Desire Inc.. Zoe Zarani

And that gorgeous apartment he’d taken me to. Was that his and Darci’s home? Darci safely far away, pursuing her acting career in some B movie?

      The thought that he could take me to the home where he lived with his wife made me sick. I slammed the door of my bedroom with all my strength. Bits of plaster from above the frame rained down on my head. Served me right for leaving the door open to hear the doorbell that I now wasn’t going to answer and that Thorne had no intention of ringing in the first place.

      Loud music jerked me awake. What the hell? I hadn’t set the alarm on the radio. I turned over toward the bedside table and tried to bring the red numbers on my clock into focus. It took a while. The last time I’d looked it was 4.03. Now 6.13. The tailend of a bad night in the company of Mrs Archer Thorne modelling through my dreams in one strapless designer gown after another. I kept wondering how she managed to keep those dresses from falling down since she had no breasts to speak of.

      The singing stopped and it hit me. Alicia Keys singing ‘Girl on Fire’. The ringtone I’d picked, jacked up to the highest level so I’d hear it in my handbag. I reached for the cellphone. On the screen: Leila. Message. Ah, yes, my faithful assistant. She had a few choice words coming to her. I clicked on the message.

      Am in ER with Melissa. Will be late. Sewing machines fixed.

      My heart skipped a beat, my anger at her instantly wiped out.

      I texted back. Are you hurt? Which hospital? I’ll come right away.

      I’m fine. Doctor finally here. Will explain later.

      What can I do?

      Hold the fort.

      Was she really fine? Was she lying so I wouldn’t worry? Later when? Leila in an emergency room reassuring me that the sewing machines were fixed. Telling me to hold the fort. How wonderful was that? Crazy. She couldn’t be that hurt.

       Leila, please be OK, please. I promise I won’t say a word about Thorne being married.

      Maybe she just printed out whatever she found without taking a close look.

      I pulled on jeans, a sweatshirt, ran a comb through my hair, dabbed some lipstick on. A busy day had just gotten busier. We were filling orders on the bags I’d shown a couple of days ago. It was a hectic time, a time when I totally depended on Leila’s calm, her incredible organisational skills. I had great patience designing the bags, but almost none with the niggling problems that inevitably came up.

      I grabbed an apple and was on my way out the door when I remembered I’d promised to deliver Olivia Farrington’s handbag today. I looked at my watch. 7.26. Plenty of time to take the subway uptown to 77th, walk to Park and 79th, drop off the bag, pick up my cheque, then get back on the subway to the Bronx. Maybe I’d even get to the workshop before the women. I liked to greet them with coffee and muffins to start off what was always a tough day. Leila had already wrapped the bag in red tissue paper and slipped it into the Desire, Inc. shopping bag Geoffrey had designed, a shiny black bag with ribbon handles and the logo splashed across both sides in the same bright red as the handles. I picked up the bag, hooked it on my shoulder and off I went.

      On the way to the subway I e-mailed Geoffrey, something I should have done last night.

      Eric is a go. Thanks. We can always use a new face.

      When I got off the subway on 77th Street, Geoffrey’s answer was waiting for me.

      Glad to hear it. You sure you want to let other women enjoy him? If A.T. is a negative, Eric might just be the man for you. You bowled him over. Can’t stop talking about you.

      Why did everyone think I needed a man? All right, not everyone. Leila and Geoffrey. My best friends, with Giles a close third. Come to think of it, they were everyone. I didn’t have any other friends, best or not.

      I’ve gone off the hetero wagon for this year and next. Is there any chance of getting together tonight?

      I kept walking toward Olivia’s apartment building on Park Avenue, crossing the street without looking, typing, reading Geoffrey’s answer. An accident in the making guaranteed. I was down enough not to care. I typed:

      I could use the boost.

      Shit, I was feeling sorry for myself. I hate that. I added: