“Where we going?” the cabbie asked.
She touched Jeremy’s keys in her pocket. “North Fourth and Bedford.”
“Williamsburg?” the cabbie asked. “Brooklyn?”
“Please.”
**
The cat was away.
But that didn’t mean Laura intended to run around with any man on earth besides Jeremy. Nor did it mean there were flirtations or drunken debaucheries on her horizon. It did mean her nights were free, and she intended to enjoy them as much as possible before the other enjoyments returned in ten days.
Stu had stopped bike messengering completely so he could work as a full-time journalist. He seemed to have a heightened awareness of Laura’s temporary freedom. Their brief attempt at dating, which had been curtailed by Laura’s work schedule and his move to an heiress named Tofu, had left them with unresolved feelings that she was willing to let go of in light of the fact that she had Jeremy.
So on Jeremy’s first night away, while he was on a plane, Laura sat with Stu at Binge, the most austere bar in Williamsburg with three things on the menu and little in the way of visual stimuli besides soft, ever-changing lighting. “Sheldon Pomerantz denied everything,” he said. “Right up until the subpoena. And the state won’t disbar him. His clients are rallying around him. By the way, your buddy Barry Tilden still has him on retainer.”
After Laura, AKA “the Mouth,” had described Barry Tilden’s problem with a certain drunk model the day she and Sheldon had met, Sheldon decided he could help Barry with lots of things. Barry had retained him before André, Gracie’s killer, had even been arraigned.
Unfortunately for Barry, Stu had released his New Yorker article about Laura’s investigation into Gracie’s murder, and he had changed the subject of the piece. The story was less about the murder and more about Sheldon and Gracie’s shady dealings with officials in the Apparel Workers Union. Jeremy had been relieved that the thing took more of a criminal turn and less of a lascivious one, which would have focused on Jeremy’s nine-year affair with Gracie.
“Well, of course, he denies it,” Laura said, finishing her first gin-and-something. “What did you think he was going to do? Wave his hands around and say, ‘Hundreds of manufacturing jobs are gone because of me! Whee!’ I mean, you’re almost naïve.”
“Honesty. It’s all I want.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Ruby told me about your father’s letters. Lala. Cute.”
She sneered. “Cute, my ass. The more I’m finding out about him, the more pissed off I get. Like how he left Mom. They were friends, and he just flipped off. Like, even if she’s just some friend you’ve lived with for years and made babies with, you don’t just take off with your new lover.” She stopped the bartender, a young girl in low-slung jeans and a crop-top. She was all flat stomach and dangerous curves. “Gin,” Laura said. “Just gin. Ice. Lime.”
Dangerous Curves nodded, glancing at Stu.
“Me, too,” he said. The look they shared was meaningful, loaded with sex and promise.
“Should I leave?” Laura asked when Dangerous Curves was out of earshot.
Stu had become quite a player in the previous months. Ruby attributed it to Laura’s unavailability. Laura attributed it to the loss of Tofu. Stu attributed it to a new realization of life’s possibilities.
“No way,” Stu said. “You’re an asset right now.”
“I enjoy watching you work.”
“Tell me when you’re ready to get on the receiving end.”
“Will do.” She let that hang for a second because she had no intention of leaving Jeremy for Stu or anyone else, ever.
Stu was the one who broke the silence. “I wanted to tell you, I’m doing the Thomasina Wente thing.”
“Oh, God! Not more interviews.” She laughed, the gin getting the better of her.
“You can refuse.”
She banged her head on the bar in mock anguish. “How can I refuse? What if you get it wrong because I wouldn’t talk?”
“Never happen.” He smiled at her.
The light changed his hair to a redder, warmer color, reminding Laura of something. “My dad split with a guy who kinda looked like you. Skinny, but with redder hair.”
“Was he from deep in the Midwest?”
“Brunico.”
“You’re joking. No one’s from Brunico but Princess Philomena and Samuel Inweigh.”
