by Sandra Cunha
“What about appearing on television again? Or is that on hold until you can announce the new date?”
“It’s on hold.”
It’s not on hold.
I’m actually appearing on a local cable program tomorrow morning. But I can’t tell Betty, or she’ll watch and know the fashion show is still on her wedding day.
“Erin,” Betty says quietly. “I did something you may not like.”
I stop pinning Betty’s dress and straighten up so I can see her face.
“What?” What could Betty possibly have done that I wouldn’t like?
“I found your contract with Vanessa, and I took it with me to Chicago. I wanted to read it over. You did read it before you signed it, right?”
“Well, I looked at it. It seemed official.”
“Erin! I can’t believe you signed something without reading it first! You can’t do that. It’s legally-binding.”
“Was there something bad in it?” I say, starting to panic.
“You’re lucky; it was a standard publicity contract. I looked it up.”
I let out my breath.
“But do you know how much you’re paying Vanessa?”
For some reason, I hadn’t thought about that. I knew Vanessa wasn’t volunteering her services, but I also never thought to ask. It hasn’t come up, either. But she probably thinks I’ve read the contract and already know.
I shake my head.
“You’re paying her a monthly retainer of two thousand dollars, for twenty hours of work, extra hours to be approved, for a three-month term, to be renewed upon agreement.”
Two thousand?
No, wait, it’s actually six thousand because the contract is for three months.
Where am I going to get six thousand dollars?
“Where are you going to get six thousand dollars?” Betty asks, echoing my concerns. “I know you’ve started saving, but it seems a waste to use that up.”
My savings, yes! But I was kind of hoping to . . . save that.
I think for a moment. “I may not have to. I’ve sold a bunch of dresses. Way more than ever before. And there’s still a waiting list with potential sales, too. I’ve been so busy; I haven’t had a chance to look at the numbers, but maybe it’ll cover it. Anyway, don’t I have to spend money to make money? I wouldn’t have appeared on Breakfast Television without Vanessa’s help. And that boosted sales a lot.”
“I should start managing your books monthly, instead of only at tax time, now that your business is growing.”
“Okay.”
“And make sure you’re careful about how much you spend on the fashion show when you have it. You don’t want that getting out of hand.”
“I’ll make sure.”
Wait. Vanessa already booked the venue and some of the suppliers; I have no idea what that’s costing. If Betty manages my books monthly, she’ll see that. I’ll have to hide the invoices from her when I get them. I may have to put on a decoy fashion show after the real one to cover up everything.
“One other thing . . .” Betty says. (Oh, God. I can’t handle anything else right now.) “I looked into Vanessa, too. Did you know she was fired from her last job?”
She was?
“No, but I was fired. I can’t really hold that against her.”
“True, but the rumour is she was fired because she was having an affair with the president at her old agency. When he broke it off, she went nuts and started calling all the agency’s clients, saying he was running a side business selling child pornography.”
“That doesn’t sound like something Vanessa would do. It’s probably just a rumour. How did you find that out, anyway?”
“I Googled her. It was on an online forum. I’m surprised you didn’t. You Google everything. Okay, that may be a rumour, but I do know for sure that her current agency, isn’t really an agency. It’s just her. And you may be her only client.”
Hmm, that is a bit deceptive. But maybe she thought I wouldn’t take her seriously if I knew she was a solo operation.
“Betty, everyone deserves a second chance. I got one.”
“I guess. But I still don’t trust her.”
“You haven’t even met her!”
“Exactly. Why isn’t she ever here when I’m around?”
“You can’t expect her to wait until you get home from work.”
“Fine. But something doesn’t add up. Promise me you’ll never sign anything ever again without reading it first. This is your business. Don’t let her run the show.”
“I promise,” I say, looking down at her feet.
“Look me in the eyes and say it again.”
I look up and into her eyes and repeat my promise.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Days to wedding / fashion show: 19
MY SECOND TV appearance wasn’t as exciting as my first.
The cable program I appeared on isn’t as popular as Breakfast Television. But Vanessa said we need to get as much exposure as possible leading up to the fashion show. She told me this, earlier this morning. She also apologized for not being able to accompany me to the show because she had to attend an urgent client meeting. (Betty was wrong: I’m not Vanessa’s only client.)
I had to bring my three dress designs, plus The Rosie, again. And since I needed to remake my maid of honour dress, I brought that. Luckily, there wasn’t a surprise contest giveaway, and now I have that checked off my still-to-be-created list.
But the whole experience was . . . upsetting. Before I got on-air, the producer told me to emphasize that Lady Bettencourt was started after I finally dealt with the tragic death of my mother. He also said crying was good for both ratings and dress sales.
During the actual taping, when I was talking about what inspired me to start the business, the host kept trying to hand me a tissue. I refused to take the bait. I acted like I didn’t see it, even though she was practically shoving it in my face. I can’t cry on cue. Especially not for some jerks who want to profit from my mother’s death.
