Leila turned on the music track she’d put together – Justin Timberlake, Tegan and Sara, Haim, Jessie Ware, Adele and others. The first song was ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk, a typical Leila touch. I needed lots of luck. ‘Keep it soft,’ I said. I didn’t want my guests to have to shout over the music. Besides, I needed calming down. With my stomach tied in knots, I took up my post at the open door.
Geoffrey and Giles arrived first. I hugged them, knowing that they were on my side. Partners in life and in their very sought-after interior decorating business, they had been pushing me to loosen up with my designs, take more risks. Three years ago they’d walked into my showroom for the first time with a client and proceeded to convince her to buy three of my most expensive bags. I could always count on them to drop in with one of their many clients. I always made a sale. Giles was a short teddy-bear of a man, with pinchable cheeks, zany bowties and a tongue that could slice you in half. Geoffrey was a few inches taller, with a muscled body, long thinning hair he wore in a low ponytail and a rugged handsome face. We’d become good friends. I had spent many a weekend with them at their place in the Hamptons.
‘I hope you don’t have to rush out of here. I need you.’
Geoffrey ran his finger down my nose. He’d seen the designs, but not the finished product. ‘I want to say, “Trust me,” but I hate people who say that so all I’m going to say is, “It’s going to be great.”’ He looked me up and down. ‘You look hot tonight.’
‘Thanks.’ I’d found a red silk dress at a vintage store over in the West Village for a really good price. I could barely breathe, it hugged me so tightly, and I had to remember not to bend over or my breasts would fall out, but I thought it matched the look of the new line – young and jazzy. That’s how the dress made me feel. Next year I was going to hit the dreaded thirty.
Geoffrey slowly spun me around to survey the back of the dress. When I faced him again he raised one neatly tweezed eyebrow. ‘You look too good. You’ve got a new lover.’
‘Man-free and not looking.’
‘Someday some lucky man will catch you for keeps.’
‘Never. Is the dress too breasty?’ Geoffrey, along with Leila, often acted as my fashion consultant. For tonight’s outfit I’d used my own instincts. ‘I can always cover up with a wrap.’
Geoffrey scowled. ‘No way. You’ve got the best boobs in New York City.’
I laughed. ‘And how many women’s breasts have you seen?’
‘The way they’re showing them off these days? More than I need to.’ Geoffrey lifted my long chestnut-brown curls and draped them strategically over my breasts. ‘Give them just a peekaboo. Sexier.’
I kissed him. ‘Thanks, pal.’
Giles jerked his head toward the door. ‘Who’s the hunk we just saw getting out of a cab with the lady who Opiumed herself into a stupor?’
‘That must be Olivia Farrington,’ I said. ‘She does like that perfume.’
‘What about the hunk?’
‘I don’t know who he is. Olivia called and told me she was bringing a guest. He’s the only other man coming.’ She hadn’t asked if I minded, which annoyed me. The cocktail party was to thank the people I knew, people who had given Desire, Inc. a good start. I had no idea who this man was and Olivia hadn’t bothered to explain. My annoyance lasted about four seconds. Olivia Farrington was my best customer. She believed every outfit she owned deserved its own bag. She owned a lot of outfits and a lot of bags, a lot of them mine.
‘Well, whoever he is –’ Giles grabbed a cheese puff from the tray a waiter was offering him ‘– he’s drop dead. Must be gay to go out with her. Or dirt poor.’
Geoffrey’s eyebrow went up again. ‘With a Brioni suit? Gay maybe. Poor no.’ He gave Giles’s shoulder a soft punch. ‘And he’s not that good-looking.’
I’d been pressing the buzzer, letting people in during this conversation. Now I could hear the old-fashioned cage creak up to my floor. ‘Move, guys, I’ve got work to do.’
Guests flowed in. I shook hands, kissed cheeks, remembered to call each person by name and kept thinking, What if the bags flop? I had strayed from my classic designs into crazier, younger territory with some of the bags, using a lot of patchwork, stripes, squares, triangles, soft Italian suedes sewn next to heavy damasks and bright Indian silks. Designing the new bags was an exciting experience that kept me busy for months. The finished product had thrilled me until a few hours ago. I stole a quick look at the work table where Leila and I had strategically placed the bags and crossed my fingers. Behind me Leila took the guests’ briefcases, their wraps, their shopping bags. Before dropping them off in my office, she nudged me with her elbow, her way of saying everything was going to be fine.
Waves of Opium announced the arrival of Olivia Farrington, a hefty fifty-something widow whose only claim to beauty, according to some of my nastier clients, was the considerable fortune left her by her Wall Street husband. She air-kissed me. I barely saw her, my eyes glued to the man standing behind her. Drop dead was right. He took the breath right out of me. Somewhere in his early forties. Over six feet, dark wavy hair, lots of it. A square jaw. Tanned skin. Thick biteable lips. Strong aquiline nose. He exuded power, leadership. And he was far too handsome for anyone’s good, his included, I suspected. With looks like that, the whole world falls at your feet. Beauty doesn’t build character, my mother liked to say whenever I complained that I wasn’t pretty enough.
Not gay. I could admire a gay man’s good looks, his perfectly shaped body, but nothing would happen to me down below. This man had the kind of male sexual strength that can get a woman wet with one glance, which was great if all you wanted was a good fuck. If you were dumb enough to translate that into wanting love, you ended up a crying mess. I’ve made sure never to be that dumb.
I tried to look away but what held me were his eyes. A colour that seemed to vary with each blink, from see-through brown to aqua blue to the palest of greens. His eyes stayed on me and I felt my stomach tremble. His gaze felt like a hook reaching inside me, catching me, holding me. The only way I was able to fight him was to close my eyes. When I opened them again he was handing Olivia a glass of champagne. Free of his gaze, I felt lessened. As if something of mine had been taken away. That was a first for me and I didn’t like it.
I like men. I like what they do to me sexually. I like what I do to them even more. I’m a firm believer in women being in charge in every way. I learned from my mother never to cede power to a man. So far I’d managed just fine. A few years ago, I’d started a male escort business to help other women be in charge of their desires. A man was just another accessory was the way I thought of it. I wanted to call it 2Desire, but Leila reminded me how malicious the fashion world was. With that name, they would have found me out. I settled for Close Encounters.
Olivia waved a Chanel-clad arm. ‘Darling, meet my very good friend Archer Thorne. You must have heard of him. The Thorne Company? He’s in charge of all sorts of big stuff. Archer, meet the wonderfully talented Nicole Wenders.’
‘And beautiful,’ Thorne added, his eyes skating down to my breasts. He took my hand. I expected him to shake it. Instead he held it, rubbed his thumb down my palm, a touch I instantly felt between my legs. Damn him. I hate this. I took my hand back.
‘Olivia has told me so much about you, I had to meet you.’ He had a deep,
