“Designer in residence?” he says as soon as he gets me alone. “What does that mean, ‘designer in residence’? Does he think we’re putting him up all bloody year?”
“No!” I say. “Of course not!”
I may have to have a little chat with Danny.
At last, after draining all the champagne, the fashion journalists melt away. Brianna and Eric disappear off to their offices and I’m left alone with Danny. Or at least, with Danny and his people.
“So, shall we go for lunch?” I suggest.
“Sure!” Danny says, and glances at Carla, who immediately speaks into her headset. “Travis? Travis, it’s Carla. Could you bring the car around, please?”
Cool! We’re going in the limo!
“There’s quite a nice place round the corner—” I begin, but Carla cuts me off.
“Buffy has made reservations at three Zagat-recommended restaurants. Japanese, French, and I believe the third was Italian….”
“How about…Moroccan?” Danny says as the driver opens the door.
“I’ll give Buffy a call,” Carla says without batting an eyelid. She speed-dials as we all get into the limo. “Buffy, Carla. Could you please hold the reservations you’ve made and research a Moroccan restaurant for lunch? That’s Moroccan,” she repeats, enunciating clearly. “London West One. Thanks, hon.”
“I feel like a latte,” says Danny suddenly. “A mocha latte.”
Without missing a beat, Carla speaks into her phone again. “Hello, Travis, this is Carla,” she says. “Could we please pull over at a Starbucks. That’s Starbucks.”
Thirty seconds later, the limo draws up beside a Starbucks. Carla opens the door.
“Just a mocha latte?” she says.
“Uh-huh,” Danny says, stretching out lazily.
“Anything for you, Stan?” Carla looks at the bodyguard, who is sunk in his seat, plugged into his iPod.
“Huh?” He opens his eyes. “Oh, right, Starbucks. Get me a cappuccino. Real foamy.”
The car door closes and I turn to Danny in disbelief. Does he have people running after him like this all day?
“Danny…”
“Uh-huh?” Danny looks up from flipping through Cosmo Girl. “Hey, are you cold in here? I feel cold.” He switches on his phone and speed-dials. “Carla, the car’s a little cold. OK, thanks.”
That does it.
“Danny, this is ridiculous!” I exclaim. “Can’t you talk to the driver yourself? Can’t you get your own latte?”
Danny looks genuinely perplexed.
“Well…I could,” he says. “I guess.” His phone rings and he switches it on. “Yes, cinnamon. Oh, that’s too bad.” He puts his hand over the phone. “Buffy can’t find a Moroccan restaurant for us. How about Lebanese fusion?”
“Danny…” I feel like I’m on another planet. “There’s a really nice restaurant right here.” I gesture outside. “Can’t we just go there? The two of us, no one else?”
“Oh.” Danny seems to be getting his head round this idea. “Well…sure. Let’s do it.”
We get out of the car just as Carla approaches holding a Starbucks take-out tray.
“Is something wrong?” She surveys us in alarm.
“We’re going for lunch,” I say. “Just Danny and me. In there.” I point at the restaurant, which is called Annie’s.
“Right.” Carla nods vigorously, as though taking in the situation. “Great! I’ll just make you a reservation….” To my utter astonishment she speed-dials her phone again. “Hi, Buffy, could you please reserve a table at a restaurant called Annie’s, let me spell that for you….”
Buffy is in New York. We are standing ten feet away from the place. How does this make any sense?
“Honestly, we’re fine, thanks!” I say to Carla. “See you later!” And I drag Danny across the pavement and into the restaurant.
We do have to wait a bit for a table. But I stick out my stomach as far as it will go and sigh wistfully at the maître d’—and a few minutes later we’re ensconced in a corner banquette, dipping bread into yummy olive oil. Which is a relief. I was going to have to admit defeat and call Buffy.
“This is so great, being here,” Danny says, as a waiter pours him a glass of wine. “Here’s to you, Becky!”
“Here’s to you!” I clink his wineglass with my water glass. “And here’s to your fabulous design for The Look!” I force myself to leave a natural pause. “So, you were going to tell me when you thought you might have something to show us?”
“Was I?” Danny looks surprised. “Hey, you want to come to Paris with me next week? There is the best gay scene there—”
“Fab!” I nod. “The thing is, Danny, we kind of…sort of…need to have something quite…quickly.”
“Quickly?” Danny opens his eyes wide, looking betrayed. “What do you mean, ‘quickly’?”
“Well, you know! As soon as you can manage, really. We’re trying to save the store, so the sooner we can get something going, the better….” I trail off as Danny fixes a reproachful gaze on me.
“I could be ‘quick,’” he says, uttering the word with disdain. “I could throw together a few crap ideas in five minutes. Or I could do something meaningful. Which may take time. That’s the creative process — excuse me for being an artist.” He takes a gulp of wine and puts his glass down.