The host also referred to The Rosie dress as The Rachel. That’s the second time that’s happened on-air.
I’m having lunch with Vanessa to review how the show went, so I’ll have to ask her about that. Actually, there are quite a few things I need to ask her.
I spot Vanessa sitting at a table near the back of the crowded restaurant. She sees me and waves me over.
“How was your meeting this morning?” I ask, once I’m seated.
“Great, in fact. It had to do with Lady Bettencourt. But before I tell you,” she says, smiling, “I want to hear how the show went.”
“You had a meeting about my business without me? Vanessa, I—”
“Erin, I’ve had meetings without you before, remember? I got the venue, and I found the models—”
“About that. I don’t even know how much the fashion show is costing.”
“I was able to negotiate better than market rates for the venue and most of the suppliers. I’m fully aware we need to be budget-conscious. The deposits went on my company credit card, which I’ll include in my bill to you, and you’ll receive the final invoices after the show to pay the rest. Exactly how it’s set out in our contract.”
“The one where I’m paying you two thousand dollars a month?”
“What’s going on here? You’re acting like this is new information. I’ll send you a breakdown of everything. But you should know that I’ve already passed my monthly retainer hours, and I wasn’t even thinking of charging you. We’re a team. I’m trying to help you.”
Great, now I feel bad. I’m letting what Betty told me last night get to me. It’s my fault I didn’t realize what was in the contract. Vanessa’s just following it. And it is nice that she’s putting in extra time without charging me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m a bit upset because of what happened on the show.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t mess up,” I say quickly.
“But they kept pressuring me to cry over my mom’s death to get ratings. They really wanted me to play it up.”
“I see. I suppose that’s the angle they took.”
“Angle?”
“I gave them a brief, and that’s what they decided to focus on.”
“For future briefs, tell them to lay off the dead mom bit. I want to talk about it in a way that is true to me, not as though I’m trying to make sales from her death.”
“I completely understand your point of view, but it isn’t in my control what they ask you once the camera starts rolling.”
“Well, did your brief include that The Rosie is named The Rachel? Was that out of your control, too?”
“Erin, think of the bigger picture. Try to be flexible with your naming conventions, especially as you still have so few dresses. Naming it The Rachel lets us leverage the Rachel McAdams story better.”
“This isn’t about ‘leveraging a story’ to me. It’s about the direction I want to take Lady Bettencourt into the future.”
“Fine. We’ll keep it The Rosie. I didn’t know it was that important to you. Like you’ve said before, the dress isn’t even part of your regular line-up.”
A server breaks the mounting tension between us when he comes to take our orders.
Once he’s left, Vanessa asks tentatively, “Do you want to hear about my meeting this morning?”
“Sure,” I mumble.
“After the fashion show, we’ll very likely be hit with a bunch of new orders. Big orders. There’s no way you and Gloria can fulfill them on your own, so I’ve secured a factory to help us make the dresses. I’m still working out some of the details, but when I do, I’ll need you to sign-off on it.”
“But I want to make the dresses, or, at least, have people I know make them. Maybe I could ask Gloria if she knows some other seamstresses who could help us.”
“You’re thinking like a dressmaker, not a fashion designer. Don’t you want Lady Bettencourt to be an international success?”
“I do, but—”
“Then, we need to get a contract with a factory. And we need to get it soon before you and Gloria fall any further behind with orders and we start losing sales.”
“Where is this factory?”
As Vanessa is about to answer, our food arrives. We each take a few bites.
“So where’s the factory?” I ask again.
“Cambodia.”
“Like a sweatshop?”
“You’re thinking of Bangladesh. The working conditions are much better in Cambodia. You’d be giving the women there a job and a chance at a better life. Not only for themselves, but for their children, too.”
“I’d rather keep the production local so I can keep an eye on it. I can’t have my dresses made in a potential sweatshop. That goes against everything Lady Bettencourt stands for.”
“Stop using the word ‘sweatshop.’ This is the way things are done in the industry, from the low-end to the high-end brands. Everyone does it.”
“Well, I’m not everyone. I don’t want to be. That’s not my vision for Lady Bettencourt.”
“Your vision? What is your vision, Erin? Because before I came along, you were an online shop with a couple of dress designs. Do you want to be a pattern-cutter for the rest of your life? Or do you want to be known as a world-renowned fashion designer?”
“I want to succeed; I really do. But this seems wrong.”
“Wrong? Where did you buy your cardigan?”
I glance down at my cardigan. “It’s secondhand. I don’t think there’s a tag on it,” I say, trying to reach around and look for one.
“What about your purse?”
“I, um, borrowed it from Betty. I’m not sure where she got it . . .”
“The point I’m getting at is, we’ve all bought something we knew must’ve been made in an overseas factory with less than stellar conditions because it was so cheap. It’s hypocritical to think otherwise.”
