Air Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Good idea,” Franklin says. “We could maybe write a book about them, from our deluxe accommodations inside the Atlanta Federal Pen. That would be what? Larceny of trade secrets? Theft of intellectual property? Unauthorized dissemination of proprietary—”

  “I’m just saying,” I interrupt. “It’s not like I’m planning to do it. Although we sure do need some more video. Maybe we should just snap some quick cell phone shots in here.”

  “Charlotte,” Franklin begins.

  I recognize the tone. Franklin can be such a Boy Scout. “Kidding,” I say. “But this is such a gold mine.”

  I get up and stroll through the room, trying to soak up atmosphere that might help me write a more compelling story. On one of the desks, I see an array of photographs. Silver frames, smiling faces. A tall, elegant man in black tie, holding some sort of award, his other arm across the shoulders of a much shorter, but equally elegant, middle-aged woman. Brother and sister? Married? Another photo. The woman with someone who might be her sister.

  Then there’s the same man, in khakis and a sweater, in a garden somewhere, this time with a much younger woman, her face partly in shadow. Father and daughter? I suddenly feel old. And old-fashioned. Maybe lovers? I do a double take. The girl looks awfully familiar. I shake my head, dismissing the thought. The next photo has same man, again with one arm around the short woman, and the other around Zuzu.

  “Look over here,” I say to Franklin. I’m still holding the last photograph but I can’t help thinking about another one. “Remember I told you about that girl in the airport?”

  There’s a tap on the door, then it instantly opens. Zuzu enters first. A man and a woman behind her. I’m caught, photo in hand. And I’m looking at all three people in the picture. Petite chic woman, elegant black tie man and Zuzu.

  “Sylvie Marachelle, one of our chief designers,” Zuzu says, raising one eyebrow as I put the photo back in place. “And the other, Luca Chartiers.” Shar-tee-ay. “Luca also creates the special elements we use to insure our bags are authentic.”

  We all shake hands, saying hello. Sylvie’s “good afternoon” is smoky-soft, unmistakably French, her handshake quick and perfunctory. Luca actually says “Bonjour” before switching to almost accent-free English.

  “I hope you enjoyed my little collection,” he says. He points to the black tie photograph. “Sylvie and I are especially proud of our Coty ‘Designer of the Year’ Award.”

  “I’m so sorry about the photograph,” I begin. “I was just curious, and…”

  “Not at all.” Luca waves away my apology.

  Zuzu shoots him a look, then moves to center stage, checking her watch.

  “Sylvie and Luca have agreed to show you the prototype room,” she says. She scans the room as if there’s something she’s missed. She looks pointedly at me, then Franklin. “You have no cameras, of course? Anywhere? And please do not use your cell phones.”

  “Well, of course,” I say. “Of course not. My cell is off.” Whoa. I wish I could look at Franklin. Were people listening to us?

  “We understand. Of course,” Franklin says at the same time.

  “Then please follow me,” Zuzu replies. She shows us down a long hall, framed poster-sized photographs of D-M’s legendary purses, bags and wallets and scarves hanging pin-spotted under recessed lights along the way.

  Franklin and Sylvie Marachelle walk side by side in front of me. She’s a middle-aged pixie, diminutive, her silver-blond hair so casually chopped off it must have cost a fortune. Her tiny waist is emphasized by a wide leather belt and flowing calf-length suede skirt. Even in high-heeled boots, she barely reaches Franklin’s shoulders. I can see Franklin pointing to the photos on the walls, asking questions. Sylvie answers him briefly.

  Luca Chartiers falls in step beside me. He’s maybe fifty. Effortlessly fashionable in a French-cuff gray-on-gray silk shirt, intricately tailored navy blazer and an almost-white tie. Pushing it in Atlanta, perfect for Paris. Hair is a bit too long, nose a bit too long, a bit too tall. It’s difficult to ignore that somehow it all works. Very nicely.

  “Forgive Sylvie, she is somewhat preoccupied.” He bends down to explain, touching my back as if guiding me down the hall. “We are consumed with the debut of our newest confection. Did Zuzu show you?”

