Bicoastal Babe (7 page)

I’ve got a big day ahead of me, and can’t wait to hit the streets. The trends are waiting for my embrace. After a quick shower and a pop-in to the Iranian bagel guy down on the corner, I head up to Midtown for some prime shopping territory. Fifth Avenue, baby, and forget the three-story Banana Republic. Within minutes I’m combing the counters at Roberto Cavalli, surfing the shoe racks at Prada, and acting like I know what the hell I’m talking about in the Valentino couture section of Barney’s. The clothes give me an intoxicating buzz, and the price tags a downright hangover. But I’m not here to indulge—I’m here to work.

I look around the store to size up the customers. They look like normal people, yet they have a subtle air about them that makes me believe they really do spend $875 on a scarf. Surely they can speak to trends. And surely they want to speak to me.

“Um, excuse me,” I say to a hip-looking young woman who seems to be deciding between black leather pants and brown.

“Yes?”

“I’m actually here in New York on vacation, and I’m wondering if you could help me out.”

She looks me up and down. “With what?”

“Well, okay.” I pull the pencil out from behind my ear and flip open my notepad. “When you look around the store, what specifically would you say is… trendy?”

“Trendy?”

“Yeah, you know. Certain styles that you’d consider trendy.”

She laughs. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“Chicago.”

“They don’t have trendy stuff in Chicago?”

“Well, I was just wondering,” I mumble.

I sound like a horse’s ass, I know. But I’ve taken it this far, so I might as well keep going.

“Look, honey. You don’t go into Dolce and Gabbana looking for ‘trendy.’ Trendy is what teenyboppers wear to the mall out in Hackensack.”

“Right.”

“Try up the street. I think they have a Rampage on the corner of Fifth and Thirty-eighth. Or maybe it’s Thirty-ninth. Somewhere around there.”

Brilliant. I’m a thirty-one-year-old professional trend-tracker, and I’ve just been taken for someone who comes to Manhattan looking for fucking
Rampage.

“Thank you.” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a slow, painful death otherwise known as the rest of the day.

But head held high, I proceed onward toward the DKNY store. DKNY is for young, smart, successful women on the town, not East End snobs with their heads stuck up their leather-panted asses. But just in case, I figure I should probably alter my approach.

“Uh, excuse me.” My next victim is a girl in her twenties, gnawing through the sale rack for what appear to be outfits to wear to the office.

“Yeah?”

“I’m a reporter doing an article about trends in fashion. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”

She looks at me skeptically. “I guess. Like what?”

“Well, for example, how would you describe trendy fashion right now? What sort of look would you say is ‘in’?”

She thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to find some cheap skirts for work.”

She’s not getting off that easy. “Now come on. You look like a trendy woman, someone who knows what’s on the fast track.”

“The fast track?”

“So how would you characterize what’s hot right now? Or what you think will be hot next season.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

I’m getting nowhere with this.

“Okay,” I press on. “Take a look at that rack over there. Would you say those jackets are trendy?”

“I suppose so.”

“So how would you describe that look? If you had to characterize it.”

“Uh…” She’s having a real problem with this. What’s with these people? Why is it so difficult to put words around what makes something stylish?

“Well, they’re sort of… I don’t know. They look pretty cool, I guess.”

I sigh and give a nod of appreciation, then turn away.

“Hey,” she calls after me. “Do you need my name for the article?”

I shake my head and make for the door. This is impossible. What am I doing wrong?

Up a block or so, I come upon the Versace boutique. Versace is perfect—the epitome of fashion chic. If I can’t find it here… well, I don’t want to think about the alternative.

I know – I’ll talk to the employees. Forget about these scatterbrained customers who can’t seem to distinguish fashion from a footlocker. It’s the store clerks who will be in the know. And this time I’m laying all my chips on the table and betting on the truth.

“Excuse me,” I say to a tall, thin, somewhat effeminate man who is folding cashmere sweaters. “I’ve just begun working for an ad agency as a trend forecaster, and I’m wondering if you can help me.”

“Well, that’s an interesting job,” he says, giving my outfit the onceover. I think I look okay: stone-washed Sevens, a brown T-shirt, and a cool pair of summer sling-backs. Who could have issue with that?

