An English Boy in New York (11 page)

9.03am

It took me hours to finish the Hoopie last night in that bathroom. Tell the truth, I'd been a little distracted by what Dad had said in the bar. Who was this person who had spoiled their first honeymoon? Mum hadn't wanted him to talk about it. Had she had an affair with Diablo? It must have happened around the time they got married.

And that got me thinking. Which is rarely good.

Diablo has curly hair. Mine's kind of curly, or wavy at least. Dad's hair is straight, what's left of it. Could it be true? Could I be Diablo Junior? What with that distraction, and the jet lag, I went slowly and made a few mistakes. When I'm in tune and on song and pumped with mojo, etc. I can knit like a Time Lord. But the slightest distraction and I knit like a Dalek. It also didn't help that I'd had to work in the bathroom.

There was a man waiting for me in reception who had chauffeur written all over him. He was stocky and wore a blue uniform with fetching brass buttons. He was quite young, maybe in his early twenties, and he held his peaked cap and a piece of paper with
Mr Fletcher
written on it.

‘I'm Mr Fletcher,' I said, approaching him. I was already worrying if I'd need to tip him. And how much? Why can't they just add the service charge to the bill like they do at Pizza Express? Or have a rule where you can just add a quid and round it up?

‘Good morning, Mr Fletcher.'

‘Just call me Ben,' I said, holding out my hand.

‘Good morning, Ben,' the man said, shaking it.

‘Good morning  …  ?'

‘Trey,' he said, grinning a huge grin. ‘My name's Trey.'

Now Trey had great teeth. Not as magnificent as Brandi's, mind you. No one had teeth like Brandi's. But really quite special nonetheless. Why was a man with teeth like that driving a boy with teeth like mine? It would never happen in England.

America is a superpower not just in terms of weaponry and economics. It is also a Superpower of Teeth. If the state of a nation's teeth were used as a measure of its standing in the world, then the US is miles ahead of anyone else. British teeth, by comparison, are like the various territories of the British Empire; neglected, crumbling, dropping out one by one. They say China is the new kid on the block in superpower terms, but if they really want to compete with the US on all fronts they're going to have to put some serious investment into their dental infrastructure.

‘Can I take your bag?' Trey asked. I was holding the Bloomingdale's shopping bag. The only bag I had big enough for carrying the bulky Hoopie.

‘That's OK, I'll hang on to it,' I said, clutching the bag tightly. We were only going a few blocks but I wasn't taking any chances.

Trey led me outside and opened the rear door to a huge black Cadillac with tinted windows. I felt like a crime boss.We pulled out into traffic, a taxi giving us a welcoming blast of his horn.

‘Screw you!' Trey screamed at it.

I knew the Priapia Offices were on 5
^th
Avenue, what I hadn't realised was that they were in the Flatiron Building, that iconic piece of 1920s architecture shaped like the incredibly thin wedge of cheesecake Mum always asks for before helping herself to seconds.

‘Oh my God,' I said. ‘I can't believe I'm actually going to be inside the Flatiron Building.'

‘It looks better from the outside', Trey said. ‘Everything's all screwy inside. None of the furniture fits, and the plumbing is a nightmare.'

Trey pulled up out front and hopped out to open the door for me. You've got to tip a man who opens a car door for you, even I can see that. I fumbled in my pocket as I got out but Trey cleared his throat and shook his head. OK, so no tip for a chauffeur, but a tip for a taxi driver? Maybe because I'm a guest of the company? How does that work? The minute I think I'm getting the tipping thing someone changes the rules. It's not doing my nerves any good. He walked me into reception. I was starting to feel nervous. Mr Hollis had said this was going to be an informal chat. But the building was opulent, the receptionist was beautiful, they'd sent a chauffeur to pick me up. How informal could this be? I got a text from Brandi.

Brandi was clearly another one who seemed to think this was my big chance. I was glad I'd washed my clothes. Imagine turning up here wearing my father's chinos with the frayed cuff.

‘I'm gonna go park the car,' Trey said. ‘I'll wait and pick you up after your meeting.'

‘Thanks, Trey,' I said.

