This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2017-08-22

Contents

Cover

ONE

Six-thirty on a balmy evening in early September. New York Fashion Week had just gotten off to a good start. It was now my moment. This was my big night, the presentation of this season’s Desire handbag collection. In just four years, I had been lucky enough to steadily grow the business thanks to a core group of women. My first clients had been a mix of boutique store owners, women who were climbing the heights of the corporate world and lots of ladies who lunch. Bless their loyal hearts. They kept buying my handbags and spreading the word to others. Last year I had made enough profit to pay back a sizeable chunk of the bank loan. Now I wanted to celebrate and thank the group by showing off this year’s line with a cocktail party in my East Village loft that was home, office and showroom.

The launch of every new season is an important night. It’s a make or break moment. I wasn’t anywhere near the big handbag guns – Fendi, Hermès, Prada – but I was holding my own. Smart, efficient Leila, the best assistant anyone could ever have, had convinced Aileen Gerber, a reporter from Women’s Wear Daily, to show up. Maybe one day I’d get Vogue, the premier fashion magazine, to take a look, and the trendmaker stores Bergdorf Goodman and Barneys to place an order. One day soon. If my luck continued to hold out.

I was nervous. I’m always anxious showing off my new bags, twelve in all, but tonight my heart was in my throat. I blamed it on the unexpected high cost of the party, the WWD reporter and the number of people coming. Up to now I’d shown my new line to one client at a time. I’m at my best dealing one on one, and I like to give the client all my attention. It makes her feel exclusive. I know how to chat up a client, gently convince her that the bag she’s looking at is an accessory she or her store can’t do without. Tonight I had 33 guests expecting me to deliver another set of must-have handbags.

Leila turned on the music track she’d put together – Justin Timberlake, Tegan and Sara, Haim, Jessie Ware, Adele and others. The first song was ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk, a typical Leila touch. I needed lots of luck. ‘Keep it soft,’ I said. I didn’t want my guests to have to shout over the music. Besides, I needed calming down. With my stomach tied in knots, I took up my post at the open door.

Geoffrey and Giles arrived first. I hugged them, knowing that they were on my side. Partners in life and in their very sought-after interior decorating business, they had been pushing me to loosen up with my designs, take more risks. Three years ago they’d walked into my showroom for the first time with a client and proceeded to convince her to buy three of my most expensive bags. I could always count on them to drop in with one of their many clients. I always made a sale. Giles was a short teddy-bear of a man, with pinchable cheeks, zany

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