Page 470 of Manhattan Bossholes

“What about doing a clothing line based on the Pantone color of the year?” Lavonte suggested in a voice far quieter than his usual cheerful baritone while fiddling with his drafting wand.

“Yes! I like it!” James clapped his hands together loudly. “I’m not sure what the color is for this year, though. The concept is great, but we have to make sure it works.”

“It’s called Sand Dollar.” Lavonte squirmed a little at being on the hot seat.

“Sand Dollar,” James said, nodding thoughtfully. “I like that. Sounds beachy. Put it up on the smartboard so we can discuss it.”

We could all map the Pantone color spectrum with our eyes shut, so a few people around the table shifted in their seats as they waited for the car crash to come.

“Ta-da,” Lavonte said in a shaky voice, as Pantone 13-1106 filled the screen.

“Oh,” James said. He pursed his lips, and I could tell he was fighting to find something positive to say. “Huh.”

Sand Dollar was a color that could only be defined as “unforgiving.” It was the color choice of someone who wanted to blend in with sidewalks. It reminded me of lumpy cardigans, boring minimalist interior design, and tea with too much milk. Very few people could wear it and look good.

The James I was acquainted with was quick to shoot down anything that didn’t fit with his vision, and I studied him as he tried to find an encouraging response. Could he do it?

“Well, Lavonte, that’s, uh, that’s definitely sandy,” he finally managed. “Team? What do we think?”

There were vague murmurs from around the table, and I could see Lavonte shrinking in his chair.

“I love the idea of working with the color of the year,” I volunteered in a clear voice, above the buzz. The rest of the team might be freaked out by James but I sure as hell wasn’t. Maybe leading by example would help them realize that James wasn’t all bad? “But not this one to start off with, though. I think we could make it a little more personal to Branson. What if we combined each color of the year with a retrospective from past collections? Pantone started doing it in 2000, so we could do a twenty year look back at our top designs from each year, rendered in that year’s color. What was our best seller in 2000?”

I glanced around the table and Lavonte mouthed “thank you” to me.

“Seeing as I’ve been here the longest, I’m the company’s unofficial archivist,” Rhea volunteered, raising her finger in the air. “Year 2000’s top design was actually a throwback to our iconic Easy Dress.” She lowered her voice. “Which was a knockoff of Diane Von Furstenberg’s wrap dress, but shhhh!”

“And the color of the year in 2000 was Cerulean Blue,” Lavonte added, turning the bland sandy smartboard screen to a brilliant sky blue. “How gorgeous would that be?” He quickly sketched a figure over the color and within a few minutes it looked like it was ready for production.

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” James said with a satisfied nod. “Put that concept at the top of the list. What else?”

The hubbub around the table died down again. What was the deal? Why was everyone so darn afraid to show some creativity? I felt like I couldn’t turn mine off, so I threw my hand in the air again.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Natalie,” James chastised lightly. “Go.”

“This is a total longshot concept,” I began. “And it’s probably not do-able⁠—”

“Just say it,” James sighed. He’d kept his frustration in check for Lavonte, but here it was again, rearing its ugly head just for me. I thought we’d reached a truce? What the hell was going on?

“Haute couture,” I spat out, glaring at him.

His eyebrows shot up.

Yes. Take that.

“You really think we can find an audience for bespoke fashion?”

“I think we all know that handmade, one-of-a-kind clothing is created by designers to grab attention for their workhorse lines. We have enough gifted designers in this room that we could come up with an amazing capsule collection that’ll get us a ton of press, and then we lean on the ready-to-wear fashion that’s our bread and butter.”

The buzz around the table picked up as the designers discussed what they could contribute to a special collection. Branson was known for expensive, elegant clothing lines but couture was next level, something they’d never considered.

“Not bad,” James finally said, in the world’s biggest understatement. “That’s a big change in direction that I—I mean we, need to think about. Anyone else?”

“I’m not done,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I think we should hire a house ambassador.”

It was out of left field, but a few people clapped and cheered.

“Is that a fact?” James said, leveling his gaze on me. “You think we need a face to represent the Branson brand? And who would you pick?”