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Seven years and two messy divorces later, the Cynthia I once looked up to no longer exists. She’s a shell of her former self, and I can’t remember the last time she actually worked on a project. These days, she just palms them off on me, though she’s more than happy to take the credit.
Her name still holds considerable weight in the design world, but that’s only because of me. I’ve been single-handedly managing all of Cynthia’s high-profile clients for the last few years, keeping the business afloat while Cynthia swans around doing God knows what. Everyone seems to believe that she’s still behind the scenes working hard and that I’m just her conduit, but they’re all my designs.
My ideas.
My vision.
But on paper, I’m still ajuniordesigner, and nothing I do seems to convince her to give me the promotion and the title we bothknow I deserve.
So it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that she’s locked in a meeting for mewith a high-profile client at 5.30 p.m. on a Wednesday.
It does piss me off though.
* * *
In the middleof rush hour, it takes me just over an hour to make it to the West End. I’m still early for the meeting, but only just. I used my time on the tube, squashed between businessmen and school kids in dire need of deodorant, to draft my final list for Simon and study up on this new client.
I’ve got to hand it to Cynthia. She may not be working properly anymore, but she still knows how to pull in the most lucrative clients. I’m meeting with someone called Finn Hawthorne. He’s the managing director for The August Room, a private members club that was founded in New York nearly 50 years ago. It’s got a reputation as being one of the most exclusive and glamorous private clubs in the world, and they’re looking to branch out to new locations. Apparently, London is the first place they’ve chosen for their expansion.
They’ve purchased a stunning Georgian townhouse in the centre of the West End, and Cynthia has earned us the contract to design it.
I feel a tiny bubble of excitement as I scan through the photos of the building. It’s a truly remarkable space with four floors, each ripe for a redesign. Most of my recent projects have been residential, which is fun and all, butthis? This is a real challenge, something I can sink my teeth into and really flex my design muscles. It’s a listed property, so it’ll be a tricky project because I’ll have to be creative to make sure we don’t break any rules about maintaining the property’s historical integrity, but everything about this excites me.
Maybe I won’t complain about Cynthia foistingthisclient on me.
The townhouse is about a ten-minute walk from the nearest tube station, and I join the rush hour madness as we file down the crowded London streets. I’m going through some preliminary ideas for the property in my mind, when a voice cuts through my thoughts.
It’s coming from a man a few paces in front of me. I can’t see his face, but he’s tall with a rower’s physique hidden under his navy blue blazer, and he has a head of short blond hair. He’s on the phone, his voice — loud, deep, and distinctly American — cutting through the noise of the city around us.
“…landed a couple hours ago. Yeah. Pretty cold. Yeah. Yeah. Uh huh. Exactly.”
I try to tune him out, my focus on the Google Maps route I’m following on my phone, but his next sentence pulls me back in.
“…meeting with the designer now.” A pause and a low chuckle. “That’s what I’m saying. You should see how much they’ve quoted.” Another pause. Several hums. “Exactly. It’s ridiculous. All that for choosing a couple shades of paint and picking out a few pillows at IKEA?” He laughs loudly at something the person on the other end says, and I can’t help but scowl at his back.
His attitude toward my career is, sadly, not an uncommon one. Annoyingly, it’s one that my parents have too. Maybe that’s why his words feel like a personal attack on me.
When it comes to interior design, people only see the finished product — a beautifully designed space — and assume that all we’ve done is throw some paint on the walls and maybe artfully placed a rug here or there. Or they watch one of those 60-minute design shows on daytime TV and think that entire home renovations can be done in an hour.
They don’t see the hours and hours of work we put in behind the scenes creating floor plans, managing contractors and warehouses, sourcing items, hauling around furniture only for the client to turn their nose up at it at the very last minute.
It’s hard fucking work.
“…yeah, I’m going to see if I can get the price down at this…”
He trails off and I lose him as he makes a sharp turn and dips inside a coffee shop.
Good riddance.
I wish I knew which designer he’s about to meet. I’d get in touch and warn them that they’ve got an asshole client coming their way.
The rest of the short walk is blissfully free of assholes, and by the time I reach the listing, I’ve mostly pushed him from my mind.
The townhouse is as stunning up close as it was in the pictures. The four floors tower over me, and I marvel at the beautiful façade made from greying stone. Whoever the previous owners were, it’s clear that they took great care of it. I step under the portico, held up by four stone columns, and lift the large circular knocker. It swings against the door with a loudbang, announcing my arrival.
I wait, expecting the door to open any second now. But it doesn’t. I knock again, a little harder this time, and wait. And wait.
And wait.