“So what can I do for you?” he asks.

“Well, my job is to write a newsletter for our advertisers on what’s trendy, and maybe even get ahead of the game a little. Try to tap into next season, what might be in style, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And I thought you might have some ideas. You know, working for such an ultracool designer and all. I thought you might have the insider’s scoop.”

“Yes, I see.” He seems to understand what I mean, at least. But he’s mulling it over so hard that I begin to wonder if I’m breaching some sort of privacy pact or something.

“Well, I would love to help you.”

“You would?” I could hug him.

“But you should know that what’s trendy right now is certainly going to be yesterday’s trash by the time your newsletter is put to use in any new advertising.”

“Well said. So let’s talk next season.”

“And that’s where I can’t really help. If I knew the answer to that, believe me, darling, I’d be over at Ono sipping a Starfruit Manhattan, not folding sweaters in an overpriced boutique.”

I am silent.

“Now,” he continues, “that leaves you with two questions.”

Still silent.

“One, you should be asking me what a Starfruit Manhattan is, and why its my drink of choice at this particular juncture. And two, you should be asking me if there’s anyone I know on the buying end of this enterprise who could be of more assistance to you in your quest for next year’s zeitgeist.”

“Yes!” I practically shout. “Both of those. Please.”

He laughs. “You’re not from New York, are you?”

“Listen. If you hook me up with someone who can help me, I will buy you
ten
Starfruit Manhattans at the club of your choice.”

“No, thank you, darling. I have all the friends I need. But I will give you the name of one of our designers. And you’ll have to take it from there.”

Ten minutes later, I have a new pair of Versace socks (sixteen dollars), a black shopping bag that says
VERSACE
(free, but had to ask for larger bag, as to visibly showcase new purchase to passersby), and most important, a name: Jean-Louis Francouer, junior designer for next spring’s Versace line. (Priceless.)

•   •   •

This calls for some cocktails. I’ve paid my dues with a significant dent into the fashion/style arena, and I figure I can put that one aside for now and start investigating the club scene. Of course, it is only five thirty, and rumor has it the clubs don’t kick in until midnight. But there’s nothing like a good happy hour to get the party started.

“Take me to Le Cirque,” I tell the taxi driver. With the money I’m spending on cabs, I probably could’ve sprung for one of those cashmere sweaters. I really must learn to love that subway system. But tonight is celebration time, so the subway can wait.

I plunk myself down at the bar and smile at the bartender. “I’ll have a Starfruit Manhattan, please.”

He leans forward on his elbows and smiles back. “What’s that?”

“Forget it. I’ll have the trendiest drink on your menu.”

“Our trendiest drink?”

“That’s right. And your personal expert opinion on what makes it so trendy.”

“This some kind of survey?”

“Of sorts. So, think trendy.”

“Think trendy. Well, I suppose I could start you off with a Cirque de Soleil. I get a few requests for that from time to time.”

My brow darkens. “Sounds like a house drink.”

“Ah, but consider the house.”

Good point. A moment later he sets before me a tall, beautiful cocktail with a blue swirl twisting down the middle of the liquid and pink sugar circling the rim of the glass. “Nineteen-fifty.”

“That had better come with the expert opinion.”

“My expert opinion is that if it tastes good, you’ll probably order another. Maybe a third. And you might even tell your friends. Hence popularity, or trendiness, as you say.”

“That gets me nowhere.”

“Hey, girl. I just mix what I’m asked for.”

Hmph. Better take a look around.

Plenty of people downing swanky-looking drinks, and none of them really appear to want the survey girl interrupting their conversation. This job requires bravado. Which, of course, comes with another drink. Or two…

•   •   •

… Which eventually leads to the survey girl hanging on to the bar for dear life as the rest of the room swirls around her in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors.

It’s two hours later, and I am BOMBED. When did I become such a lightweight? Lunch might’ve helped. But it’s too late for lunch, so I order another drink and attempt to recall why I’m here in the first place. That’s right. Of course. To do my job. To approach hip-looking strangers and try to get some answers.

“Are you Victor Ragsdale?” I slur to the guy sitting next to me at the bar.