“But I want Lady Bettencourt to represent what I aspire to be, not what I currently am. I just want to do better, to be better.”
“Fine. But we’ll have to consider it for the initial run until we figure out a more sustainable, long-term solution. And we’ll have to move fast if we have any chance of meeting bulk orders.”
“But how will the factory get the materials? It seems like that would cost a lot to ship.”
Vanessa takes a bite of her meal, then says, “Materials will be sourced overseas.”
“Secondhand materials, right? Because that’s the whole premise behind my brand!”
A few of the other restaurant customers have turned their heads towards us.
“Calm down,” Vanessa says. “Some of the materials may be secondhand, but we can’t guarantee all of them will be. But they’ll be cut to make it seem like—”
“What?”
“Erin, stop this. You know Lady Bettencourt isn’t really about dresses made from secondhand materials.”
“Huh? What’s it about, then?”
“It’s about the feeling a woman gets when she buys one of your dresses. The feeling that she’s doing something good, that she’s good. We have to find a realistic way to meet the demand for generating that feeling.”
“But it’s a lie.”
“I’ll start brainstorming longer-term alternatives, but for now, this may be it. Just for now, not forever. I need you to at least consider it.”
I reluctantly agree to give it some thought.
Vanessa has a way of making me question myself. I know where I stand on something, but then, she uses just the right words, in just the right order, to make me doubt myself and my way of thinking. As if I’m being naive and don’t understand the way things are done in the industry.
And worse of all . . . that I would have blown this amazing chance I’ve been given if it wasn’t for her. It makes me angry that she has this much power over me.
Why can’t I say no and stick to what I want to do? Maybe because I don’t want to be the one who has to make the hard business decisions. Why did I pick a socially-conscious business to begin with? If I’d stuck to regular fabrics, I don’t know that I’d have such an issue with using a factory overseas.
Vanessa interrupts my thoughts by insisting we share a piece of chocolate fudge cake to end things on a happier note.
When it arrives, she says, “Okay, now for something lighter. Have you setup your social media accounts, yet?”
“No,” I say sheepishly. “I’ve been so busy.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it for you . . . free of charge,” she says, giving me a wink.
Vanessa calls me the next day.
She doesn’t ask me if I’ve had a chance to think about the factory in Cambodia. Instead, she asks me how my designs are coming along and when she can take another look.
I’m hesitant to talk to her at first, giving her one word answers. But then, I tell her that I’m almost there. That I’ve made half the dresses and an evening dress out of old tablecloths we can use for the finale.
She says she likes the idea. That it was clever of me and works well with the brand.
I tell her Gloria has made a serious dent in our back orders. And that Betty has taken photos of the new dresses that I’ll send to her to use on the social media sites.
She says perfect. And then, she says she has a contact at Flare magazine, and they want to do a profile of Lady Bettencourt. It’ll be months before it comes out, but it’s still good exposure for the brand. She didn’t want to go ahead without my okay and asks if that’s something I’d be interested in.
She knows I’d be interested.
And just like that, I’m caught back in her web.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Days to wedding / fashion show: 16
THE CONVERSATION I had with Vanessa about the factory is on replay in my mind. I’m still not sure I can go through with it. But what if there really is no other choice?
Focusing was impossible t
his morning. After I restarted the same dress three times, I decided I needed to take a break. So I grabbed a pile of finished orders and headed to the post office.
Once I’m in the underground path, I’m rounding a corner, trying to balance my stack of packages, when everything goes black, and I find myself lying on the ground.
What just happened? Have I suddenly gone blind? Become spontaneously paralyzed?
“Hey, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I was in a hurry and wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
At least, I’m not deaf, too, because I heard that.
I feel a hand on my arm, trying to help me up. My legs seem to work and things are slowly coming back into focus.
The good news is that I’m not blind.
The even better news is who I’m seeing.
Suit Guy.
“I feel like such a jerk,” Suit Guy says, looking at me with those beautiful blue eyes of his. He’s neatly piled the packages and placed them by my once-again-uprighted side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I’ve gone mute.
Say something, Erin! Say something!
“Y-Yes, I’m fine. Totally fine.” I smile as proof.
I inhale his intoxicating scent from where I stand, resisting the urge to go in for a closer sniff.
But he’s the one who comes in closer and asks, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I want to scream: “Yes! From the subway! You know me from the subway! And our special post office, where I was the one who bumped into you!” But speaking to Suit Guy doesn’t come easily to me. I give it a try, anyway. “We, um, we used to—”
“BT! You were on Breakfast Television the other morning! That’s it, isn’t it?”
Great. My first real celebrity sighting is by the guy who doesn’t realize I stalked him for over three years.
“That’s me,” I say.
“It’s . . . Erin, right?”
I feel my cheeks burning up.
He knows my name.
Wait. I still don’t know his name.