Typical Day
[Five years later. Interior. Night.]
Paris Milan can't remember the last time she ate lunch with a knife and fork, or even chopsticks, for that matter. Lunch these days is yogurt from a tube, an energy drink, a snack pack of crackers and cheese, and handful of blueberries (her friend Oprah swears by them). That is, if she stops for lunch.
At least she has a hot dinner. It started out as frozen, but she loves Amy's Organic Vegetarian Burritos.
As she zones out, watching the microwave spin, she wonders if she'd made a mistake turning down Percy Penguin's request for a date. She briefly considers Skyping a BFF for an FTF, but remembers all her BFFs are M-O-Ms who don't have the time for talking all night about guys.
She recalls the first time she saw Percy at that company retreat—was it Scottsdale? He was oblivious to her at the time. Back at work, she spent many of her federally mandated ten-minute breaks—and sometimes her entire thirty-minute lunches—daydreaming about Percy and his...perks.
Beep – beep – beep.
Burrito time.
She'd seen Percy on her way to meeting a client in SoMa. She'd early for the appointment, as usual. She'd been carrying her laptop, a projector and some mockups, so her own Flatforms® were set on "walking flat." He'd come around a corner and she'd nearly planted her face into his torso. She'd quickly reached for the remote in her purse and inched her heels up a half-inch.
They had chatted briefly. Percy had been surprisingly forthcoming. "I'd hoped I'd be married by now, but I haven't found the right one. You know," he had said, "You've always been the kind of woman I've dreamed of marrying. I have two tickets for the opera this weekend and it would be lovely to have a chance to hear all about you."
She had found herself staring up into his impossibly blue eyes and saying...the exact opposite of what any rational woman would say: "I would love to Percy, but I don't have an opening for at least six months. I have to finish a business plan by Monday morning, fly to Shanghai Tuesday afternoon, then a red eye to London for a meeting with my art director about the story boards for our Australian infomercial."
While she had been talking, she had gingerly nudged the "up" button on the Flatforms® remote in her purse. She'd raised herself just an inch or two, giving her a more imposing stature.
Nevertheless, she had known she and Percy wouldn't be seeing eye to eye for a long time. He was looking for a woman to settle down with, and she was definitely aiming for the sky.
She'd seen him again in traffic across the Bay Bridge. She'd waved, cranked the volume on her stereo, and belted out with Emily Shackelton to "Dream Big:"
When I was a little girl
I swore that I would change the world
When I grew up, nothin' else would be enough
Back then it all seemed black and white
She'd known she'd be spending her birthday next Tuesday at the VIP Lounge at the airport, but deep down, she didn't really mind.
As she drove off, Percy had smiled to himself and admired the license plate on her Porsche: GOING UP.
Paris finishes her burrito and gets some shut-eye.
The next morning, she checks her voicemail. A message from her accountant—delete. Another from her tailor, her stylist, her travel agent, all of them with questions. She spends sixty seconds on text replies.
"Yes."
"2:00 the 24th."
"Dubai."
…and one more, from Dan.
Save.
Her inbox, as usual, is filled. She chooses the "accounts payable" messages and notices that seven buyers are one day overdue. She sends a pre-written reminder to each and copies her accountant.
Her morning inventory report shows that the patent leather yellow model was low on inventory. She decides not to reorder. Yellow's definitely a trend that won't last into the next season. It's going to be turquoise for the next two seasons, at least.
She signs on to her local sample sale site and turns on the "one day special" option. She loggs into Facebook to confirm that the store's page had a new status update and fires up Hootsuite to schedule another twenty versions to broadcast throughout the morning.
Time for reports. She scans her web marketing report: traffic up, ROI on new keywords was improving, and conversions higher than ever. She notes that the transition to a more robust server was on schedule and that all the ShopNBC feeds were live.
Her year-end P&L report shows that she's finally paid off her business loan, received payment for the 5,000 pairs of Flatforms® about to ship to the Midwest distribution center for TJ Maxx, and is operating in the black. The product placement on Desperate Housewives was a little disappointing, but the producer from The View seemed intrigued by the Flatform® story.
Paris has to admit that the story's pretty good. Who could have predicted that poor little Paris Milan, who grew up wearing only one pair of hand-me-down shoes (which wouldn't have been so bad, except she didn't have any older sisters), would make her first million from the shoe that could replace an entire closet of footwear—the Flatform®, "Rise to Any Occasion Without Missing a Step"?
A chat window pops up on her desktop. It's her virtual assistant. Hey, Glenda Gottrocks wants to reschedule.
Not again. These billionaires. How can they be too busy? Did Glenda get tired after a morning of picking new pillow cases?
Paris fires off a reply. Would you call her and say that I just don't have any openings right now? Then, she picks up the phone and returns another call. "Hello, Ms. Big? I think I'm ready to hear your offer. I'm sending over a pair of next year's Flatforms® model. Let's walk and talk."