  “The Angelina,” I say. I can still feel his hand on my back, although it’s no longer there. “Yes. Did you design it?”

  “Sylvie and I, yes,” he replies. “She is a descendant of the original Marachelle family, did you know? She and her sister? It was their grandfather’s company, then their father’s. Before it was purchased by the cartel that owns it now.”

  “Ah.” He interrupts himself, briefly touching my back again, I suppose to indicate we’ve arrived. He points to a door. “Prototypes.”

  We all stop at the end of the corridor. A brass plate on the otherwise unmarked door in front of us commands Authorized Entry Only.

  As we enter the room, I realize that I would kill for a camera. It looks like the secret hideout of the mad architect and sewing society. Euro hip-hop music, insistent and throbbing, thuds from a docked iPod, the lyrics incomprehensible. Desks and long tables, some with sewing machines, are set in a double line across the wooden floor. Maybe half a dozen people in black lab coats are at work, some sewing, some draping fabric onto the muslin-covered shoulders of human-shaped mannequins. Everyone is talking to someone else. Not one looks up at us as we enter their domain. They probably can’t hear over the din.

  Sylvie holds her hands high over her head, clapping twice to get the workers’ attention, jangling her armful of gold bangle bracelets. “I will explain to them,” she says to us, then crosses the room toward the group.

  The studio is a chaos of color and texture, every wall transformed into a floor-to-ceiling bulletin board. Along one side, rainbow displays of fabric swatches, squares of frayed-edge satin canvas, vinyl, corduroy, with clear plastic push pins securing each one in place. Straps of all sizes—braided piping, multicolored leather, silver and gold chains, clear plastic and strips of suede hang from metal rings. Along another wall, a row of blueprints. Even this far away, I can tell they’re not of buildings. They’re sketches—front, side and back views—of purses.

  Zuzu draws us closer to her, as a purple-haired woman across the room turns down the hip-hop volume from eardrum-assault level to mere nightclub drumbeat.

  “This is our beta-testing stage,” Zuzu explains, now that we can hear. “Each of these faiseurs takes the blueprint designs drawn by Sylvie, and by hand, creates a prototype of the actual bag.”

  “Fie-soors?” I say. Merde. My once not-terrible French is instantly disparu.

  “Faiseur is French for miracle-worker,” Luca explains with a smile. “Sylvie’s grandfather, Jean-Paul Marachelle, started the tradition when his atelier was still on the Rue de Sevres in Paris. When the first faiseur, in the thirties, managed to create what he called a miracle bag—pochette miraculeux—from his first hand-drawn design. And it’s simply never changed.”

  He gestures to the group. “These are all fine arts and fashion students, some from colleges here in the U.S. and some from France, students who learn their craft by creating our current pochette miraculeuses.”

  I’m intrigued, and not just because Luca is so charmingly continental. And attentive. And seems to be looking at me the same way I’m sure I was looking at the Angelina bag. As if I were the only one in the room.

  “Forgive me,” I say. This room looks like a security breach waiting to happen. “All of these people, and they all look so young, are the front lines of your design team? Couldn’t any one of them be a conduit for information? Passing your design secrets to anyone willing to pay them enough?”

  Luca shrugs. “Perhaps,” he says, “but—”

  “Never,” Zuzu interrupts. “You see, Charlie. The faiseurs simply create, shall we say—options. We choose the final version, and it is only then we insert the special elements Luca has creat
ed to insure the bag is authentic. None of the faiseurs see it until it is made public. And even they do not know which ‘tells’ are selected.”

  “And it’s clear why the Delleton-Marachelle line is so expensive,” Franklin says. “The building. The staff. The materials. The production.”

  “It is the same with every true designer,” Zuzu replies. “We are not just profit. We are art. We are fashion.”

  “We are in trouble,” Luca says. He’s looking at his beeper. Then he looks toward the doorway. “Nell.”

