The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

16. A F*cking Set Up

October 1968
Alice

My office at Zarby was small by design, tucked away on the third floor just above the rickety stairwell of death. And yet, at that moment, six dark-suited men were crammed inside, each with a thick sheath of papers balanced on their laps.

"The market data seems to indicate...."

"Are we certain there's a gap in the current market?"

Their voices began to blend together, a cacophony of investors, bankers, and lawyers, all there to persuade me to make up my bloody mind.

"Foot traffic?! You think that anyone was trekking to Shoreditch before Zarby opened?"

"...a robust advertising campaign on the radio, possibly featuring...."

"Well, there's Bloomingdale's and Bendel's--"

The banker mispronounced the name of the Upper East Side department store, which snagged my attention. I refocused my gaze, wondering if it had been evident that I'd zoned out.

"Bendel's and Bloomingdales aren't Zarby's competition." I kept my voice low so they were forced to lean closer to hear. It was a trick I'd learned from my mother. "They cater to the Fifth Avenue society types... they're still stuck in the land of mod."

The accountant cleared his throat and looked again at the sheaf of papers. "And Zarby isn't... er, stuck in the land of mod?"

I shook my head, glancing down at the beaded Chloe dress from several years earlier. I'd had it shortened and added full-length sleeves to bring it up to date. In retrospect, it wasn't the best choice for a three-hour meeting.

"One possible competitor would be Ossie Clark's boutique," I said. "It was one of my inspirations for Zarby. But if we open a second location... I'm not sure it's worth doing unless it's different. What if we changed the model to make it more accessible? Like Paraphernalia, but more high-end."

The gaggle of men looked at me agog, and I forced myself not to peer at them disapprovingly over the rims of the black specs I'd nicked from Michael ages ago.

"Paraphernalia," I repeated with a sigh. "It's a shop on the Upper East Side... Paul Young founded it... he's the one who brought the mini skirt to America. I went to their launch party back in '65, and I swear, it felt like just by being there, I could transform into Jean Shrimpton instantly. It's a groove, as they say."

More blank stares.

"Warhol practically lives there," I added, and they nodded eagerly, almost like they were grateful to have a familiar name to grasp onto.

"But," I continued, "it's too much of a schtick for Zarby. I want something free-spirited but still high-end. Something new and unconventional... bohemian but still a bit straight-laced... free-spirited like only things in America can be but still... well, English, I suppose."

The suits nodded again, and I turned to my chief financial officer. "Alright, then, can we afford it? Or are we all sitting around talking about it because we like to sit around and talk?"

He nodded and was about to reply when Suzie knocked on the door and entered, looking slightly flustered by the interruption. She hurried over to my chair and bent down to whisper in my ear.

"Paul rang the shop when he couldn't get through on your private line. Apparently, he sounded very agitated."

I pulled back and looked up, feeling my forehead wrinkle slightly in concern. Keenly aware that a roomful of people was watching us, I quickly schooled my expression and nodded.