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.”