Desire Inc.. Zoe Zarani
are your backers?’
‘Backers? The bank.’
‘A young woman with no business experience? You must have really impressed them.’
‘I got lucky. And I had some money of my own.’ What had gotten Desire, Inc. started was a small inheritance from Mom and selling the house I’d grown up in in Newburgh. The bank had stepped in after two years, when I had something to show them.
The sound of the buzzer. ‘That must be the photographer.’
‘Better be. I’ve got to be uptown at the Lauren show in thirty minutes. Thank God they never start on time.’
Leila stepped out of the elevator.
‘Hey, good morning,’ I said in too loud a voice, happy at the interruption. Aileen’s questions had unleashed bad memories and Thorne was still on me.
Leila walked in with a kid in tow. ‘Meet Kyle.’ Loaded down by two enormous cameras, Kyle looked all of twenty. He was in jeans and a Pink Floyd sweatshirt that hadn’t seen a washing machine in months. A Yankees cap worn backwards held shoulder-length hair in some kind of order. He had a cute, sleepy face.
‘You get lost?’ Aileen stood up and brushed the breadcrumbs off her skirt. ‘After I pick the bags you got ten minutes to shoot.’ She turned to me. ‘I do the picking. Maybe you want to go to your office or somewhere. Put some more makeup on. And pin your hair up. Shame to waste that neck. We’ll take a picture of you before we go.’
I raised my hands in surrender. I wasn’t about to argue with WWD. At least not at this point of my career. As I walked toward my office Leila winked at me. I laughed. My losing control always gave her a kick.
‘What’s with necks?’ I asked Leila as soon as Aileen and her photographer left.
‘Beats me.’ Leila hated her own neck, which was much longer than mine. She thought it made her look like a giraffe. I thought it made her look regal. ‘You’ll be happy to know she picked all the funky bags without my help.’
‘Good.’ I walked into the office, a windowless room just large enough to fit two IKEA desks and chairs, a metal filing cabinet I’d found at the Salvation Army and a drawing board. To spruce up the place I had covered the walls with my watercolour designs, even the ones I had rejected. Leila had added a sprinkling of bright Tunisian tiles from her own collection. Geoffrey had offered to decorate the office for free, but I liked to work in an efficient, pared-down space. Luckily so did Leila. It was our private work space. No client was allowed in.
Leila followed. ‘You should have worn that new green top. Brings out your eyes.’
I groaned. ‘The article is never going to appear.’
‘It will.’
‘I usually appreciate your confidence, but today I find it irritating.’ I sat down. ‘Let’s go over the last orders.’
Leila sat back, folded her arms and grinned at me, which was even more irritating.
‘What?’
‘Thorne called, huh?’
‘He showed up here with me in my undies.’
‘Oooh. Fun.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘That explains why you look soft, out of focus. Very beddable. Someone’s finally gotten to you. I think that’s great. Just what you need.’
‘He hasn’t and it isn’t. Thorne has nothing to do with anything.’ I was trying to convince myself. ‘The interview brought up some bad stuff. I wish I could shake my parents’ story for good.’
‘Bad stuff makes us fighters. Don’t knock it. Give Thorne a chance. You might discover love is what’s been missing.’
‘Thorne would sink me.’
‘You’re so frigging obstinate! You think you know it all.’
‘You don’t?’
‘But I do know it all.’ She rummaged through her backpack. ‘At least about Mr Archer Thorne.’ She extracted a small stack of papers stapled together and slapped them on my desk. ‘The Internet is full of him. Articles in Business Week, Time, The New York Times. From what I read he’s a great guy. And –’
‘Not interested!’ I shoved the papers aside. ‘Tonight Geoffrey and Giles are showing off that Central Park West apartment they decorated. What are you wearing?’
‘I’m not going.’
‘But you accepted the invitation.’
‘I know I did, but something’s come up. I’ve already called Geoffrey to apologise. The place is going to be jam-packed. They’re not going to miss me.’
‘I’ll miss you. I can’t stand those parties. Please come. I don’t want to be alone.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Leila didn’t look in the least bit sorry. It had been a while since I’d seen that sparkle in her eyes.
‘OK, what’s up?’
Leila beamed a smile. ‘Remember Melissa? I met her at last year’s AIDS Walk.’
‘Sure. You didn’t stop talking about her for weeks. She’s changed her mind about going out with you?’
‘I ran into her at Whole Foods two days ago. I decided I had nothing to lose and called her last night. We’re meeting in the West Village for a drink. I’m going to convince her to have dinner with me, too.’ Her face was glowing with hope.
‘That’s great, but be careful.’ Leila had a habit of falling in love with women who didn’t reciprocate.
‘I will not be careful!’ She slammed her hand on the desk. ‘You walk around like a turtle with its head tucked in its shell. That’s not me. I want to love, be alive. It might end up hurting. It might not. If I don’t try I’ll never know. Worry about yourself, not me. Stick your head out, open up. Fall in love. Give it a try at least.’ She picked up the phone and held it out to me. ‘Call him. His office number is on the top page. Invite him to Geoffrey’s open house.’
Why not? I owed him a thank-you. Oh, to hell with being polite, I wanted to see him again. We’d end up in bed. It’s what we both wanted. I knew that from this morning. I’d never shied away from having sex with a handsome man before. No reason to do so now. I took the phone and with my stomach doing somersaults started to punch in the cellphone number he’d written on his note. It was already imprinted in my brain. Halfway through the number I switched to the office number for The Thorne Company. The idea that I was making a business call gave me a kick.
A dark, low voice answered. ‘Thorne speaking.’
My breath caught. Why was he answering the phone? Where was his receptionist? His secretary?
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
My heart pounded wildly.
‘Are we playing games?’ he asked, his voice now a cashmere-soft caress.
I pushed the off button.
‘I’d like to think that was a wrong number,’ Leila said, ‘but your face is as red as a cooked lobster so I guess you got the man himself.’
I felt dumb and ashamed. I had acted like a twelve-year-old. ‘I’m not ready for him. I’m sorry.’
‘So am I, but it’s your life.’
She dropped the subject. So did I. We spent the rest of the day working. Leila stayed in the East Village office to sort out orders and make calls to prospective buyers. I took the subway up to the Bronx work place I rented to oversee the women who sewed and assembled my bags. Most had lost jobs in the shrinking New York City garment industry. They knew how to work fabric. I taught them what I had learned about