Desire Inc.. Zoe Zarani
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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 gets on board too. Then maybe I’ll be able to pay my own way. You didn’t recommend me, by any chance, did you?’
‘I would have if I thought I had any clout there. They didn’t adopt a single one of my suggestions, but at least I got paid. Promptly too. Listen, I need a favour.’
‘Anything.’
‘A friend of ours has been out of work for over a year. He’s a good-looking guy, solidly hetero, forty-two years old. Clean bill of health, according to him. He needs to make some money and I thought maybe you’d consider him for Close Encounters. I saw on the website that your “middle-aged man” offerings needed boosting. I’ll e-mail you his picture.’
Geoffrey and Giles had known about Close Encounters from the start. They had even offered start-up money, which I’d turned down. I wanted it to be my project, no one else’s. ‘Don’t send the picture to me. To the website address with his e-mail.’
‘You’ll give him a chance?’
‘I’ll meet with him. If he meets the requirements, I’ll add him. Then it’s up to my clients to pick him.’
‘Thanks. And again congratulations. You deserve the world.’
I blew him a kiss over the phone. The morning’s bad mood had evaporated. I felt on top of the world. My hard work was paying off and I had the best of friends. I didn’t need anything or anyone else.
The downstairs doorbell rang just as I was dialling Olivia Farrington’s number. I hung up and rushed to the door. I’d been anxiously expecting a shipment of Italian brocade that had taken too many days to clear customs.
‘Who is it?’ I asked over the intercom.
‘A package for you, madam.’
Madam? That wasn’t usually part of delivery-man speak. The accent wasn’t either. ‘Third floor,’ I told him and I rang him in. I waited on the landing as the old elevator creaked up.
The elevator door opened and a man in black jeans and a black sweatshirt filled the doorway. A really big guy with fists for cheekbones. A football player or a nightclub bouncer, making an extra buck during the day, I guessed. I was the only resident on that floor, but for some reason I wasn’t scared. Maybe because of that polite ‘madam’.
‘You have something for me?’
‘Yes, madam.’ He handed me a small shopping bag. The silver logo read Fantasies.
‘What is this?’