She breathed out. ‘Thank you, Don Angelo. I won’t forget it.’
He didn’t laugh at this, as he would have from some other kid. Dina Kane might be Governor some day.
She got up to leave. ‘You know, last time I came to see you, the goons in your gatehouse made me spread my legs and they patted me down, felt me up.’
His face was expressionless. ‘They do that again this time?’
‘I told them that, if they touched me, I would make sure you killed them.’
Angelo smiled. ‘You should have been a man.’
Dina rode the train home, full of hope. Her computer was on her lap, and she tapped away on it, oblivious of the angry stares of other passengers trying to enjoy their magazines.
She was working.
She knew a handful of good lawyers already – guys she’d worked with at Torch – and one of them was now drawing up a simple rent-to-buy contract, which would be with her in an hour.
She was writing down her products – the stock she would carry in order to give the perfect combination of space, luxury and choice. Not too much choice. Big names might not work with her. That was OK. Dina Kane, Inc. would supply a new vision in cosmetics: incredible beauty that worked. Stuff you couldn’t get anyplace else.
The transformation of that space would be a piece of cake. She wouldn’t replicate Torch – they might sue. Besides, the bar was filthy and gloomy, with no natural light. She had a vision, and four apartments had taught her how to realise it.
On her screen, the vision started to take shape: golds, creams, clear lighting; staff in chic uniforms of fitted shift dresses or dark suits. Dina Kane would be a one-stop shop, with everything in it irresistible. She would cherry pick the best products, lay them all out, offer more free samples than anyone else and source the most gorgeous accessories. There would be a small men’s grooming department, themed to remind customers of James Bond: photos of muscled men in Savile Row suits, Floris aftershave, real badger-hair shaving brushes and solid gold cuff-links. Goddamn, it was exciting. She wanted the place to scream luxury; and, more than that, vacation. To buy a lip gloss at Dina Kane would be like stepping into another world. There would be beautiful shopping bags and pale green and gold ribbon for women’s purchases, thick gunmetal for the guys . . .
The billboard: she would buy the space, design it herself. The cheapest agency in town could put it together – Dina would control the image. She knew exactly when to put it up, when to launch, how to sell.
Electricity crackled through her veins. By the time she stepped out of the train at Grand Central, she was almost running, her cellphone fixed to her ear.
The space was ready for her by lunchtime the next day. Angelo could move fast, too. All of the strippers had left; the cheap, wine-stained tables and chairs had been cleared away; the scummy patrons had gone. Signs were still up in the window: a sad Martini glass in neon light tubing, with a nude girl’s silhouette poking up from it, her breasts like olives on a cocktail stick.
That was OK. That was fine. Dina breathed deeply, taking in the scent of old beer, desperation, sweat and darkness. It was heady perfume. This scumminess was the reason she’d pulled off the deal.
‘You know . . . it is what it is.’ The caretaker was a jaded old guy, who had seen tenants come and go. ‘The girls perform and the men pay.’
Bare electric bulbs revealed the squalor: peeling paint, mould in the ceiling corners, ripped up linoleum on the floor. There was a dirty glass booth where girls had squirmed and humiliated themselves for drunk men at two in the afternoon. Behind a faded red velvet curtain, fringed with red tassels, was a hideous enclave of glitz: wide red banquettes, cushioned to hold two people; fake plastic marble on the floor; low-light electric torches on the walls. Dina shoved from her mind the humiliations that must have happened here, the dirt and the sex and the hatred and the sale of flesh.
She looked, and, as the caretaker coughed his embarrassment behind her, a warm smile broke across Dina’s face.
‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Lady, you’re crazy,’ he said.
‘My guys will be in tomorrow. And so will I.’
The old man shrugged. She wanted this shit-hole, she could surely have it.
Dina worked. She set her alarm for five a.m. and went running, pounding along the streets of Manhattan while it was still dark. There were others with her, of course – the bankers, the lawyers – all those high-powered men and women who needed to start early. Dina loved it, the excitement of the city that never sleeps crackling under her feet.
She wasn’t even tired. She was full of adrenaline.
The music pumped in her headphones, but she was paying no attention. Already, her mind was running on Dina Kane, Inc. The name was registered, the company incorporated, she had a blank website – it made it seem real. There was a bank account and she could hire staff, source products, get deep into it.
Within a month, she wanted to have something to show Joel Gaines. Not to ask for his help – never again – just to show him.
And it needed to be under the radar – a surprise – so Ludo Morgan, Edward Johnson, none of those bastards could come after her.
The first person she had to call was Piotr Ilyich. His crew knew her, had renovated her last three apartments. They were cheap, hard working and preferred cash. Besides, they liked a client who paid up and gave directions.
She never wasted Piotr’s time on materials or finishes. Dina always knew exactly what she wanted.
The run was over. She headed back inside, showered, dressed and blow-dried her hair. A simple sweater dress, flats and her best make-up – Dina was a walking billboard.
She called Piotr. It was half six now; he would be up.
‘Dina!’
‘It’s your favourite client.’
‘I would say it’s a bit early, but it’s you. Moved house again?’
‘Better than that. It’s an office, mostly underground, needs a full gut job, an architect and a plumber.’
He sighed. ‘I would – for you – but we are about to start a job uptown. An old lady’s penthouse, on Eightieth Street. Big money.’
‘Put her off. Say you need another permit. This is only going to take you a month, and there’s two hundred thousand in it. Small space; tricky.’
He whistled. ‘Two hundred thousand?’
‘To include an architect – three days’ work. I know what I want; he can draw up plans for it.’
‘And where is this amazing office you intend to waste so much cash on?’
