the small refrigerator. It contained a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, two bottles of Sancerre, six beers, mayonnaise, and half a lemon with greyish fur sprouting from it. He opened a bottle of beer and took a slow swig.

  He remembered how he used to look up to his uncle. So much so, in fact, that he’d become an architect, just like him. Looking around him now, he reckoned Tom hadn’t changed much since they last met over ten years ago when Jack was still in Princeton. A cabin-sized travel case stood beside the door of his bedroom, as if on stand-by. Tom must be mid-fifties now and nothing had changed. No ties anywhere. There were no photos of a wife and kids. Not even a goldfish. Perhaps he would buy him one at the market later.

  Jack sat on the bed. He put the bottle of cold beer on the bedside locker, leaving a watery ring on the polished surface. He pulled off his trainers and lay on the bedspread without pulling back the covers.

  Soon he was drifting into a jetlagged sleep.

  As he dozed off, a distant memory of his mother came to him. “Be careful what you wish for, Jack – you might just get it,” she’d say, in a mother-knows-best tone. It occurred to him she was right – he had morphed into the uncle he admired so much – a rolling stone gathering no moss.

  Chapter 10

  Helen took a sip from her sixth coffee of the day. The cream in it formed a greasy film around the cup, the liquid was stone cold. She was struggling to concentrate and silently willed Fred to call time on their meeting. And then finally, as if by telepathy, he spoke.

  “Let’s wrap things up and let you lovely ladies get home,” he said to the Hong Kong women.

  “No need, Mr Fred. I no married – I often stay in office until ten or eleven at night,” Ms Candy said, her face now resembling a white-washed wall, from numerous reapplications throughout the day.

  That explains it, Helen thought: no matter what time of the day she sent an email or fax she nearly always got a reply within the hour. No wonder the Chinese were set to be the next superpower.

  Fred, whose eyes were now red-rimmed, ignored the comment, and looked at Helen, pleading for back-up.

  “Yes, I think we’re done,” she said, looking at her watch. “Six thirty. That’s over nine straight hours. Well done, everyone – a good day’s toil.” She began to gather her papers.

  “You hungry – we order in more food for you?” Ms Candy offered hospitably, but her glance towards Helen’s sketches gave her real motivation away.

  The Eden team still had orders to place and the Chinese women knew it.

  Helen glanced down at the file, before looking over at Fred. She felt they had placed enough business with Chinatex and would prefer that the remaining designs be negotiated with the other companies they planned to visit in Mainland China. But Fred was in charge of the budget.

  “Give us a moment, would you, ladies?” Fred asked.

  “Of course. More coffee, Ms Helen, Ms Sarah?”

  “Thank you, no,” Helen replied, on behalf of everyone.

  Sarah was pale and looked as if she was losing the will to live.

  Once they were alone, Helen asked, “You okay, Sarah?”

  “Fine. Just my blood sugar feels a little erratic.”

  “Don’t worry – the meetings won’t all be like this. There will be days we’ll even get lunch.” She turned to Fred. “Fred, I think we’ve consigned enough here. I’ve given them styles we know they can produce well. Unless you want to try them out on something they haven’t done for us before?”

  �
�Such as?”

  Helen’s heart sank – at this rate they’d be there until midnight. She didn’t look up, in case Fred saw her annoyance.

  “Well, we still have the bras, but I don’t see that as an option here. Maybe they could try the cotton ranges I’d saved for the factories in Qingdao.”

  “But, Helen, I thought you said each factory has a specialty?” Sarah said.

  “They do. Generally, if a factory is good at producing satin, they’ll make a mess of, say, cotton or stretch fabrics. Specialising in one fabric or product helps their machinists work faster. The machines don’t need adjusting or the needles changed for the different fabric types.”

  “In other words, productivity goes up, they make more money,” Fred added. “I was thinking I might squeeze some extra discount if we kept going. But sounds like we’ll be buying headaches further down the assembly line.” He totted up figures of the negotiated prices on his notepad. “That’s settled then.” He considered his calculation. “Besides, it’s all on LC with Chinatex,” he said, twisting the top of his pen closed.

  Sarah appeared confused, unsure if that meant they were staying or leaving.

  “LC – Letter of Credit,” Helen explained. “We have to pay for the goods up front in US Dollars. It’s costly to finance. European companies usually give you thirty days’ credit, which technically means that some of the goods are actually sold at retail before we have to pay the supplier. It keeps the accountants happy.”

  Sarah didn’t care about LCs. The bloody shops would be closed at this stage.

  Fred stood up. “Sarah, be a sweetheart and get the ladies back. They can make their usual pretend offer of inviting us to dinner. We’ll assure them that we’re fine. Then, we can get a bloody drink that isn’t from an American Coffee franchise.”

  But Ms Candy and Ms Barbara had already spotted Fred getting to his feet through the glass wall of the office. Ms Barbara pushed open the door.

  “You leaving already?” she said with feigned surprise.

  “Yes, Barbara. We have to meet some friends,” said Fred, but didn’t add that his friends, Jack and Daniels, were poured at hotel bars worldwide.