  My phone is trilling the text message signal. This, after the photograph debacle, is at least the second embarrassment of the day, since I had assured Zuzu my cell was off. Fortunately, Zuzu, Luca and Sylvie are completely focused on the woman who just arrived. I turn my hearing to parabolic, unable to switch off my compulsion to eavesdrop. I hafta know. I manage to pick up some snippets of French. And maybe the word—Angelina?

  They’re engrossed, listening intently to the woman at the door. She’s pointing to a clipboard, whispering. Carrying the conversation. She’s as self-assured as a ballerina, white silk shirt and black patent stilettos, sleek and severe as an arrow. Except for Sylvie and William the guard, everyone in the building could do double duty as magazine covers.

  I glance down at my purse, longing to zip it open. A text message. Could be Josh. Could be Katie Harkins. Could be the Great Barrington Fire Department returning the call we made in the taxi from the airport. I’m deeply tempted to sneak a peek while the quartet of fashionistas is huddled in their doorway conference.

  “Take out that phone and they’ll throw us out of here,” Franklin murmurs.

  I nod, reluctantly acquiescing. I keep my voice low. “We’ve just got to follow up on that Great Barrington fire. We’re getting some good info here, but Just-call-me-Sally is our only link to the distribution and supply system of the fake purses.”

  “And also the number on that business card she gave you, remember?” Franklin guardedly points to the group at the door. “What do you suppose is going on? Look at the worried expressions on all those beautiful faces.”

  I see Luca pull a BlackBerry from his jacket pocket. Still frowning, he uses both thumbs at light speed, texting. Sylvie, with a nod, strides away down the hall. Zuzu, her face solemn, brings the newcomer toward us.

  “This is Nell Follatrera,” she introduces us, and continues as we all shake hands. “Director of our legal department. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our conference short.”

  “We’ve had word from the authorities,” Nell says. Her voice is strong and confident, with a tinge of the south. Her tone is confidential. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, the FBI has not been terribly successful at finding the distribution warehouses holding the copies of our products. We’ve just had word another raid has failed. They found nothing.”

  “Failed?” I ask. “Where was the raid?” I drag open the top of my tote bag. I need a notebook and pencil. I hope nothing’s happened to Keresey. Or Lattimer. Wonder if they were in on it.

  “Please,” she holds up a hand. “We have no comment for the record. You’ll need to call FBI officials for a statement.”

  “But it’s Saturday, and their Public Affairs office isn’t staffed,” I protest. “So let me just ask you, was anyone hurt? Where was the raid?”

  “What did they find?” Franklin puts in. “Was there an undercover element?”

  Another idea. “Did it have anything to do with your new Angelina bag?”

  “All good questions, and all questions I suggest you put to the authorities,” the lawyer answers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She bends to whisper something in Zuzu’s ear, then strides out of the room.

  “So I am fearing, now, we’ll have take you out through security,” Zuzu says. “We have to…solve a problem. I am so sorry.”

  I know there’s an emergency. I know these people are ready to bolt. And it appears, with good reason. But I can’t let this fall apart. I have to protect our story. Ask every question I can.

  “Zuzu,” I interrupt. Might as well ask while I have the chance. “Did you know Katherine Harkins personally? I know she set up this interview for us.”

  Zuzu looks confused. “Katherine…?”

  Franklin frowns. “Charlotte, I tried to tell you in Kevin’s office. Katie didn’t set this up for us. I did.”

  My turn to frown. Okay, then. “I’m sorry, Zuzu. I should have asked you. Did your lawyer say anything about a fire in western Massachusetts?”

  Now Zuzu looks doubly confused. She shakes her head, and turns to Luca, who’s tucking his BlackBerry back into a pocket. “Do you know a Katherine—?”

  “No,” Luca replies. “But I will be delighted to escort our visitors to the door.”

  This is probably a colossal mistake.

  Luca, smiling as if we’ve known each other for years, is pouring what I learned from the menu is an expensive burgundy into my crystal globe of a glass. The atmosphere at La Caleche is flickering candles, caressing music. And one confused reporter. Luca had invited both of us to dinner, of course. Franklin had begged off to call Stephen and order room service.

