Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5)

Shopaholic & Baby (Shopaholic #5) Page 31

This idea has been brewing in my mind for a while now. I even tried talking to Brianna, the chief buyer, about it last week. But she just nodded and asked if I could bring her the Dolce diamante dress in a size 2 because she was going to a premiere that night and the red Versace was too tight around the butt, and what did I think?

God knows how Brianna got her job. Well, actually, everybody knows. It’s because she’s Giorgio Laszlo’s wife and used to be a model. In the press release when The Look opened it said this would qualify her perfectly to be chief buyer, as she has the “knowledge and savvy of a fashion insider.”

It didn’t add “unfortunately she has not one brain cell.”

“Diffusion…designer…” The first consultant is scribbling in his little book. “We should speak to Brianna about that. She’ll have the right connections.”

“I believe she’s on holiday at the moment,” says Eric. “With Mr. Laszlo.”

“Well, when she gets back. We’ll progress that idea.” The consultant snaps the book shut. “Let’s move on.”

They all stride off again, and I wait till they’ve rounded the corner before giving a harrumph of frustration.

“What’s up?” says Jasmine, who has slumped back down on the sofa and is texting something on her phone.

“They’ll never get anything off the ground! Brianna won’t be back for weeks, and anyway, she’s hopeless. They’ll just have meetings and talk…and meanwhile the shop will go bust.”

“What do you care?” Jasmine gives an indifferent shrug.

How can she just watch a business collapse and not try to do something?

“I care because…because this is where I work! It could be a success!”

“Get real, Becky. No designer’s ever going to want to do an exclusive range here.”

“Brianna could call in some favors,” I protest. “I mean, she’s modeled for Calvin Klein, Versace…Tom Ford…. She could persuade one of them, surely? God, if I had a famous designer friend—” I stop, midflow.

Hang on. Why didn’t I think of this before?

“What?” Jasmine looks up.

“I do know a designer,” I say. “I know Danny Kovitz! We could get him to do something.”

“You know Danny Kovitz?” Jasmine looks skeptical. “Or, like, you’ve bumped into him once?”

“I really know him! He used to live above me in New York. He designed my wedding dress,” I can’t help adding smugly.

It’s so cool, having a famous friend. I knew Danny when he was a nobody. In fact I helped get him his first break. And now he’s this international fashion darling! He’s been in Vogue and had his dresses worn to the Oscars and everything. He was interviewed in Women’s Wear Daily last month about his last collection, which he said was based on his interpretation of the decay of civilization.

I don’t believe a word of it. It’ll have been something he threw together at the last minute with lots of safety pins and black coffee and someone else sewed up for him.

But still. An exclusive Danny Kovitz line would be fabulous publicity. I should have thought of this before.

“If you really know Danny Kovitz, ring him up,” says Jasmine challengingly. “Right now.”

She doesn’t believe me?

“Fine, I will!” I whip out my phone, find the number for Danny’s mobile, and dial it.

The truth is, I haven’t spoken to Danny for quite a long while. But still, we went through a lot together while I was living in New York, and we’ll always have that bond. I wait for a while, but there’s no reply, just a bleeping sound. He probably lost his phone and canceled it or something.

“Problem?” Jasmine raises one immaculate eyebrow.

“His cell phone isn’t working,” I say coolly. “I’ll call his office.” I dial international directories, get a New York number for Danny Kovitz Enterprises, and dial. It’s nine thirty A.M. in New York, which means there’s not much chance of Danny being up, unless he’s had an all-nighter. But I can leave a message.

A male voice answers. “Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”

“Oh, hi there!” I say. “It’s Becky Brandon here, née Bloomwood. I’d like to speak to Danny Kovitz.”

“Please hold the line,” the voice says politely. Some kind of rap blasts my eardrum for a few moments, then a bright female voice comes on the line.

“Welcome to the Danny Kovitz fan club! For full membership information, please press one—”