Page 13 of Haute Couture
Chapter 7
Lauren
“So, in other words,”Daphne Richards,La Boutique’sBrand Content Manager, begins as she taps the tip of her ink pen on the surface of a file folder on her desk, “you ultimately plan to revolutionize the way high-fashion clothing brands expand theirreach.”
I blink a few times, trying to analyze the meaning of her raised brows. We’ve been on this Skype call for the last twentyminutes.
I’m a messinside.
Is she impressed? Appalled? Intrigued? She’d be really good at a game of poker, I bet. I’ve always wanted to master a look that shields what I’m thinking, but when I’m uninterested, annoyed, excited, people say the look in my eyes gives itaway.
“Absolutely,” I respond, heart nearly beating out of my chest, “as long as I can count onLa Boutique’sexpertise to launchHaute Couture Magazineinto the publicationgalaxy.
An overextended pause I despise so much radiates from the computer screen and floats into the atmosphere like toxicgas.
I honestly thought my idea wasbrilliant.
Brainy. Golden. A six-carat diamond in therough.
“So, allow me to summarize your plan, just to be sure I’m clear on its overall execution,” she says, her British-accented words spilling out of her mouth with elegantforce.
“Okay,” I mutter, feeling more nervous than I was when I first approached Walmart about my brand over ten years ago. At that time, my plan was to call my line of clothingHot MessCouture.
Yeah, I know. That wasn’t mybestidea. However, I still took time to get that name trademarked…just in case I find a home for it someday. Walmart turned me down, by theway.
Their loss.Obviously.
“You wish to launch a free online magazine, named after your designer clothing line, in which readers flip through glossy pages of gorgeous men and women, outfitted in onlyHaute Couturethreads.” She pauses as she shifts in her seat, sitting much taller now and clears her throat before going on. “Then, should a reader fall in love with a particular outfit, all they need to do is click or tap the screen and,voilà, they are instantly taken to theHaute Coutureonline store where they can purchase the clothing and ship to theirhome?”
My head bobs up and down. “Yes.” I fiddle with my hands underneath my desk. I just pray she doesn’t notice the beads of sweat I feel forming on my forehead. “And a special print edition will be circulated, at a price point of $6.99, three times a year. January. June. September, ” Iadd.
Daphne’s lips form a lopsided smile as she bites the tip of her pen. “And besidesHaute Couture,who are your paidadvertisers?”
This question was bound to pop up eventually. Without paid advertisers, how canLa Boutiqueexpect to make any profit off a freepublication?
After taking a deep breath I explain, “Well, I was thinking it may be cool to have oneguestdesigner each month take over a few pages of the magazine. They’ll need to have an exclusive photo shoot, of course, and some retailer to link the featured outfit oroutfitsto, thereby makingLa Boutiquean affiliate. And since the guest designers will need to purchase their feature months in advance, there will be a constant stream ofrevenue.”
The palms of my hands dampen and my mouth goes slightly dry. Daphne’s wondering, crinkled eyes and pursed lips intimidateme.
What is shethinking?
Crap.Just stick with designing clothes, Lauren. Don’t bother with any of the out-of-the-box—
“Who do you have lined up as your first guest designer? Your first paid advertiser?” she asks, her voice kicking my impending panic attack to thecurb.
But as soon as my brain absorbs the question, panic resurfaces, clawing at mythroat.
I don’t have a designer lined up. But I can’t tell her that. CanI?
Think, Lauren.Think.
“Truthfully”—I tuck my hair behind my ears—“I haven’t got one confirmed; yet I know as soon as designers get word of this magazine, they’ll line up, competing to get their spot. “Especially”—I lift my index finger—“since the first issue will be centered around my annualHaute Couturefashionshow.”
Daphne’s eyes brighten, clearly displaying an interest.No more poker face. “You mean the show you put on each year in front of the EiffelTower?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of it?” My heart smiles. Blood, sweat, and tears go into my annual fashion show event. Okay, not real blood. Sweat and tears? Damnreal.
“Indeed, I have. I was lucky enough to attend your first one three years ago.” She smiles. “Look, Lauren, I love this idea. Really I do. And I’m prepared to draw up a contract”—she gives me another dose of those risen poker face eyebrows—“however, I’ll require the name of your first advertiser before we can move forward. It will give us an idea of what kind of revenue we can expect from yourmagazine.”
A curt nod escapes me while my heart plunges into my gut. Analmostyes. Not at all what I was hopingfor.
“Okay, Daphne, can you tell me how long I have before this interim offer goesaway?”
My insides twist into Girl Scout knots and I’m pretty sure I might need tobarf.
“Two weeks. Then I’m afraid our interest will ultimatelydisappear.”
