loves you back?’
Leila stood up, took the empty glass out of my hand and strode across the room to the sink. I followed her. ‘Does she?’
‘We made slow delicious love all night long.’ She whipped around. ‘Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t –’
I cut her off. ‘I’m glad at least you did.’ Sex over the phone was an hors d’oeuvre. I was still hungry for the full meal. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘She loves me. She just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘Leila!’
She wrapped me in a bear hug. ‘Stop sounding like a den mother. It’s going to be great. You know what I wish for both of us?’
‘Whatever it is, leave Thorne out of it.’
She cupped my chin with her hand. ‘I wish us a sky full of love.’
‘Whoa.’ I pulled away. ‘I didn’t see anything about being a hopeless romantic in your résumé.’
‘I know. You wouldn’t have hired me, but you’re the one who called your company Desire, Inc.’
I laughed. ‘I think it’s time we forget about love and get back to work.’
I woke up in a filthy mood. I was nervous about the Bergdorf Goodman appointment. The store was the most elegant in the city and I had nothing to wear. The radio announced that the temperature had dropped to the low fifties and my winter clothes were still in storage at the cleaners. Leila was going to be up at the workshop in the Bronx all day. Just as orders were coming in for the new collection, two sewing machines broke down last night. Since our phone session yesterday morning, Thorne had not bothered to call or text, not that I wanted to hear from him ever again, but I did want to be the one to dismiss him. And I was furious with him for haunting my dreams all night long. Dreams that left me panting with anxiety. I couldn’t recall a single one of them. What I did remember was Thorne sitting on the edge of some dreams, looking out into space, or walking through other dreams like a man taking a stroll on a busy street, unaware of his surroundings. I remember at some point calling out to him, but he didn’t turn around. I guess I was really furious at myself for still thinking about him.
In red high heels, black skinny jeans, black silk shirt and a grey leather short jacket, and with a large portfolio of photographs in one hand, I wheeled my Desire, Inc., suitcase into the 58th Street entrance of Bergdorf’s. A uniformed doorman gave me and my suitcase the once-over. I acknowledged him with a nod and walked past him to stare at shelves and glass cases displaying merchandise from the stars of the handbag firmament. Céline, Dior, Tom Ford, Fendi, VBH, Bottega Veneta, Valentino, Prada and Nancy Rodriguez gleamed under the light from crystal chandeliers. The bags were all handsome, but I found them staid and remembered what Leila had said about Barneys’ merchandise being edgier. Only Nancy Rodriguez with her Cayman alligator bags in knock-your-eyes-out colours had some punch to them. I reminded myself that the first floor featured the top designers, who paid for the privilege of being there. The fifth floor showed handbags from more varied and accessible designers such as Phillip Lim, Alexander McQueen and Marc Jacobs. Having even one handbag shown in that company would blow my mind.
I walked through the jewellery department on the way to the down escalator, taking envious peeks at scrumptious jewellery that was way outside my price range. I was meeting the buyer at the Goodman Café in the basement floor. I ended up at the other end of the store, by the Fifth Avenue entrance and the Chanel and Loro Piana handbag corner. Goyard patterned plastic totes hung from a rack – they’d been the rage a few years back at $1300 a bag. I had thought that finding copies on every street corner would have stopped anyone paying a ridiculous price for a plastic tote that would take one of my employees twenty minutes to assemble, trim and all. But if Bergdorf’s still carried them, people were still buying.
The down escalator was a few steps up into another room and to the left. Off I went, with my suitcase, my portfolio, my stomach dropping like a plane hitting an air pocket. Did Desire, Inc. belong in this palace of elegance? If the buyer, by some miracle, thought it did, was I ready for the big lights? Could I and my hard workers in the Bronx deliver? I straightened my spine. What was the matter with me? It wasn’t like me not to be confident. Thorne haunting my dreams had done a number on me. I headed for the perfume counter and asked the saleslady to spritz me with Olivia Farrington’s favourite perfume. It would bring me luck.
‘Opium’s a good perfume on you,’ Vivian Janelli said after we shook hands. She was a stunner. In her early forties, I guessed. Close to six feet tall, with straight blonde hair bluntly cut just below her ears, a strong square face softened by large, carefully made-up blue eyes. She had covered her model’s figure with a simple pearl-grey long-sleeved sheath and matching grey suede boots. Her only jewellery was a thin Swatch watch.
I thanked her and sat down after her. The café was small and stark, with unadorned taupe walls and tables and pea-soup-green upholstery on the chairs. We were the only people there. She offered coffee. I declined, afraid I would spill it on my photos or, worse, my bags.
She held out her hand. ‘Let’s see.’ I unzipped the suitcase and took out four bags. Three of the new, funkier ones, and one classic shoulder bag.
She caressed each one, inside and out, tested the seams, opened each pocket, tested how well the bag closed. ‘They’re well made,’ she said. I bristled at the surprise in her voice, but kept a frozen smile on my face, while my stomach did a frenzied Zumba dance. She gave the bags back and looked through my portfolio. Twice. She pointed to the photo of a large floppy satchel with long multicoloured leather ribbons running all across the opening. ‘I’d buy that in an instant.’
I think my body just stopped doing its staying alive thing for the minute it took me to digest what Vivian Janelli, handbag buyer of the most elegant department store in New York City, had just said. ‘Oh,’ I finally managed to say. No ‘Thank you’ or ‘That’s great’ or ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Just a dumb ‘Oh.’
‘I think a few of your bags will fit right in our store.’ She beamed at me, obviously enjoying making my day, my month, my year.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said, stopping myself hugging her.
‘Call me next week to set up an appointment,’ Vivian said. ‘We’ll work out the details then.’ She stood up. I did the same. We shook hands.
‘How did you know about Desire, Inc.?’ I asked. I had been waiting to have a higher profile before approaching the store.
She gave me a puzzled look. ‘You were highly recommended. Of course, no one can influence what merchandise we choose for our store. The recommendation was just a door opener. Didn’t you know about it?’
‘No. Who recommended me?’
Vivian shook her head. ‘If you don’t know, perhaps it’s best that I don’t say. I wouldn’t want to upset a good customer.’
I called Leila at the workshop the minute I stepped out of the store. She repeated the news and I heard a burst of applause and cheers coming from the women.
I waited to get in a cab to call Geoffrey. He gave a low whistle and said the news called for a mega celebration – dinner at Thomas Keller’s Per Se, which would cost him $300 a person, wine not included.
‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I told him, ‘but let’s wait to celebrate until Barneys
