Diane Vallere - Style & Error 00.5 - Just Kidding (2 page)

“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” Nick asked unexpectedly. “Or can I treat you, since you’re in New York for market?”

“I live in New York. Don’t you?” I answered while packing spreadsheets, highlighter, pencil, and camera back into my oversized fuchsia leather handbag. 

“No, I live in Pennsylvania. I drove in this morning.”

“I grew up in Pennsylvania,” I said.

“What part?”

“Ribbon. How about you?”

“I know Ribbon well,” he said, not answering my question. “So, since you’re the hot shot New Yorker, maybe you should offer to take me to dinner tonight.”

“But I’m the buyer,”  I said without thinking. Not thinking before speaking is a character flaw, if you must know. I rank it behind defensiveness and in front of paranoia, and not just because that’s the alphabetical order.

“Are you saying that my taking you to dinner could influence the size of the order you write for my collection?” Nick asked. His white teeth flashed a smile.

“No. Absolutely not. Besides, I already have plans,” I answered.
With my cat,
I added internally. The last thing I wanted was for word to get out that my buying decisions had anything to do with dinner, free shoes, or root-beer colored eyes that crinkled in the corners. I was determined to be one of the best buyers at Bentley’s, and I knew it took a taste level, a willingness to take risks, and a solid understanding of profitability. I had a reputation for being driven, company-loyal, and a team player. Getting along with my vendors would help, but there was a line not to be crossed.

“That’s too bad for me, I think.” 

“Maybe next time,” I said. And judging from the way everyone else was dressed, the warm feeling inside wasn’t because they’d turned up the heat.

I finished my second to last appointment in half an hour, putting me only twenty-minutes late. If I caught a cab instead of walking like I’d originally planned, I could almost get to my last appointment on time. Only it was not quite five o’clock, which meant it was taxi shift change. Four checkered cabs drove past me, three yelling in an assortment of languages I didn’t speak. Unfortunately I understood the fourth. I started to walk in the direction of 52
^nd
street, occasionally turning around to see if the taxi scenario had improved. Finally, I flagged one after walking a block and a half. It almost wasn’t worth it.

“Fifty-second between Broadway and Eighth,” I said.

“That’s a cheap fare,” he said back to me, not starting the meter, not pulling away from the curb.

“Listen. I’m late for an appointment and the only way I can be close to getting there on time is if you drive me,” I said.

“It’s not worth my while. I’d hafta go around the block, double back, miss the rest of the people getting off work and going out of the city.”

“How much is it going to take to get you to start your meter and drive?” I finally asked, assessing the few bills in my wallet. He named his price. “Fine. Just go.”  He pulled away with a lead foot, body-slamming me into the torn blue vinyl backseat.

When we reached my destination, I handed him a twenty. “Give me five back,” I said, annoyed that I was paying fifteen dollars for a trip that should have cost me four. Not surprisingly, he claimed not to have change.

I slammed the door. Hard. He pulled away and the spinning wheels sent black water onto my shoes and ankles. I trudged through the showroom door and signed the guest book. The man behind the desk spun the book around and directed me to the tenth floor.

I bypassed three people standing by the elevator wells and jabbed the up button. I would have taken the stairs, but ten floors?  Not gonna happen. We piled into the elevator and stopped on floors three, four, and seven. By the time the doors opened on ten, I shot out of there like a canon.

“Hi, I’m Samantha Kidd from Bentley’s. I’m here to see Miss Holly?”

“Miss Holly isn’t here anymore. She had to leave.”

“But I have an appointment at five,” I said.

“Yes, you did. But it’s five seventeen.”

“No it’s not.” I pulled my cell phone out of my handbag and checked the display. Damn it. “It’s five
fifteen
. That’s only fifteen minutes,” I said.

“She’ll be back if you care to wait, but she was going to SoHo so it will be awhile.” 

“I’m surprised she didn’t try to call me.”

“She tried to call your office but your assistant didn’t answer.”  She pulled her shoulders up and dropped them in a
what’s a girl to do?
manner. “If you don’t want to wait, we can reschedule you for tomorrow morning, but it will have to be early. Eight o’clock?”

