Read Online Bicoastal Babe by Cynthia Langston - Free Book Online

Would you say those jackets are trendy?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “So how would you describe that look? If you had to characterize it.”
    “Uh…” She’s having a real problem with this. What’s with these people? Why is it so difficult to put words around what makes something stylish?
    “Well, they’re sort of… I don’t know. They look pretty cool, I guess.”
    I sigh and give a nod of appreciation, then turn away.
    “Hey,” she calls after me. “Do you need my name for the article?”
    I shake my head and make for the door. This is impossible. What am I doing wrong?
    Up a block or so, I come upon the Versace boutique. Versace is perfect—the epitome of fashion chic. If I can’t find it here… well, I don’t want to think about the alternative.
    I know – I’ll talk to the employees. Forget about these scatterbrained customers who can’t seem to distinguish fashion from a footlocker. It’s the store clerks who will be in the know. And this time I’m laying all my chips on the table and betting on the truth.
    “Excuse me,” I say to a tall, thin, somewhat effeminate man who is folding cashmere sweaters. “I’ve just begun working for an ad agency as a trend forecaster, and I’m wondering if you can help me.”
    “Well, that’s an interesting job,” he says, giving my outfit the onceover. I think I look okay: stone-washed Sevens, a brown T-shirt, and a cool pair of summer sling-backs. Who could have issue with that?
    “So what can I do for you?” he asks.
    “Well, my job is to write a newsletter for our advertisers on what’s trendy, and maybe even get ahead of the game a little. Try to tap into next season, what might be in style, that sort of thing.”
    “I see.”
    “And I thought you might have some ideas. You know, working for such an ultracool designer and all. I thought you might have the insider’s scoop.”
    “Yes, I see.” He seems to understand what I mean, at least. But he’s mulling it over so hard that I begin to wonder if I’m breaching some sort of privacy pact or something.
    “Well, I would love to help you.”
    “You would?” I could hug him.
    “But you should know that what’s trendy right now is certainly going to be yesterday’s trash by the time your newsletter is put to use in any new advertising.”
    “Well said. So let’s talk next season.”
    “And that’s where I can’t really help. If I knew the answer to that, believe me, darling, I’d be over at Ono sipping a Starfruit Manhattan, not folding sweaters in an overpriced boutique.”
    I am silent.
    “Now,” he continues, “that leaves you with two questions.”
    Still silent.
    “One, you should be asking me what a Starfruit Manhattan is, and why its my drink of choice at this particular juncture. And two, you should be asking me if there’s anyone I know on the buying end of this enterprise who could be of more assistance to you in your quest for next year’s zeitgeist.”
    “Yes!” I practically shout. “Both of those. Please.”
    He laughs. “You’re not from New York, are you?”
    “Listen. If you hook me up with someone who can help me, I will buy you
ten
Starfruit Manhattans at the club of your choice.”
    “No, thank you, darling. I have all the friends I need. But I will give you the name of one of our designers. And you’ll have to take it from there.”
    Ten minutes later, I have a new pair of Versace socks (sixteen dollars), a black shopping bag that says VERSACE (free, but had to ask for larger bag, as to visibly showcase new purchase to passersby), and most important, a name: Jean-Louis Francouer, junior designer for next spring’s Versace line. (Priceless.)
    •   •   •
    This calls for some cocktails. I’ve paid my dues with a significant dent into the fashion/style arena, and I figure I can put that one aside for now and start investigating the club scene. Of course, it is only five thirty, and rumor has it the clubs don’t kick in until midnight. But