“Merci.”
What on earth am I doing here? she wondered, turning quickly to leave. Racing down the steps, she dashed across the street, heedless of the blaring horns as she dodged between cars. She steadied herself against the garden railings and caught her breath. I think I might be going mad, she thought. What on earth did I think I would achieve by going there?
It was so much warmer in Paris than here, India thought, pulling her collar around her face against the bitterly cold wind whipping up Shaftsbury Avenue and walking quickly towards Wardour Street. There was something about Soho London that always excited her. She loved the eclectic mix of bars and cafes, sex stores and offices, the warren of tiny side streets barely wide enough to take the cabs and cars that were constantly teeming with office workers and tourists, the pubs spilling patrons outdoors onto every corner in all kinds of weather, and the discreet hotel entrances tucked away down alleys.
And today, India felt not only her usual quickening of pace, but a flutter of excitement at the possibility that she might be about to join the throngs of executives at Pâtisserie Valerie for lunches or grabbing sandwiches to go from Prêt à Manger before meetings.
She took a deep breath before pressing the intercom to the offices of Lichtenstein and Cowan, a tall Georgian building incongruously set opposite a sex shop with its cheap window displays of mannequins in bondage gear. The door buzzed open and India went toward the lift to the second floor, where she was greeted by a young woman she judged to be in her mid-twenties, wearing an immaculately tailored gray skirt and a camel cashmere sweater. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and when she smiled, her teeth had that preternaturally white sheen India had only previously seen in California.
“Mr. Cowan will be with you in a moment. May I take your coat? Would you like a glass of water?” she said, gesturing toward one of the two easy chairs next to a coffee table set out with dozens of international glossy magazines.
“No thank you,” India answered, unwrapping her scarf and taking off her raincoat, instantly grateful that she had worn the gray Agnes B shift dress. Shopping in Paris certainly gave a girl added confidence, even if her dress was from a chain that was also in London. A week studying Parisian style had not been wasted on India. Inès was right with her advice to keep things simple – good tailoring, neutral hues and then all you needed was a unique piece of jewelry, preferably inherited from your grandmother. In the absence of a grandmother, India had made a trip to Links and was sporting a delicate necklace with tiny pink pearls.
Henry appeared not long after she sat down. She stood up to meet him and for a moment felt butterflies. Had he been that tall in Paris? Had his eyes been so molasses brown, his shoulders so broad? She felt something close to an electric shock run down her spine.
“Great to see you, India. Come on in,” he said, holding the door to his office open wide with his arm and leaving an arc for her to enter through.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, ducking into the room and waiting while he closed the door behind them both.
“Here, have a seat if you can find one,” he said, lifting a pile of magazines and then gesturing to two leather bucket chairs facing one another.
Henry’s office was not at all what she had been expecting. For some reason India had imagined a modern, streamlined minimalist space with stripped wood furnishings and modern art. Instead, every conceivable wall space was filled with shelves straining under the weight of books and manuscripts. Henry’s desk was buried under a mountain of files and papers, magazines and folders.
“I’m a hoarder,” he said, reading her mind. “Out of chaos comes clarity.”
“I love it,“ India said. “I can’t understand how people can be the least bit creative in a sterile workspace.
What on earth am I doing here? she wondered, turning quickly to leave. Racing down the steps, she dashed across the street, heedless of the blaring horns as she dodged between cars. She steadied herself against the garden railings and caught her breath. I think I might be going mad, she thought. What on earth did I think I would achieve by going there?
It was so much warmer in Paris than here, India thought, pulling her collar around her face against the bitterly cold wind whipping up Shaftsbury Avenue and walking quickly towards Wardour Street. There was something about Soho London that always excited her. She loved the eclectic mix of bars and cafes, sex stores and offices, the warren of tiny side streets barely wide enough to take the cabs and cars that were constantly teeming with office workers and tourists, the pubs spilling patrons outdoors onto every corner in all kinds of weather, and the discreet hotel entrances tucked away down alleys.
And today, India felt not only her usual quickening of pace, but a flutter of excitement at the possibility that she might be about to join the throngs of executives at Pâtisserie Valerie for lunches or grabbing sandwiches to go from Prêt à Manger before meetings.
She took a deep breath before pressing the intercom to the offices of Lichtenstein and Cowan, a tall Georgian building incongruously set opposite a sex shop with its cheap window displays of mannequins in bondage gear. The door buzzed open and India went toward the lift to the second floor, where she was greeted by a young woman she judged to be in her mid-twenties, wearing an immaculately tailored gray skirt and a camel cashmere sweater. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and when she smiled, her teeth had that preternaturally white sheen India had only previously seen in California.
“Mr. Cowan will be with you in a moment. May I take your coat? Would you like a glass of water?” she said, gesturing toward one of the two easy chairs next to a coffee table set out with dozens of international glossy magazines.
“No thank you,” India answered, unwrapping her scarf and taking off her raincoat, instantly grateful that she had worn the gray Agnes B shift dress. Shopping in Paris certainly gave a girl added confidence, even if her dress was from a chain that was also in London. A week studying Parisian style had not been wasted on India. Inès was right with her advice to keep things simple – good tailoring, neutral hues and then all you needed was a unique piece of jewelry, preferably inherited from your grandmother. In the absence of a grandmother, India had made a trip to Links and was sporting a delicate necklace with tiny pink pearls.
Henry appeared not long after she sat down. She stood up to meet him and for a moment felt butterflies. Had he been that tall in Paris? Had his eyes been so molasses brown, his shoulders so broad? She felt something close to an electric shock run down her spine.
“Great to see you, India. Come on in,” he said, holding the door to his office open wide with his arm and leaving an arc for her to enter through.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, ducking into the room and waiting while he closed the door behind them both.
“Here, have a seat if you can find one,” he said, lifting a pile of magazines and then gesturing to two leather bucket chairs facing one another.
Henry’s office was not at all what she had been expecting. For some reason India had imagined a modern, streamlined minimalist space with stripped wood furnishings and modern art. Instead, every conceivable wall space was filled with shelves straining under the weight of books and manuscripts. Henry’s desk was buried under a mountain of files and papers, magazines and folders.
“I’m a hoarder,” he said, reading her mind. “Out of chaos comes clarity.”
“I love it,“ India said. “I can’t understand how people can be the least bit creative in a sterile workspace.
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