identity badges hanging from yellow cords around their necks. As I passed a trailer marked Malibu Bitch Swimwear, a door opened and out came a poised thirty-something woman in a conservative business suit. She waved a clipboard and stepped onto the street. Like chicks following a mother hen, five tight-bodied models in the skimpiest of bikinis cat-walked across Fortieth Street behind her. They strolled through the park and into the largest tent.
With the warm Village Blend bags still in hand, I fumbled through my purse for the invitation. The location of Lottie’s display was “Plaza—Bryant Park, Sixth Avenue between Fortieth & Forty-second Streets.” I was here, but where was the “Plaza”?
I corralled one of the young women wearing a Fashion Week badge. “Is there a plaza around here?”
“There are three venues in Bryant Park,” she said by rote. “The largest tent is the Theater, the tent next to it is the Bryant. That round tent in the middle is the Plaza.”
“Thank you.”
A guard insisted I show my invitation at the door. He glanced at the card, smiled when I asked for directions.
“The Lottie Harmon exhibit is in the second wing. Go through the lobby, past the photo display, then make a right. There’s a sign at the door.”
The interior of the tent was as spotlessly white as the exterior—even the plywood interior sections that parceled out the space under the canvas were painted the same virginal color as the tent’s walls and ceiling. Massive fans circulated air, sending the canvas rippling. That movement, combined with the gentle rush of cool, fresh air, made the white tent feel as light and dreamy as the interior of a cloud.
The middle of the Plaza was dominated by a large display on portable standees—a photographic retrospective of past Fashion Week styles, divided by year. Though the tent was crowded, few of the guests were viewing the exhibits. Most were heading toward one of the four wings that radiated out from the central exhibit area, a security guard at each door.
I spied the familiar Lottie Harmon logo—the stretched L and H, tiny handwritten letters spelling out the rest of the brand name. The designer label was still using its original logo, created from Lottie’s own distinctive handwriting a quarter century ago. Inside the white-walled area, I spied Lottie herself, posed within a space filled with hundreds of photographs, large and small.
She’d traded her chocolate brown evening wear for a champagne colored blouse and pants. The outfit was completed by an elegant tawny “maxi-jacket” with cream stitching that fell to her calves. Her bright scarlet hair was piled on top of her head and around her neck hung a glistening necklace of semiprecious stones polished to look like rich, darkly roasted coffee beans.
Lottie was speaking quietly with a Japanese man, whose wizened face was framed by iron-gray hair. The man looked prosperous, a fine pinstripe suit, of the kind tailor-made in London, hugging his compact form. His interest in Lottie’s words was obvious, and he respectfully bowed each time she answered a question. When I entered, Lottie waved to me, but did not excuse herself. A few moments later, the man bowed deeply, then strolled back to the lobby.
Lottie hurried forward to greet me.
“Clare, I’ve hardly had time to breathe, but I so wanted to call.”
“We still have so much planning to do for the big runway show Sunday. But I’m
Lottie laughed just then. It was that high-pitched, forced laugh she sometimes used. I didn’t know if it was a tick to cover her nervousness or something else entirely, but it never failed to unsettle me.
I tried to summon a reassuring smile. “I’m very glad you still want us there, considering all that’s happened…”
Lottie frowned. “Oh, yes, it
“I was looking for you afterwards,” I replied. “I wanted to apologize for ruining your party, maybe hurting the reputation of your accessory line.”
Lottie waved her arm. “Don’t be silly, Clare. In the fashion business, any publicity is good publicity. Back in 1980…or was it ’81?…a well-known lead singer of a superstar band overdosed on stage during a concert. He was wearing one of my Spangle pieces—you could see it clearly in the photos of the man being rushed to the hospital. After that night, I couldn’t keep that piece in stock!”
“So you weren’t…troubled?”
“Last night? Not at all. After I spoke with the police, Tad and Rena whisked me away. No problem.”
Lottie gave that high-pitched laugh again. “Let’s go sit down,” she suggested, leading me to a pair of folding chairs set up in the corner. “I’m so tired, and I’ve been dreaming of one of your invigorating lattes.”
I held out the warm bag. “Dream no more. Still hot and fresh in a thermal mug—and I brought along some of those Ricciarelli you said you liked last night. The baker made this batch fresh this morning.”
Lottie clapped her hands, then opened the bag and sniffed the contents. “Clare Cosi, you’re a life saver! I didn’t have anything to eat for breakfast—nerves, you know?”
“Are Tad and Rena around by any chance? I was hoping to talk to them.”
Lottie sipped the latte and sighed contentedly. “Oh, you just missed them, dear. They brought me a watercress sandwich and some salad. I wolfed it down not ten minutes ago—right before Mr. Kazumi arrived. But I’m still so hungry.”
“Mr. Kazumi?”
“That man I was speaking with when you came in. Otomo Kazumi of the Kazumi department store chain. His Tokyo store is a real marvel. Twenty stories, more lights than Broadway, more bells and whistles than a Las Vegas casino. Stores in Osaka, Singapore, and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, too—probably the most upscale and expensive department store chain in the world. He’s been buying my accessories since my heyday in the 1980s. A wonderful man and a delight to see again after all these years.”
We chatted pleasantries while Lottie sipped her latte and nibbled on a Ricciarelli, licking the powdered sugar off her perfectly lined lips. As gently as I could, I steered the conversation toward Lottie’s business partners.
“So where has Tad gone? And Rena? Shouldn’t they be here helping out?”
“Oh, they
“So where are they then?”
She waved a hand and shook her head. Again the strained, high-pitched laugh. When she didn’t offer any other theories, I started fishing. “You know I still remember the day when you three first met,” I said. “I never asked you. What exactly was the business arrangement you all worked out?”
“Oh, Tad and Rena each own twenty-five percent of the label. Fen has a few points, too.”
“So, you’re the single largest stakeholder, but if you put all their stakes together, they actually own over fifty percent?”
“That’s right. But it’s not as if they’re going to use that against me.” Once more, Lottie laughed nervously. “We’re all friends. And I’m not only the head designer, I’m the only designer. They can’t get a thing done without me.”
Just then, two young men appeared in the doorway. One was laden with photographic gear, the other carried a clipboard and an over-the-shoulder tape recorder.
“Oh, the folks from
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll wander around and we can talk in a half-hour or so.”
While Lottie chatted with the French journalist—the photographer circling the pair and snapping pictures the whole time—I perused the fashion designer’s photographic retrospective. It was easy to see why Lottie’s accessories had returned to the forefront of fashion. Some of those clothing designs, hair, and makeup styles from
