Page 9 of Triggered By Love
“How much are we looking at?” Avery had the presence of mind to ask. She couldn’t afford to pay a world-famous quarterback for his endorsement. “I’d like to speak to you in private, if Mr. Swanson doesn’t mind.”
“Of course,” Matt said. “I’ve got to go to the little boy’s room.”
Avery waited until the hotshot football player swaggered out of the office. She was aware of Alida checking out the quarterback’s backside, but she kept her gaze on the contract.
As soon as the door closed, she said, “I wish you’d consulted me first. I’m not sure Matt is the right face for the line. He’s not exactly heroic and way too noisy for the strong, silent hero I’m thinking about.”
“Oh, Avery, I know you’re thinking of Brando.” Alida’s brows bent in a sign of concern. “And we’ll dedicate the line of clothing to his memory, of course. But for publicity’s sake, you need a living, breathing icon.”
“He’s not a first responder. He’s an athlete,” Avery countered. “Besides, how much is this going to cost?”
“Nothing.” Alida blinked as if proud of herself. “Not a red cent.”
“But why? Matt Swanson’s endorsement is worth a fortune. He does shoes, hotels, and luxury cars.”
“Not lately.” Alida’s mouth turned down. “Got himself in a bit of trouble at a strip club. You know how it is these days. A guy gets handsy, and someone complains.”
“Oh… then why would I want my line associated with him?” Avery’s hackles rose. “He’s damaged goods.”
“Not quite. We took care of it—got the stripper to retract her accusation with a nondisclosure agreement. I see this as a win-win. Your branding needs sprucing up. I know you’ve been bowled over by grief, but your clothing is designed for the upbeat and optimistic young man. One who loves life and has places to go. Lately, there’s been too much doom and gloom, and I’ve been having trouble placing the men’s line in some of the shows.”
“I don’t care about the men’s line, other than to honor Brando,” Avery said. “If people don’t like it, too bad. It’s not easy being a first responder. The pressure. The sacrifice. All of it.”
“That’s exactly it,” Alida said. “Your absence from the party scene is dragging down the rest of your Club Cockburn brand. The fun, young, glitzy out on the town cocktail and evening gowns.”
“I’m still doing the colors and bling,” Avery countered. “You’ll see. The models will stun the fashion world. Think Maleficent meets Mardi Gras.”
“I have no doubt your women will be stunning. It’s your men’s line I’m concerned with. These days, there’s an ambiguous gender trend for guys on the lines of Conan on top and Scarlett’s ballgown below the waist—the ultimate melding of ultra-masculinity with antebellum femininity.”
“My men will always be men,” Avery declared hotly. “No skirts. Ever.”
“Never say never.” Alida wagged a finger at her. “Still, you have to catch the eye. I know you want to honor Brando, but the 1930’s classic look won’t catch anything other than the sympathy press. What you need is bold and viral, garnering free publicity through social media.”
“Might as well put a bloody head on a stake,” Avery grumbled. Last year, she had designed a set of animalistic skins, feathers, and scales for her male models to wear, but her professor had pooh-poohed it, so she’d refrained for her debut show.
“You’re not the only talent in town.” Alida’s voice lowered. “There’s a young artist who showed me an edgy line of menswear—blurring the line between man and beast.”
Avery’s lips stiffened, and she glared at Alida. “Those are my designs, and she had no right showing them to you.”
“I know you tried it in private, but you backed off. There are others bold enough.” Alida leaned back and steepled her fingers. “I know about the nondisclosure, but I’m sure any halfway decent artist could design her own shapeshifter’s line. After all, there are millions of animal patterns to incorporate.”
“I’ll sue the pants off of her,” Avery said. “She won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Only if you come out of your shell. Come on, we know with your connections and the Cockburn name, she’d stand no chance against you if you weren’t wallowing in the background.”
“Honoring Brando is my main objective.” Avery ignored the snide remarks. “The Cocky Heroes line has to reflect well of him: well-tailored, classic, and twentieth-century retro.”
Alida made an exaggerated yawning motion. “If your audience is the Greatest Generation fawning over Cary Grant and Clark Gable.”
Deep inside, Avery knew Alida was right. No one wanted conservative tweeds and pinstripes when they could have sparkle and shine, even in menswear.
These days, FacePlant posts sold more clothing than sending lookbooks to traditional department store buyers. It was all about capturing the blink of an eye and shocking the sensibilities enough for a viral moment.
Brando’s killing had gone viral, for sure. And the outpouring of support had made her online Shopahol storefront sales skyrocket. But that was so “last year.”
Eons ago.
She picked up a hawk feather from Alida’s desk and twirled it between her fingers, considering whether to make her hands into wings. “I might be able to tastefully introduce some of the animalistic material on my men’s faces and hands. Would Matt Swanson agree to have feathers glued to his forehead and fingers covered with scales or quills?”
