Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

I moved behind the counter to speak with him, but Moira was already hovering protectively and blocking my path. “Is he all right?” I asked.

Moira frowned, brushed aside a lock of auburn hair with the back of her long, narrow hand. “I don’t know, Clare. I’ll take care of him and find out what’s wrong.”

I waited for Moira to step aside, but the girl gestured toward the crowd. “Seems like Esther needs help at the door.”

She wasn’t kidding. The Village Blend’s front entrance looked like the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel on a Jets game day, so I hurried over. On my way, I tried not to worry about Tucker’s uncharacteristic freak out and prayed it was not some kind of omen for the deterioration of what had been, up to this point, a fairly smooth running affair.

Shoot me, but I believe in omens. My Italian grandmother who primarily raised me while my father ran a bookie operation in the back of her Pennsylvania grocery had given me the “411”—as my twenty-year-old daughter Joy would put it—on the malocchio , the evil eye, the curse. And although I liked to think I’d shoved this vaguely primitive philosophy behind me, I still could not dislodge an increasingly uneasy feeling that something bitter was brewing.

I arrived at the door to find the line of new arrivals fronted by a young man with short, blond-streaked brown hair. He wore a charcoal gray suit over an electric blue Egyptian cotton shirt with a lime green handkerchief blooming out of the suit’s breast pocket. On his arm were two women.

The first was a typical, barely twenty-year-old model with streaked blond hair uptwisted and a tangerine leather outfit. The other, however, was memorably striking, even in this air-brushed crowd. She was well over six feet in her spike-heeled boots, had beautiful Asian features—straight black hair, worn all the way down to her hips, and almond-shaped eyes of an unusual deep blue-violet, which she’d emphasized with violet eye shadow and a matching violet minidress that glittered with metallic threads.

The trio was obviously impatient to make their entrance, but they had been stopped for a guest list check by the Blend’s resident iconoclast, New York University comparative literature student Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather), who chose to make a consciously un fashionable statement with faded khakis, an oversized green sweatshirt, her long dark hair done up in four tight anti-fashion braids, and “so five minutes ago” glasses with thick black frames.

I understood where Esther was coming from. Trendy, flamboyant dressing wasn’t my style, either—mainly because I could never pull it off. On the other hand, at forty, I thought protesting “the frivolous pointlessness of high fashion” (as Esther put it) by deliberately dressing down was pretty much a pointless gesture in itself. So, I’d at least attempted to dress appropriately for the evening in the boring, prototypical New York outfit—black dress, black stockings, black boots—with my chestnut brown hair pulled into a high ponytail for barista work with that oh-so-elite fashion accessory, a discount store velvet scrunchie.

As I approached the crowded doorway, I heard Lime Green Kerchief man coo to Violet Eyes. “You should have seen it. The model’s wardrobe was deconstructing on the runway. It was Milan, of course, but my god. How post-modern can you get? Use a stitch or two for chrissakes.”

Violet Eyes smiled and nodded.

“And what about the Timmy Thom show?” offered Tangerine Leather Girl. “It was so…you know…” She bit her lower lip and searched the ceiling for the right word. Possibly any word. “You know, done before.”

“Yes, it was derivative , darling,” replied Lime Green Kerchief man. “Everybody’s talking about how Timmy’s just out of ideas. A barely disguised re-tread of the ’02 line. And did you see the mandals he put on that hairy-legged boy toy?”

I pulled Esther aside. “Where’s Matteo?” I asked.

Esther pointed across the room, but there were too many men wearing black Armani to make out which was my ex-husband. He was supposed to be checking invitations against the guest list at the door—not Esther. She’d volunteered to wipe spills, and gather the empty glass latte mugs and lipstick-smeared napkins.

“Boss,” she whined, “these people are ridiculous.”

“Only one more hour, Esther,” I whispered. “And, remember, Lottie’s paying you very well.”

“Not well enough to be repeatedly told I’m a fashion victim and should immediately call 911. I’ll call 911, all right—after I strangle one of these half-wits!”

I sighed. As diverse a town as New York City was, cliques and enclaves tended to reinforce the idea that everyone around you thought the way you did—and should dress, speak, and think like you, too, for that matter. The fashion industry was really no more unique in that regard than a cadre of New York University undergrads—and I should know, having listened to every butcher, baker, and candlestick maker prattle on from behind my espresso machine.

Theater people, stock brokers, publishing professionals—everyone had their forged attitudes, jargon, and fakery, their what’s hot and what’s not lists, their correct opinions, perceived winners, losers, and arbitrary size-’em-up yardsticks. Institutions meant institutional thinking, after all, but the dirty little secret after you’ve lived in New York long enough was that the “arts” were no more immune to this than the advertising industry, and, in fact, even “rebellion” was an organized racket—with its own line of coffee mugs and T-shirts.

I pulled away from Esther to check Lime Green Kerchief man’s gold embossed invitation. “Lloyd Newhaven, Stylist, and Party,” I read, then checked the name against the guest list, greeted him with a smile, and gestured for them to join the flowing mass of hyper-dressed beautiful people.

“By the way, what are mandals?” I innocently asked Lloyd the Stylist before he and his party walked away.

“Male sandals, sweetie,” he answered with a brisk snap of his fingers. “And in my opinion the only man who ever looked good in sandals was Jesus Christ.”

“Really?” I said. “What about Russell Crowe? In Gladiator ?”

Violet Eyes actually laughed. “Oh, yes,” she agreed, her words tinged with a slight exotic accent. “I did like that movie.”

I turned back to Esther and asked her to handle the door a little longer. Then I went looking for my wayward ex-husband—something I’d done far too many times in my life to count.

As I crossed the room, I nervously dodged willowy young women dressed in Fen’s new fall line—brown suede skirts, matching silk and suede blouses and mid-calf boots. All night, they’d been precariously balancing trays of lattes, biscotti, and a dozen specialty pastries while simultaneously modeling preview pieces of Lottie’s spring line—from faux roasted coffee-bean Y necklaces and frothy cappuccino scarves to caramel loop bracelets and raw sugar earrings and brooches.

Unfortunately, Lottie had hired the models for their beauty and not their ability to handle full trays of hot liquids. Thank goodness Tucker had volunteered to give them all a crash course on serving customers—including a bonus lesson on the bunny dip, made famous by a once upscale but now defunct men’s club.

Dressing them in Fen was calculated, too, of course. An internationally known clothing designer, Fen had worked with Lottie during her heyday over twenty years before, and he was now the key to her current success. He’d not only given Lottie a substantial financial investment to mass-produce her line, he’d also provided a spectacular launch pad by agreeing to pair her jewelry with his fall collection on runways around the world. Her new spring line would be showcased on Fen’s models once again—at the end of this week.