‘Hey, good luck in there,' he said, looking genuinely anxious for me.

Was everyone trying to make me as nervous as possible? They were acting like I was going to play a game of chess with Death.

‘It's just an informal chat,' I said, dry-mouthed.

Trey shook his head. ‘You're seeing Robert D'Angelo, right?'

‘That's right.'

‘That guy doesn't do informal chats. You've got fifteen minutes of his time, which is the most valuable piece of real estate in this goddam city.'

I swallowed. I didn't want to have this meeting. I wasn't ready. There were three dropped stitches in the Hoopie sample.

Without Trey it suddenly seemed very quiet. The receptionist tapped at her keyboard. Suddenly feeling I needed to break the silence, I spoke up.

‘I hear you have trouble with your plumbing,' I said. She looked up at me in alarm.

‘I mean, in the building,' I explained quickly.

‘Oh,' she replied. ‘Yeah, we do.'

Her phone buzzed and she answered it quickly, no doubt relieved to not have to talk to this weird English kid any more. Why can't I just learn to keep my mouth shut?

‘Mr D'Angelo and his colleagues will see you now,' she said, hanging up. ‘Take the elevator to the eighth floor.'

Colleagues?!

‘Knock 'em dead, kid,' Trey said as he came back, chucking me on the shoulder. He watched as I made my way to the lift then he called out.

‘One shot!'

The lift doors opened on the eighth floor and I was met by another beautiful lady. ‘Ben Fletcher? I'm Gloria Tevez,' she said, extending her hand.

‘Like the footballer,' I replied, shaking her hand.

‘Excuse me?' she asked.

‘Oh, I mean soccer player,' I said.

‘There's a soccer player called Gloria Tevez?' she asked, interested.

‘No, his name is Carlos. And he's a man. Doesn't matter.'

Shut up Ben, shut up.

Please come through,' she said, as though I hadn't just acted like a prat. ‘We're all excited to meet with you today.'

‘Me too,' I said. Though for excitement read scared witless.

Gloria led me into a room shaped a bit like a cartoon wedge of cheese, with a table squashed into the thin end of the wedge. Two men and a woman sat facing me. It was like the
Dragon's Den
studio had been rammed into the bow of an America's Cup yacht. The window behind them looked out towards the Empire State Building, framing it perfectly. If a team of top scientists had designed a scenario with the sole purpose of causing me maximum anxiety, they would have come up with something very much like this. Though they would have painted it cerise, of course, a colour which also brings me out in hives.

Gloria asked me to take a seat on this side of the table, then she moved around to the other side, the weird geometry of the building meaning she had to squeeze her way past the end of the table.

‘Please take a seat, Ben,' one of the men said. ‘I'm Robert D'Angelo.'

‘Hello,' I said. I sat on the chair and clutched my Bloomingdale's bag on my knees.

‘This is Miles O'Flynn, and this is Liz Hanson.'

‘Hello, hello,' I said.

‘You've already met Gloria Tevez,' he said.

‘The soccer player,' Gloria said, with a taut smile.

‘Ha ha. Yes.'

‘So, Ben,' Robert said. ‘What have you come to show us today?'

Suddenly, I didn't want to open the bag. I had no idea what they were expecting, or what they were hoping for, but I was convinced the Hoopie wasn't it. These people were in charge of buying for the textiles and clothing arm of a multinational corporation. I was a beginner knitter from Hampton who apparently couldn't even spell Hampton. What could I offer these people?

Nonetheless, here I was. Here they were. I had to show them something. Mr Hollis, Mrs Tyler, Brandi, my parents. Trey. They all wanted me to give it my best shot.

So I pulled out the Hoopie.

‘This is my design,' I said. ‘I call it the Hoopie. It's like a hooded cardigan with a loose knit.'

‘Could you bring it here, please?' Liz asked. I laid it on the table and the four of them began poking it, peering at it, subjecting it to a forensic analysis. You know those dreams you have, when you're naked at school and all your friends are looking at you and laughing, and then Miss Swallow walks in and then you realise it's not Miss Swallow, it's actually your MUM?