“Samuel what?”
“Inweigh. The singer?” Stu rotated his hand at the wrist, waiting for Laura to catch up, but she couldn’t because she’d never heard of the guy. “Laura, really?”
“That’s him, though. Same name.” Laura leaned forward, putting her hand on his knee. The gin was really going to her head.
“Is it my story?” Stu asked.
“Tell me everything.” Laura giggled, but at that point, she would have giggled at anything.
Stu scribbled his number on a piece of paper and left it on the bar with a tip. They walked a block to a coffee shop, where he plied her with caffeine and cookies, if not to sobriety, then to enough of an attention span that not everything fell through the sieve. She was two cups in before she realized he was taking notes on her talk with Bernard Nestor and needed her to be sober enough so that he could claim accuracy later.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re callous?” she asked.
“I am a ruthless crusader for truth. It’s true. So your mother thinks it’s fake and the real one is where?”
“We were talking about Samuel Inweigh,” Laura said, awake enough to have her guard up. “Folk singer. Him and a guitar. When did you say he broke?”
“He never really broke,” Stu said. “He cut one album twenty years ago. He recorded it in Delancy Street. Huge underground hit. But then, nothing. He fell off the map.”
“He fell onto a tiny island off Argentina with my father.”
“That’s no reason to stop making music. I mean, come on. It’s Brunico. Sodom of the Atlantic. Island of iniquity. Making music and having sex are practically requirements.”
“It’s no reason to leave your daughters in penury, either.” She pushed her cookie away. “Can you get me the album he made?”
“There are like seventy copies in existence. What do I look like?”
“A ruthless crusader for truth. Because here’s what I’m telling you, that fake freaking dress and my father and Samuel Inweigh...” She locked her fingers together. “Related. All of it, as God is my witness.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
“You getting me that album or not? Because I’m still in contact with Roscoe Knutt.”
“My story?”
“All yours.”
They shook on it.
CHAPTER 6
She slept at 24th Street, more out of curiosity than anything. For one, would it be weird? Answer: yes, because he wasn’t there, and that made her keenly aware of the drawers and closets that weren’t hers and were ethically off limits. But being around his things was also comforting in its own way. Would she miss Jeremy more? Answer: no. She felt no discernible increase in overall crushing longing for the sound, smell, or touch of him. Was it an easier trip to work? Answer: an unqualified and previously quantified yes.
The loft did nothing for her hangover, however. The pounding behind her eyes was only quelled by a glass of water, two buffered analgesics, and a hot shower. She got to work and knew the feces was hitting the fan before she even got to her desk.
Renee handed her a list of absentees for the day. The names comprised a third of the office.
Then Heidi approached her in the halls. “This is held at customs,” she said, holding up the sample of the Karen blouse.
As soon as Laura saw the inside of the neck, she knew why. The country of origin went there and nowhere else, or it would get stopped at customs. “What’s on the bill of materials?”
Heidi reddened. The bill of materials defined the price, placement, and color of every fabric, t
hread, trim, label, pin, carton, and polybag. If one thing was wrong, like the placement of the label that read, “Made in China,” it was someone’s head on the block.
“I’m sorry,” Heidi said.
“Damn it,” Laura said. “Doesn’t New Sunny already know where to put this crap?”
Laura was intercepted by Wendy on the way to the office. Wendy had been brought in by Yoni to do production during her maternity leave, but she was proving to be a dead weight with hot-rollered hair and the stink of lemon furniture polish.
“The Karen blouse,” Wendy said. “I can get labels sewn in at the warehouse. Fifty cents each. But we have no labels that say ‘Made in China’ anywhere in our US storage. China can send up labels, but in the time that takes, we’ll miss our delivery window and the distro center won’t have the capacity to sew them in.”
Laura put her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes. The hangover leaked though her pores with the scent of fermented juniper berries.
With a gossipy tone, Wendy said, “This is what happens when you hire whores someone found in a basement.”
