a glass of champagne from the waiter, checked that the horrifyingly expensive trays of hors d’oeuvres were making the rounds and excused myself. I walked to the centre of the room ready to make my little speech. I quickly saw that I was competing for attention with Thorne. Every head was turned to look at him, Giles and Geoffrey included. Even Leila was getting her eyeful.
‘Leila,’ I called out. She quickly picked up a spoon from a wandering tray and clinked it against her glass. I waited until the room quieted down and took a deep breath.
‘Thank you for coming. Thank you for your continued loyalty to my work. I wouldn’t be here without you.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Geoffrey raised a glass. ‘We thank you.’ Everyone raised glasses. Thorne saw my hands were empty and before I could blink, was standing in front of me, offering me his glass. I could smell him now that he was away from Olivia’s Opium. A musky scent, sandalwood mixed with something even more inviting.
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, as he slipped the glass between my fingers.
‘Thank me later,’ he whispered back. His eyes stayed on me as he retreated. I found myself smiling at him against my better judgment. Hell, why not? I thought. It’s just a smile. Not a come-on. I’m not going to thank him later.
I raised my glass, my gaze on Thorne. ‘Let’s drink to new adventures,’ I said and took a too long sip of his champagne. ‘This year I’ve branched out into new territory with some of the bags,’ I announced, feeling the warmth of the wine slither down my chest. ‘I hope you like them.’ I looked over at Leila, who was in position at one end of the work table. The covers on the bags were attached to a string that she now held in her hand.
‘Please, Leila.’ She nodded and pulled. The covers came off in one swoop. Twelve new handbags designed by me, sewn and assembled in a workshop in the Bronx, now gleamed under a string of spotlights.
I heard a collective intake of breath, then a silence that lasted a century. Giles and Geoffrey and Thorne were the first to break the silence with applause. The women followed suit, adding praise. ‘Gorgeous.’ ‘Fabulous.’ ‘You did it again.’ Geoffrey whistled. ‘Way out’ came from Giles. Thorne’s gaze stayed fixed on me and said nothing.
Olivia came rushing over, leaned into me and whispered, ‘The one with the purple silk and red suede. That one’s mine. It’ll pick up the accents of a dress I bought this very morning. It’s perfect. I’ll pay you the usual two thousand dollars not to make another one like it.’
I laughed.
‘All right, I’ll go as high as two five.’ This was a game we played every year. She would pick a bag, make her offer. I would laugh. She’d add another $500. The actual selling price to private clients was $1600.
‘It’s a deal,’ I said. Olivia Farrington was obsessed by handbags. She always wanted one of mine only for herself. Always the most colourful one. I knew her tastes and had made this one especially for her. I didn’t mind not selling it to anyone else. She only cared about the colour combination, not the design. I could duplicate the bag in every colour except purple and red. The other women were busy picking up the bags, opening them, exchanging opinions, still stealing glances at Archer Thorne. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Leila follow them to make sure nothing got spilled on the bags.
The WWD reporter walked up to me, a handsome woman in her sixties with short silver hair brushed back behind her ears, casually dressed in black jeans, a black jersey top and flat black ballerinas. ‘Hi, I’m Aileen Gerber.’
‘I know.’ I shook her hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘I like the funky ones. They have pizzazz. They’ll be a hit with a younger crowd than you’ve got here.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping for.’ So far I’d been successful selling to the forty-and-up crowd.
‘I’d like to come over with a photographer tomorrow,’ Aileen said. ‘Shoot the bags, do a brief interview.’ Suddenly Thorne was standing next to me, his arm pressed against my shoulder as if we were an item. I leaned away.
Aileen took a quick look at him, then came back to me, clearly not impressed with him. ‘I’ll try to get an article in the next few weeks.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Thorne said before I could. I wanted to give him a good kick in the shins. Who the hell did he think he was?
‘It’s only a maybe. There’s not much room for anything but the fashion collections right now. I can’t promise anything.’
I grabbed Thorne’s arm and pinched hard to stop him from opening his mouth again. ‘I understand. I appreciate you taking the time.’
‘How about seven o’clock tomorrow morning?’ Aileen asked. ‘I know it’s goddamn early, but I got a lot of shows to sit through the rest of the day.’
If she’d wanted four o’clock in the morning I would have said yes. ‘Seven o’clock it is.’
‘Good. I’ll have Starbucks’ Frappuccino with my interview and some of the edibles you’ll have left over from tonight. These women feed only on egg whites. The photographer will take care of himself.’ Aileen hitched her purse strap back on her shoulder and gave Thorne a long hard stare. ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know,’ she told him. ‘And that goes for money too.’ With that she left. I could have hugged her.
Thorne was laughing. ‘You’ll have your article. Front page too. That’s a Thorne guarantee.’
‘Mr Thorne – ’
‘Archer.’
‘Mr Thorne, I don’t need your guarantee. I don’t need you. I was wrong earlier. You are intruding.’ I walked back to the table where my bags were on display and started explaining to whoever wanted to know how I had come up with each design.
By nine-thirty the place had emptied. Guests, waiters, caterer all gone. Leila and I had the place to ourselves. Well, almost. Thorne was somehow still present like that annoying buzz in my ear I sometimes got. Except this buzz was between my legs. Maybe I was hallucinating. I was that tired. I went over to the computer and shut off Jessie Ware singing ‘Imagine It Was Us’. I kicked off my too high heels, unzipped my dress in order to breathe again and dropped myself down on the couch at one end of the room. Leila started putting the cloth covers back on the handbags.
‘Don’t bother,’ I told her. ‘The WWD photographer is coming at seven. Come over here. It’s recap time.’ I watched Leila as she carefully folded the covers next to each handbag, and realigned each bag with her long thin fingers. She was thoughtful, loyal, beautiful, intelligent and bisexual, with a marked preference for women. If I wasn’t a committed heterosexual, I would have fallen in love with her. Thirty two years old, a New Jersey native, she had strong Middle Eastern looks that came from her Tunisian parents. Her thick black hair was cut in a stylish short shag. Tonight she was wearing a beaded turquoise tunic over black leggings and Moroccan-style orange slippers she’d picked up from a street vendor. She’d eavesdropped on the guests’ comments and in a few minutes she would repeat their words verbatim. I always told her she was wasted working for me. The CIA would have snapped her up in an instant and paid her a lot more than I was able to. One day, one day, I hoped, I’d be able to pay her the salary she deserved.
Finding her had been a real coup. We met in Florence six years