Anyway. That's how I felt. The Hoopie was such a personal thing. And this was far from the finest example.

I watched as Robert fingered a hole where I'd dropped a stitch.

‘You knitted this by hand?' he asked.

‘Yes, I'm sorry about the dropped stitches. My room-mate was trying to get to sleep and kept throwing cushions at me because of the clicking. I went and finished it in the bathroom, hence the toothpaste on the sleeve.'

‘You finished this last night?' Gloria asked, looking up at me. She wore those trendy big glasses, making her nice eyes look huge, like a woman from a manga comic.

‘I knitted the whole thing last night,' I said.

‘You knitted the whole thing in
one night
?' she asked, eyes even wider. She began scribbling on a pad sitting next to her. But the weird thing was, she didn't look at the pad as she wrote. She just carried on looking at me with her massive eyes, her hand writing away as if it had a mind of its own. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

‘Yes. I can do one in less than an hour if I'm really in the zone,' I said. ‘That's how I won the Knitting Championship.'

Robert sat back in his chair and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I heard about that,' he said.

Liz was whispering to Miles, who was tapping away on a tablet.

‘You know what else I heard?' Robert asked.

‘Um, no?'

‘I heard you can knit faster than a machine.'

Oh no.

‘Well, I  … '

‘I didn't believe it at first. But I don't know  … ' he looked down at the Hoopie. ‘Maybe you can.'

I shook my head. ‘I need to explain, I –'

‘So you run a business?' Gloria cut in, her independent hand still scribbling on the pad.

‘Yes. I mean I sell these on Etsy. I also do tank tops and football scarves.'

‘How many employees?'

‘Erm. Just  …  just the one, really. Just me.'

Miles and Liz stopped talking. Robert dropped his pen. They all stared at me. Even Liz's independent hand stopped writing.

‘No employees?' Miles asked.

‘Er, no?' I said, wishing I could be giving a different answer.

‘How many machines?' Robert asked slowly.

‘Machines? Er  …  I don't have any machines, as such,' I admitted.

‘Let me get this straight,' Robert said. ‘It's just you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And everything knitted by hand?' As he asked this he pointed to the dropped stitch in the Hoopie.

‘That's right.'

Robert shook his head and sat back in his chair, looking away. If this was
Dragon's Den
he would be out.

‘Have you considered buying some machines?' Gloria asked slowly.

‘I've got nowhere to put them,' I said. ‘Though I suppose I could get rid of the ziggurat.'

‘You could rent premises,' she pointed out.

‘I need cash for that.'

‘How much do you need?' Miles asked, a finger poised over his tablet.

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know!? Where are your revenue projections? Where's your five-year plan?'

‘I haven't really done one.'

Miles looked disappointed. He sat back.

‘You've got a good design here,' Liz said. ‘But how many of these can you knit by hand in a week?'

‘Not so many at the moment,' I admitted. ‘I have exams in July. I'm doing AS levels. I had to turn down a couple of orders in fact. Tank tops and scarves are quicker.'

‘What's your margin on a tank top?' she asked.

Thank God. I knew this one. Thirty per cent.'

‘And on a scarf?'

‘About fifty per cent.'

And what was your profit last year?'

‘I haven't been going for a year. My profit last month was £67.'

Liz stared at me for a while. Then she sat back in her chair. No more questions, m'lud.

‘Thanks so much for coming in, Ben,' Gloria said silkily, standing up. It looked like she was out as well.

‘Sorry,' I said, meaning sorry for wasting their time. I stood and she helped me get the Hoopie back in the Bloomingdale's bag while the other three sat quietly, the only sound the cheerful honking in the streets below.

I shook hands with the others and Gloria walked me to the lift.

‘Goodbye, Ben,' she said.

‘Goodbye.'

‘Good luck with the Hoopie,' she said. ‘It really is a great design.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘Good luck with Juventus.'

‘How did it go?' Trey asked excitedly as I walked back out into reception. He was leaning over the desk.

I shook my head. ‘I think I missed my one shot.'

‘Oh damn, seriously?'

‘Yeah. I wasn't prepared,' I said. ‘I thought  …  oh, it doesn't matter.'