  But I couldn’t resist. I’m certainly allowed to have a business dinner with a man. Josh was the one who floated the possibility of us taking some nondrastic time off. That’s not what this is, of course. But no one had lunch today. And I’m curious. About a lot of things.

  Luca’s gray silk shirt shimmers almost silver in the candlelight. Matching his eyes, I can’t help but notice. I also couldn’t help but notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. He’d pulled out my chair, ordered the wine, ordered our appetizers, suggested sharing the rack of lamb. Waved off the waiter’s offer to pour more wine so he could do it himself. He’s the un-Josh. And at this moment, he’s making me feel like a very pampered, very coddled, un-Charlie. Or at least, a different Charlie.

  “Did you hear any more about the raid?” I drag the real Charlie back to the table, risking a sip of wine. I’m strictly sticking to the purse business. If I can extract some info for our story, no one could raise an eyebrow at this dinner expedition. The text message turned out to be Kevin, making sure we were getting the goods. So I’m getting them. I remember the word I think I heard the lawyer say. “Is it the Angelina bag they were concerned with?”

  Luca shakes his head, lifting both hands as he pretends to fend off more questions. “You must always be the reporter, I suppose. But our lawyer must always be the lawyer. And she insists, and I know you’ll understand, I am prohibited from saying anything.”

  I shrug, as if defeated. But I’m still concerned about Keresey. Wondering if she took part in the raid. Wondering if something went wrong.

  “It’s just,” I say, “I have a friend who may be working undercover with the federal government. A woman. Do you know if anyone was hurt in the raid?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he begins.

  I feel my face flush, then go cold.

  “No, no,” he says. “I was going to say—I’m sorry, but I don’t have any details. And again, I must insist. May we…talk about something else? Your life, perhaps?”

  No way. “How about your life? How did you get into the purse business?” Friendly and professional. Maybe I can get him to open up this way. Find out something later.

  “It was Sylvie and her father who brought me in. Now her father’s gone, she and I are chief designers. We met in school, and after we were married, of course, it all just evolved.”

  Luckily I wasn’t in midsip, or expensive Côte de Beaune would have splatted across the pristine white tablecloth. I can’t resist looking at his left-hand ring finger again. And this time, he notices. I’m caught.

  He holds up his hand, waggling his slim fingers as if making it easier for me to see. His eyes twinkle. Or maybe it’s the candlelight. “We are no longer married, of course,” he explains. “And she never changed her name from Marachelle. But we worked together for so long our careers were more inextricably intertw
ined than our personal lives. We parted. So many years ago. But professionally, we stayed together.”

  A white-coated waiter arrives, fussing with our lamb, using silver utensils to serve haricots verts with slivers of almonds, and minuscule purple potatoes. As the waiter leaves, Luca relates the history of the once-struggling Delleton-Marachelle, how it relocated to the United States after the death of Monsieur Delleton, the arrival of Zuzu three years ago, and then the sale to ITC Conglomerate. How back in the ’90s someone managed to give Meryl Streep a prototype bag. When the movie star was photographed with it, the demand for the “Meryl” launched the tiny company into the fashion stratosphere. How he and Sylvie were suddenly in vogue. And in Vogue.

  I lean forward, elbows on the table, fascinated. Then I remember the elbows on the table thing. You’d think I’d never shared a rack of lamb with a charming and successful French fashion designer. I guess I haven’t. Luckily Luca’s eyes are focused far away as he tells his story, maybe remembering.

  His accent makes his still-careful English intriguingly continental. Our dinners disappear. Time disappears.

  “Did you have children?” I ask. I remember the photo I picked up, the one of him in the sweater. With the beautiful young girl. Maybe there’s an obvious explanation.

  The waiter arrives, offering the check in a cordovan leather flap. I reach for it, but Luca stops me.

  “Someone as lovely as you,” he says, narrowing those eyes at me. Engaging, almost mocking. “I noticed your left hand, too. Are you, like Sylvie, married to your work?” He hands the leather flap back to the waiter. I half notice he’s paid in cash. “Or are you—forgive me—involved?”