I didn’t bother telling her that, outside of trudging the streets of New York for my coffee, I was so not a morning person. Because, honestly, it was my own darn fault.

No it wasn’t. It was Nick Taylor’s fault.

I’d been on time, on schedule the whole day. It wasn’t until I’d gotten to his showroom that I’d fallen behind. And he knew that I had appointments to keep. He knew that … or did he?  I hadn’t told him that I’d only scheduled an hour and a half with him. I hadn’t even asked if I could make a couple of phone calls to tell my other two appointments that I was running late. The consummate professional?  Yeah right. I had no one to blame but myself.

“Fine, eight o’clock. I’ll be here. You’ll have coffee, right?”

The good news: my day finished early. Early enough that I could swing by the dry cleaners and get the clothes I’d dropped off on Monday. The bad news: I’d spent my last twenty on the cab fare that took me to 52
^nd
so I was going to have to schlep my clothes on the subway. It was eight blocks to the dry cleaners. I had enough time that I could get there before they closed, if at least two of the lights went in my favor and the dry cleaner didn’t close seven minutes early like they did the last time I tried to get an outfit out of hock. I powered through the intersection. A left-turning cab driver shouted something at me and I replied with a couple of gestures I’d rather my mom didn’t see. My heel caught in a grate and I fell into a brownish-black puddle that smelled like Pepsi. My black and white houndstooth skirt turned an unfortunate shade of disgusting.

Sadly, I had a bigger problem than the stain. The heel of my shoe had snapped off and rolled down the grate. I hopped toward the closest building, a walk-up apartment with a faded yellow and white awning, and leaned against the side of the staircase while inspecting the damage suffered by my shoe. A couple of small nails jutted out from underneath. Otherwise, it was heelless. And with one three-inch heel on my left foot and one negative heel on my right foot, I was going to have a hard time walking the remaining five blocks. But, despite the obvious situation south of my ankles, I started the trek, because I wasn’t about to walk the streets of New York in bare feet.

“You should have taken the shoes,” said a familiar voice from a passing white van.

I stopped by a fire hydrant and turned to Nick, who leaned out the open driver’s side window.

“The offer still stands,” he added.

I tiptoed to the van and looked inside the window. “You’re driving around Manhattan with a pair of shoes in my size?”

“I’ve been told if I find the woman who fits them I can stop looking.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

“You’ve heard that before? My reputation precedes me.”

Not only did his reputation not precede him but I couldn’t believe no one had mentioned the sexy, flirtations designer that was my two o’clock. Before I could think of something snappy to say, a tourist bus pulled up behind him and honked twice. I stepped back from the van so he could drive away.

“Samantha, wait. You’re in the middle of the street, wearing one and a half shoes. You know what that tells me?”

“That I’m pathetic?” I answered, relieved he hadn’t commented on the stain on my suit.

“That your plans for the night have changed. Hop in. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

The tourist bus honked again. I scampered to the passenger side of the van and sat down inside. There wasn’t any real danger, right?  I mean, the man was a shoe designer. Shoe designers don’t go all serial killer, I think.

“You look nervous,” Nick said, picking up on the obvious. I hated that I was so readable.
Mental note: practice poker face.

“I’m not used to getting into cars with strange men in the middle of New York City.”

“So if we were alone at, say, shoe market in Vegas, that would be okay?”

If I were alone with him in Vegas I might make a very spontaneous and probably bad decision, but I wasn’t one to let my personal life get in the way of my career, so I said nothing.

“Before we go out to dinner I’ve got to make a stop at the showroom,” he said after pulling away from the curb. 

We were eight blocks from the showroom, I knew only because I’d just walked them to get to the dry cleaner. I let him concentrate on not getting us smashed between the army of angry taxicabs and before I knew it, we were double-parked in front of the same address where I’d walked that morning.

“Do you mind waiting here?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Fine.”

When he returned from the showroom (in about a minute, proving his word was good) he had a white shoebox tucked under his arm. He hopped back into the truck and handed them to me. “I have a rep to protect. I can’t be seen with a woman in one and a half shoes.”

