“Mr. Oliver tells me you’re one of his best students,” Claire said as the waiter walked away.
“He’s very kind to say that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t say it unless it were true. He thinks you’re going to be a superstar in your field. I wouldn’t be surprised either, because I think your designs are top-notch,” she said, and she wasn’t the warmest woman, but there was something admiring in her tone.
“Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.”
“You can call me Claire.”
“Claire.” It felt funny to call her by her first name. She was my professor’s wife, she was older and she was so perfectly high-fashion that I felt as if I should be deferential.
“Kat, the reason I wanted to have lunch with you is I have a proposition for you. Your designs have such great promise, and I absolutely see a tremendous market for them. But what you’re lacking is distribution. So I’d like to show them around to a few buyers I know, get a pulse on the market, and see if we can’t get you into more stores.”
There wasn’t a chance I’d say no to her or to anyone making such an offer. Still, I wanted to know who she was working for, or if she was a middleman for herself. “That would be amazing. May I ask which stores or which buyers?”
She waved a hand as if to say let’s not go there. “Don’t worry about that. My connections are good.”
I wanted to know more, but if she was taking a chance on me, I’d have to take a chance on her. We discussed more of the specifics, the cut she’d receive of sales, her plans for showing my line around, and her vision for how women around the country would be giving and getting these necklaces as gifts come holiday time. I mentally crossed my fingers because maybe, just maybe, this could help me help my parents.
“Now, you said I could see more of your designs.”
I opened my purse and took out my latest necklaces that showcased an array of charms.
She nodded and touched each one. “Some of your designs have a modern and sleek look. But others have a sort of European sensibility. Where do your inspirations come from?”
“Definitely from Paris. I lived there for a year.”
“Ah, the most wonderful city in the world,” she said to me in French.
“There is nothing better,” I replied in the same language, and we talked more about our favorite places in Paris. I told her I adored the shopping in the Marais, and that my heart would always be in Montmartre with its curvy, cobblestoned streets, but that the best deals were to be found at the open-air markets. “The jewelry there, the charms and trinkets, and the things you never thought could be charms, like tiny little keys, are a total steal.”
“You are a woman after my own heart. I love shopping at the open-air markets with the fruit and flower vendors and vintage jewelry sellers as much as I love the Champs-Élysées.”
Then, she excused herself for the ladies room. As I waited for her return, I noticed a sharply dressed man enter the restaurant and walk towards a woman with wavy auburn hair. She lifted her face to him. He leaned down and kissed her, a long slow hold. I started writing their backstory. This red-haired beauty and this well-dressed man must be newly in love with just a handful of dizzying dates behind them, I surmised, as he kissed her one more time. Or maybe they were each other’s first love back when they were younger. Maybe they met when she was fresh out of high school and he was a newly minted business grad. Maybe they fell in mad love five years ago, and never fell out. Maybe they were still crazy about each other to this day, and kissed every time as if it were the first time.
Ha. The whole scenario sounded implausible. Besides, those kind of kisses only happened in the movies.
Chapter Seven
Bryan’s sleek black car with tinted windows was parked outside my building at nine on the dot the next morning. Even more impressive than the punctuality was the consideration — the car wasn’t idling. The engine was off. Most drivers left the cars running while picking someone up, and, frankly, I couldn’t stand that. I’d have to compliment his driver.
Then Bryan stepped out of the car, wearing dark jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a tie with cartoonish giraffes on them.
“Oh.”
“Did the giraffes surprise you?”
“No. I just thought you were sending a car. I didn’t know you’d be in the car.”
“Since I need to go to Philly too, I figured I could bum a ride with you. That okay?” he asked playfully.
“Of course.”
He held the door open, and I slid into the car. I smoothed out the soft folds on my green skirt as the driver turned on the engine and we pulled away.
“Glad to see you weren’t idling,” I said in an effort to be civil.
“If I were president, I’d sign a bill forbidding idling at the curb.”
I smiled despite myself. “Especially for people checking their phones.”
“Oh, well, idling and checking your phone would get you a jail term under my regime.”
“You run a tight dictatorship.” I kept up the volley because I could do better than mere civility. I intended to be so cool, casual and goddamn witty that words would become my shield to protect me from any stupid leftover feelings for him. Vestigial feelings, of course.
“Know what else I’d ban if I were president?”
“Cauliflower?”
He laughed. Damn, I was on fire.
“Actually, I was going to say those asparagus that have stalks the size of baseball bats. So you were kind of close. But I’d also abolish the word moist.”