He looks at me like I’m insane. “No, sorry.”

“Oh, right. You’re not him.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I plunk a bill down on the bar. “Keep the change,” I tell the bartender.

He picks it up like a wet rag. “This is a ten.”

“Mmm-hmmmm. Well, then, here’s a twenty.”

I grab my drink and turn away.

“Hey, do you want your ten back?”

“Just keep ’em comin’, tough guy.”

God, it’s bad. Verbal evidence that I now believe I am Joe Pesci in
Goodfellas.
But back to business.

“Are you Victor Ragsdale?”

The guy on my other side checks out my rack. “No, but I could be if that’s what you’d like.”

“Shove off.” I think I might puke. Another swig of this sin-juice should temper the rumbling in my throat and stomach. That bartender was right: This stuff goes down like the nectar of the gods.

An arm butts into my personal space, some guy waving his gold card at the bartender. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Are you Victor Ragsdale?” I can barely push the words out.

“No.” I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. “But I am.”

I try to turn my head. My eyes swim, then focus on a visage that’s vaguely, gorgeously familiar.

“We meet again. Little Miss New Yorker. Lindsey Miller, I believe?” My heart stops. It’s him. It’s really, truly him.

And the next thing I remember, I’m waking up with a pounding headache, on a beautiful, soft, four-poster bed that most assuredly does not live in my apartment.

I
am sleeping in a strange bed. Bad sign. I don’t remember how I got here. Also a bad sign. I can see my purse on a chair next to the bed. That’s a good sign. I am wearing a pair of men’s flannel pajamas. Well, that one could go either way, but given the first two signs, I’d say it’s leaning more toward bad.

Sitting up is rough. I rub my head, trying to recall the events that landed me here, and a cloudy haze of random sounds and faces begins to seep back into my memory. Then I take a look around the room.

Wow, this bedroom is beautiful. Square and spacious, with shiny dark hardwood floors and lush, expensive furniture – it is a little masculine – but still about a thousand scores above my apartment. Outside the window I can see an amazing view of what must be Central Park. I walk around the room, running my hand over the richly painted walls, when something catches my eye. It is a black bathrobe slung over a French chair in the corner. The robe is monogrammed VR, and suddenly I remember. Victor Ragsdale!

I am at Victor Ragsdale’s apartment. Oh, my God. What did I say to him? How did I get here? What happened
when
I got here? And where is he?

I calm my nerves for a moment, then creep out the bedroom door, trying not to make any noise. Glancing around, I see the rest of the apartment is as roomy and stunning as the bedroom.

As I stand there gawking, Victor walks out of the kitchen with a big, steaming cup of coffee.

“I see you’re up.” He reaches the cup my way. “Well, then, this one is yours.”

He hands me the coffee and I make some kind of squeaking sound. I can’t even speak. Victor is such a ray of beauty, with his black hair and dark eyes, standing here in a gray-and-white tracksuit.

“I just went for a run. I figured you’d still be sleeping when I got back.” He looks at my (his) pajamas and smiles. “Hey, those look cute on you. If you need the bathroom, it’s right in there.” He points.

Yes, I need the bathroom. Along with a bottle of aspirin, a gallon of water, earplugs to dim the pounding inside my head, a long shower, my toothbrush, an outfit to put on that doesn’t scream “walk of shame,” and most of all, my cosmetic bag. I also feel the pressing need to know exactly what transpired before I woke up in these pajamas.

Which is all forgotten the second I see my face in the mirror. I gasp in horror. A hideous mess of yesterday’s makeup, I now resemble a large, acne-plagued raccoon, with a stamp of mascara circling both eyes and a patch of zits starting to sprout beneath my cakey, day-old foundation.

God, why couldn’t I have woken up when he was out? I wash my face and pinch my cheeks until they’re pink, hoping it’ll distract attention from the zits. I also take the liberty of using Victor’s toothbrush, which I dry on a towel so he won’t know. I have to go back out there, I know. I’ll just have to breeze right by him and get out fast.

But when I open the bathroom door, Victor is standing there, about to knock. “I thought you might want some breakfast. I make a mean salmon omelet.”