“I can’t accept them,” I said, just like I had that morning.

“Consider it a loan.”

“Fine.”  I traded my one and a half shoes for the black sandals with the white flower detail. Like that morning and in the showroom, my pink toenails showed the sandals off to perfection.

When we arrived at the restaurant, an intimate Italian grotto that sat below street level, I excused myself so I could address the stain on my skirt. I scrubbed at it with a wad of paper towels, succeeding only in getting more of the fabric wet. I gave up and dried my hands, then applied a fresh coat of lip-gloss. My hands shook. What was I doing? Getting involved with a vendor was not a good idea. I didn’t care how many times his dimples made an appearance. I was a professional and I would act as such.

When I emerged from the restroom, my boss, Marcia, stood talking with Nick. Short of ducking back into the restroom, there was no place to hide, so I approached the two of them like wearing wet clothes out to dinner with one of my vendors was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hello Samantha,” Marcia said. Her eyes lingered on my skirt for the briefest of seconds before she looked down at my feet. “New shoes?” she asked.

“I broke my heel. Nick was generous enough to loan me a sample if I promised not to step in any puddles.”

“I don’t think puddles are the only thing you have to worry about.”

I smiled and tipped my head in understanding. Now that Marcia had seen us here together, I would have to go out of my way to ensure that nothing I did looked suspicious. If all went well this upcoming season, I was in the running for a promotion to Senior Buyer. That title would impress mom and dad and look awfully good on my business cards. I wasn’t about to risk it for a pair of shoes or a pair of root beer-barrel colored eyes. I didn’t care how many times they crinkled in the corners, either.

Nick ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and I ordered the second least expensive entrée on the menu. He preordered two chocolate soufflés, a presumptuous decision that I might have pointed out had we been on a date, but this was not a date and I didn’t want to risk the chocolate that would arrive at our table in twenty minutes.

Somewhere between the entrée and the first three quarters of the bottle of wine, Nick leaned back in his chair. “Marcia should have warned me about you,” he said.

“Likewise,” I said. It was the most conversation I could manage with a mouth full of chocolate.

“Me? I’m harmless.” He raised his eyebrows, then flashed a smile. “But you? I wish I’d met you before you took this job.”

I managed a rather large swallow of soufflé. “Why’s that?” I asked. My voice cracked.

He reached across the table and wiped a blob of chocolate off my lower lip. My heart pounded like a judge trying to maintain order in a courtroom.

“I have really awesome sample sales twice a year,” he said when he pulled his napkin away. “You would have loved them.”

After dinner I told Nick I’d take the subway back to my apartment. He wouldn’t hear of it, and ultimately, it was easier to say yes to his offer of a ride home than to argue. When he pulled up in front of my building, the evening turned date-night awkward. I slipped off his shoes and set them on the seat between us. “It’s time for me to turn back into a pumpkin. Thanks for the loan.” 

I leaned over for a goodbye air kiss–standard behavior in our industry–but he leaned in and my lips connected with his soft cheek. I pulled away, embarrassed, got out of the car and ran to my building on tiptoes. When I unlocked the door, Logan stared at me from the inside.

“Don’t judge me,” I said to my cat.

One week later a rectangular UPS package was delivered to my office. Samples for our spring advertising shoot had been trickling in since I’d returned from market. I sliced through the shiny taupe packing tape and pulled out a white shoebox with the name
Nick Taylor
embossed on the lid. I hadn’t asked Nick for a sample yet, but I knew what was inside. I opened the lid and lifted a small envelope from on top of the creamy white tissue paper. Inside were the shoes I’d worn on our Not-A-Date.

Dear Samantha,  Turns out they don’t fit anyone but you. –NT

I took the note home and tucked it in my underwear drawer. Two weeks later, I turned the sample over to advertising. A month after that I approved the proof for the spring catalog. I had the image blown up to poster size and hung it in my apartment. It was a reminder of my career path and the decisions I made to be successful.

It was also a reminder that this was the hardest job I’d ever had.