in another language, and the guy talking was stompin’ mad.
“Do you know what language this is?” She held it up for Corky. It sounded like wecken ick eeber eer.
“Not Spanish,” Corky said.
“I think it’s German. This has to be Thomasina’s.”
She tossed the phone back inside and stuffed the bag in an overfull drawer. “I’ll call the cops and have them come and get it. Just leave it out here. I have a nightmare dinner at Isosceles in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, chic. Can I come?”
“It’s with Bob Schmiller and his wife.”
“Have a great time,” he said, handing her a box of rented shoes.
Isosceles took up half the first floor of the Flatiron Building and, seen from above, was shaped like its name. It was so dark that the staff left little lights by your fork so you could read the menu. Pierre had gotten a seat by the ice fireplace, a pit of broken glass with blazing gas jets underneath that looked like the Arctic Circle on fire. Laura thought it was absurdly on-the-nose and decorator-y, as though designed to be designed, instead of placed where necessary as part of an organic whole. It was cool so that people would say “cool,” not because it was necessary. But that was the problem with half the designs she had seen since opening SartSand. Her mind started pulling things apart only seconds after her eyes saw them, and the constant critique in her head got on her nerves and impinged on her enjoyment of details like a stupid pit of flaming tempered glass.
Also, her mood was soured by the whole Ruby/Pierre/Bob/Ivanah debacle that was about to occur and the raised eyebrow Pierre gave her as he stood to say hello.
“Ruby’s not coming,” she said.
Bob Schmiller, who looked more like a linebacker than an angel backer, stood up when Laura approached. He’d been a heartthrob receiver for USC, then a heartthrob rookie receiver for the New York Giants, then a player with a busted collarbone, then a bootstraps tale of a master’s degree in finance and a way of sniffing out the right stock market bets. Laura figured the collarbone was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Ivanah didn’t stand. She patted her yellow hair, which stood high on her head with painted enamel clips and combs, and smiled at Laura in such a stiff, perfunctory way it came off as a snarl.
Bob leaned over, the bulk of his upper body the result of too many hours in the gym, maintaining the football player build. He smiled like the charming guy he was and poured her some wine.
Pierre sat and placed his napkin on his lap. “So, did Laura tell you that they’ve been writing orders all day? Barneys co-op spent how long in your office?”
“About two hours.” She didn’t mention that most of it was spent stabbing Ruby in the back, and no orders had been written that day. Not one pair of pants. Not one jacket. Not even one of the scarves they cut out of extra fabric ends left on the marker. That wasn’t how the business worked. The way it worked was you broke your brain telling someone about the clothes and talking about production lead times, and then you sat around for a month while they sorted their money. Because buyers were given a certain amount of play money to assort their floors, and they wanted to see everything before they gave you a dime. The best Corky was going to be able to do by Monday, after all the shows were done, was to get promises. Those were the projections Yoni was waiting for, and apparently, Sevion thought Bob didn’t know that.
He was wrong. Bob smiled at Sevion and turned right back to Laura. “Let’s stop with the bullshit.” She was initially very relieved to hear that because it was what she wanted to say from the beginning. “You’re asking for more money. But I bought this company for my wife, and she’s not happy. And if she’s not happy, I’m not happy.” He put his arm around his wife. Ivanah tried to look coy, but came off looking predatory.
Sevion shifted in his seat, and