The Billionaire Game(14)
But then Lacey was grinning so wide I thought she might sprain something. “Oh my God, I have been waiting forever for you to make this move!” she gushed, grabbing my hands and squeezing them in delight. “Oh Katie, I cannot even say how excited I am for you! This is going to rock! You are going to rock! So many good things are going to happen for you, oh my God, what’s your first move?”
I blinked back my tears of relief and tried to maintain my cool, casual demeanor. I’m the sassy, no-nonsense best friend, and we don’t cry; it’s written into our contract.
“I want to get a real studio space,” I said, “with enough room for equipment and a good backlog of materials so I don’t have to rent or contract out parts of orders. If I’ve got the numbers right I can maybe even train some seamstresses”—and that would really be the icing on the cake, to help nurture some new talent on top of this. I had a happy little daydream I often secretly dreamed, of mentoring young girls who would one day start their own businesses, or providing money to destitute older women to help keep them afloat. “Before that, though, I have to get a loan.”
“You know, Grant and I could—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I refuse to mix business and pleasure. Or business and friends. You know what I mean. I need to do this right, and on my own terms, with real investors, not just my newly loaded friends handing me money because they feel sorry for me.”
“Need any tips?” Lacey asked. I could see her fingers itching to grab her cell phone and call every bank and every investor she could until she found one that owed Devlin Media Corp. a favor.
“Nah,” I said, heading her off. “I’ve got an appointment booked this afternoon already.” I grinned. “Wish me luck!”
#
Lacey had insisted on giving me a list of potential back-up backers, which I had scoffed at as too big for my needs. Secretly, though, I had been intimidated by the thought of bringing my proposal to such august financial institutions, of trying to present myself in a positive and responsible light to the same people who evaluated loans for Devlin Media Corp., Apple, and the United States government.
So now I was at Morningstar Bank, the local chain with only about a half dozen locations in the state. This one was run down, with scuff marks on the floor that no one had bothered to rub out for the last years. Security personnel glowered at you when you came in like they thought you might be all of the Jesse James gang squeezed into one dress.
Wall Street this was not, and yet, somehow, I was still more terrified right now than I had ever been before at any point in my life.
And I’ve seen Stevie’s feet, so that’s saying something.
“Ma’am?” The receptionist caught my attention. “Our loans department will see you now.”
He ushered me into a decrepit office where an older man in a faded blue suit and a mustache that looked like it had seen the other side of the Civil War sat at a desk, sipping coffee as if he had a personal grudge against it. Given that it looked and smelled as if it had come out of the La Brea tar pits, I couldn’t say I blamed him.
However I could say that I blamed him for the condescending expression on his face as he gestured for me to stay standing, though. He flipped through the folder in front of him and sneered. “I must have misunderstood Daniel. He said you were looking for a loan, but this business is…”
“Trifles by Kate,” I interrupted eagerly here, wanting to make my pitch as soon as I could before my nerves gave out. “I craft high-end luxury lingerie for women willing to spend extra money for real quality, comfort, and satisfaction. If you’ll look at my tax documents there, I think you’ll see that with the little time I was able to give it before, it still brought in an impressive return. Now that I’m expanding my business and focusing on it full time, I should be able to show even higher profits. But in order to do that, I do need help to start. If you’ll take a look at the timeline I included with my application, I think you’ll see that even a conservative estimate of the current market shows that—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, flipping it closed. “Morningstar will not be accepting your application for a loan. There’s simply not enough guarantee of a return on the investment. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, miss, but women’s underwear is available from a wide variety of locations.”
“But not like this!” I tried to explain desperately. “This is hand-sewn, using the finest materials, tailored to the body and tastes of each individual client—”
“Which only ups the cost of your product,” he said, punting the file towards his wastebasket. “How can you hope to compete in the marketplace?”
“I’m not trying to compete with a Walmart blue light special!” I snapped. “I’m trying to create a luxury product, in a brand-new field with barely any other competition right now! If you could just get me in at the ground floor—”
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, not sounding even remotely sorry. Sorry was a foreign country to this guy. Sorry was another goddamn planet. “Your sales are too small, and you have nothing to back the loan.”
“But—” I spluttered.
He waved a hand at me dismissively. “You’re a bad bet, and one this bank will not be taking. But we cordially thank you for choosing Morningstar for your banking—”