“Totally uncalled for.”
Wendy shrugged. She was overly confident for a maternity leave temp, and that concerned Laura a great deal. Wendy had either identified a crack somewhere or intended to wedge one open herself.
“How many pieces?” Laura asked. She knew the approximate number, but needed confirmation.
Wendy checked a spreadsheet. “Seven-fifty.” She leaned on one leg as if she had no intention of adding to the conversation or helping with the problem.
Seven hundred fifty labels was a tiny number for a Tollridge & Cherry or Wal-Mart, but it was huge for Jeremy, and the Karen blouse was a top-drawer buy. Decent-looking woven labels would take two weeks or more. Printed labels would take twenty-four hours and look like hell.
“Email me the shipping address, and I’ll have labels sent.”
“How?”
Laura didn’t feel the need to explain herself, mainly because she wasn’t quite sure yet. “Is there anything else?”
“Someone went into the system and changed the care instructions on the Tammy trousers to ‘hand wash.’ But they’re silk, so I put it back to ‘dry clean only.’”
Laura had never wanted to choke anyone as badly as she wanted to choke Wendy right then. She mentally counted the months to Yoni’s return. “I changed it. The Tammy trousers have acrylic beads at the pocket, which dry cleaning chemicals melt. So get back to your desk, and make sure the instructions say ‘hand wash.’ Thank you. Don’t forget to email me the drop ship for the labels.”
Wendy backed out of the room. As soon as the girl turned the corner, Laura picked up the phone and dialed Barry.
“Darling, he left you there all by yourself?”
Laura smiled. “Barry, I need you to save my ass.”
“You’ll owe me.”
“Of course. I need seven hundred fifty woven country-of-origin labels. China. White on black, if you have it.” Laura talked while tapping through twenty-three emergencies in her email box.
“Is that it?” Barry asked.
“Yes.”
“I was told to take you out at least one night this week. You can make it up to me tonight.”
“Thank you, Barry. Really. You saved us.”
“I’ll put you through to Tima. She’ll get you the labels. And I’ll see you at ten or so. Have your wallet ready.”
She hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.
Tracy stuck her head in. “You’re here?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an email? From Kitty at New Sunny? She needs an answer right away, and we got boxes of zippers here instead of 40th Street? And there are these.” Tracy handed her a stack of thick envelopes.
Approvals. Her calendar for the day was full and not getting any easier. She took in a deep breath. When she exhaled, it was eight o’clock. She had no idea what had happened.
No, everything had happened, but nothing had changed.
**
Dean brushed his hair back with his fingers. His blond highlights went to the roots because they were earned with hours in the Laguna Beach sun. In the winter, he lived in Southern California and taught mentally disabled children how to surf. The first time Laura had met Barry’s boyfriend, she’d heard stories of the autistic children no one could handle, waiting patiently for hours for that one wave, or the severe ADHD cases brought to normal concentration levels when on a board.
That day, however, Dean was feeling catty. Laura hunched with him in the back of the booth, both of them tittering. The drag queen on the stage was a mess, and intentionally so—lipstick askew, dress half off, singing about how her man did her wrong with a roar in her voice. But the show wasn’t the reason for the tittering. It was Barry, who leaned against the bar in his uniform chinos and white polo shirt, with hair perfectly disheveled as he smiled constantly. He was like Jeremy’s absolute non-bossy, non-scary counterpart, and he attracted men like flies.
“Look at that one,” Dean whispered, referring to the man trying to make time with Barry. “Dude has a gnarly weave.”
“I think that’s really his hair.”
“Go give it a stroke.”
“No! You.”
“Only a woman would want that.”
She elbowed him, and he laughed. When the drag queen finished the act, Laura clapped to bring down the house. She was tired of being stressed out and anxious. She was tired of worrying about her family, her boyfriend, and her business. She wanted to be exactly where she was: out and having fun.
