Raw Talent |6| James Franco’s Midnight Yurt Promises

Read Chapter Five Here.


Fox Maison was in a quandry. Sure, she was taking New York by storm, out every night hob nobbing with the crème de la crème of high society. From the speakeasies of Williamsburg to the members only supper clubs of the Upper East Side everyone wanted a piece of her.

Just not the right one.

She’d thought things would be so easy the first week she’d moved here. Sourcing the perfect loft in a repurposed TB orphanage in Brooklyn, accumulating a range of different hides, deerskin, lambskin. Visiting the many slaughterhouses New York State had to offer. She’d have her own one, eventually. She knew she would. It wasn’t just a dream.

It couldn’t be.

Fox gazed at her painstakingly curated mood board, the gathered wisdoms of her twenty-two years collected there.

You can do it.


They are the problem not you.


#YOLO. She’d believed that once, she really had. A bitter laugh caught in her elegant throat as she washed away her heartbreak with a glass of Grey Goose. It was so easy to get caught up in the glitter and fanciness. Shopping sprees in boutiques run by people who didn’t need a lucrative second income. Tweeting things that James Franco had promised you one midnight in his yurt. Making ice-sculptures with chainsaws in an oligarch’s dungeon because you were young and good at it and his caviar tasted like the kind your Mum would put inside your lunchbox to let the other children know who mattered.

Fox gazed at her mood board again, willing it to guide her. Slowly, she rose from her bed and put the vodka down. The time for fun was over. She had been in New York for eight days now and had orders for 1600 leather cuffs already. Donald Trump wanted three. But she wasn’t giving them to him. Her cuffs were only for the young shining elite. She wanted them to make a statement. Lots of statements.

The world had given Fox Maison so much. So very much. It wasn’t enough to be young and rich and gorgeous and not a racist. She’d have to give something back. But she could no longer do it alone.

She needed help. Hired help to do the embossing and the cutting and leave her free to flow creatively and forge important connections. She had a meeting with a possible investor tomorrow as it happened.

Jackman DuVall. He didn’t have business cards. Everyone in New York knew who he was already. A potent combination of Tycoon, Robber Baron and Sex-Batman. Fox hoped he believed in her dreams as hard as everyone she’d previously encountered did. Everyone bar her stupid unsupportive father.

Adversity makes a diamond shine with fire. Fox thought. And then wrote it down and affixed it to her mood board.

And, as for this Jackman DuVall? Well…

Fox had never met a man she couldn’t handle. And she certainly wasn’t going to start not handling men she’d met now.

She stroked the smooth shark-skin, hand killed by Serbian Beat-Poets in a fit of Art.

It will be alright thought Fox. There is no point in being intimidated by the undisputed king of Wall Street and probably America as well.

She was Fox Maison, dammit.


Chapter Seven

Header Image via Forbes.com