Barry came back with drinks, and though she was dedicated to staying sober enough to avoid a hangover, she was at the gin again.
“Were you there when they delivered the saffron gown?” Laura asked.
Barry had attended the setup. He had been late because he had to run home and change.
“Came on an armored truck. No. The T&C blue sperm dress came on an armored truck. Right. The saffron gown came in a white truck like you see all the time.” Barry waved dismissively and clinked the change in his pocket. He had a reputation as a frenetic designer, a capricious employer, and a fun date.
“On the form?” she asked.
Dean splayed himself out on the cushioned bench, palms up, tongue lolling. “I am so bored already.”
“Who pays attention?” Barry answered, kicking Dean’s leg affectionately.
“What do you think of that gown?” Laura asked. “Real or fake?”
“Looks fine to me.”
“Fine?” It still felt weird to question Barry. He’d been her senior thesis mentor at Parson’s, and she had a core of deference she couldn’t shake.
“Dean, honey,” Barry said, “switch with me.”
Dean rolled his eyes and got up. Barry plopped on the cushions next to her in such a relaxed position she thought he might fall asleep. Dean pecked Barry on the lips then moved to the bar and Weave Guy’s attentions.
“He is so stinkin’ hot, isn’t he?” Barry asked as he watched Dean walk away.
“Not my type.”
“Yes,” Barry said. “Let’s talk about that. Your type. I’ve been meaning to bring this up.” He looked at her as if checking her reaction. “What do you call it when you have two of the same thing? And one is unnecessary?”
“Redundancy?”
“Yes. You and Jeremy are redundant. In a work sense. Your skills are the same. Something comes up, you can do it, or he can. Doesn’t matter. But there are too many things neither of you can do.”
“Like what?”
“Now don’t get your knickers in a twist, darling. But you know neither one of you has a strong commercial sense. You throw a lot of shit on the wall and see what sticks. But neither of you is balls-out saleable. You did the same thing at Parson’s. You’re a genius at making a garment and pulling an imaginative stunt. I’m sorry, honey. Sartorial’s cute, but it’s never going to get you that penthouse on 5th. And Jeremy’s stuff is just
getting old already.” He must have seen Laura’s forehead tighten. “Don’t look at me like that. I told him to his face. He’s growing too fast, losing control of his aesthetic.” He sat up straight and moved closer, as if what he was getting at required more intimacy. “But that’s neither here nor there. See, you’re just going to dry up over there. You’re coming to the end of what he can teach you. You’re a pure New York garmento. The two of you. Like two garmento peas in a schmatta pod. You know domestic production, which is dying, in case you haven’t noticed. You can’t grow. You’ll never be as useful as you could be if you worked with someone like me.”
“Ah! He comes to the point. You might be taking this joke a little too far, Barry.”
“No. Not joking.”
“How do you think Jeremy would feel if he knew we were having this conversation?”
“It’s business, dear. Your man is nothing if not all business. So…” He took his phone from his pocket and typed some numbers. “I have this in mind. You get my design team to think like they actually have to make a product instead of draw a pretty picture. You travel with me, and you teach my Asia and Eastern Europe factories how to set up a freaking sewing line. You show them how to package patterns and do whatever it is you people do. You’re a design-slash-production-slash-technical VP. You’re under contract. Two years, and it can go more if we have more to do, and we will. This is per year.”
He showed her the number on his phone, but she didn’t look at it. She only looked into those intense blue eyes as the lights dimmed and another performer came out.
“I make more money than I need,” she said.
“You can need so much more.”
She looked at the number and was suddenly very, very sober.
**
Laura stared at the ceiling in Jeremy’s bedroom. She could call Jeremy, but he was in the middle of his day, and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t be a bother. They had a conference call set up for the next evening. She’d emailed what needed emailing, and it was all business. She sent him a short note about the specific brown of his eyes but didn’t expect an answer until the morning.
A Dress to Die For Page 7