‘Times Square. It won’t be a waste; it’s the start of my empire.’
He laughed. ‘I think I believe you.’
‘You know a good architect? He has to be good.’
Two hours later, they were at the site. Piotr came with Arek, the chief of his workmen, and a young woman, skinny with lanky, mousy hair, thick glasses and sallow skin. She was in her early thirties; older than Dina and, judging by the clothes, poorer.
‘Hi. I’m Dina.’ She looked at the girl. ‘You work for Arek?’
‘Natalya,’ the woman said, shaking hands. She looked over at Piotr.
‘Natalya is our architect.’
Dina bridled.
‘She fled from Russia, where she worked at one of the top firms. She was a star designer; helped with Naberezhnaya Tower in Moscow.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Husband,’ the woman said.
‘Natalya has little English. Her former husband is well connected to one of the oligarch families. He beat her and, when she left, she did not want to stay there. Now she has come here as a student.’
‘She’s legal?’
‘She came on a nanny visa. Works all hours for a rich family on the Upper West Side. They treat her like a slave, but at least she has a sponsor. Four children and a house to clean. She cleans like maid, cooks like servant, but she has an advanced degree, a good career.’
‘How is she here
?’
‘The family is on vacation. They don’t want to pay for the extra air ticket. She’s good, understands structure.’
Dina looked carefully from man to woman. ‘What is in this for you, Piotr?’
‘Natalya is my second cousin’s daughter.’ He shrugged. ‘In Russia, we take family very seriously.’
‘Translate,’ Dina said. ‘If she does this well, I will help her. No more housekeeping.’
Piotr spoke quickly to Natalya, and her eyes lit up.
‘I want the office waterproofed. The whole place must be wired for internet and LED throughout. Spots in the ceiling and walls. Backlighting. Bulbs must be natural daylight, and we want climate control. Solid glass steps here. I want light wells drilled in from the ceiling, to bring natural light into the space, maybe tunnelled from the walls. The look is to be that of an urban garden. Air-hanging plants, ferns, a small rockery – greenery everywhere. In the back, I want a perpetual fountain, and tiny, luminescent fish swimming in a rock pool. There will be mirrors on every shelf, lit with smaller daylight bulbs, so that girls can make up.’
Piotr was talking as fast as he could. Natalya nodded.
‘Every surface will be light, so that the space seems more open: glass, blond wood, cream and caramel marble, with specks of greenery and warm sandy pebbles. When a woman walks out of the chaos of Times Square – even in winter – I want this to be warm, moist, calming, soothing. She breathes out; she relaxes.’
‘Da.’ Natalya looked around, and Dina could tell her eyes were cataloguing the dimensions.
‘Make sure the design is expandable. There’s a Hooter’s restaurant right above us; I’m going to want to buy that too.’
Piotr shook his head. ‘You steal our strip clubs; now Hooter’s too? Typical woman.’
Dina ignored him. ‘Here are the materials I want. I brought samples – left over from my own apartments.’
She unzipped the heavy canvas bag she’d brought with her and laid out samples – chips of golden brown marble, blond Swedish wood, a hunk of sparkling, tempered glass, some mirrors, white limestone . . .
Natalya looked up at her. Her dull skin was already luminous; her face was bright with excitement. She nodded eagerly and spoke in a peal of Russian, words tumbling out of her.
‘She says she understand very well, your vision. It will look beautiful. She says you bring California to New York – water and desert. She want you to know most important is electrics and water. Then light wells. She will give you drawings. We can make it.’
Dina smiled slightly, and the older girl nodded eagerly and clasped her hand.
‘She says you very alike. You will see what Russia can do. She already create in extreme environment. You make this extreme beauty.’
‘Extreme beauty,’ Dina said, softly, rolling the words on her tongue. ‘Extreme beauty. I love it.’
‘I do not understand,’ Piotr said.
‘Pay her. She will need your men to start today; she can tell them what to do as she draws. I don’t have a minute to lose. The plumbers and electricians should be here right away.’
‘Very good.’ He had learned not to argue.
‘And, Piotr, one other thing. I will give you extra money; hire a tutor for Natalya. Have him here, round the clock. I want her to learn English. We can work together.’
He spoke to the young woman, and she nodded, again, harder.
‘I am intelligent. I learn English,’ she said. ‘Learn fast. Make building.’
‘She’s exactly what I need. Tell her I will be talking to an immigration lawyer. And I want her to have the basic drawings for the conversion ready in one month.’
Natalya reached out and grabbed Dina’s hand. ‘Boss,’ she said. ‘Boss.’
The days went by, dementedly. Dina sunk herself into it. There was the website, which she needed to be better, cooler, than anything else on the web. She hired some kids from NYU, and showed them her brilliant ideas.
‘First, it needs to be easy to pay.’
They all sat there, in a cramped little room in the Times Square space, trying to block out the sound of the drilling and hammers.
‘What was this place?’ Damian Black, web guru, had thick glasses, skinny jeans and Converse trainers. He didn’t see a lot of sun, but the dense, narrow darkness they were plunged into was something else.
‘A strip club. This was the cloakroom,’ Dina Kane said, matter of factly.
‘I see.’ They were sitting round a long, narrow table, made completely of Perspex, with laptops and a huge router plugged into the wall. ‘What’s it going to be next?’
The alcove was barely four paces wide, and the table took up most of it. Plunging, slippery black stairs led down to the hole where the men were working.
‘You can’t even fit customers in here. It’s a useless space.’
Dina smiled tightly. ‘Nothing’s useless. This will be a giant wall of high-res screens, projecting our slogan and showing clips of ordinary women, their faces being made over with the products we stock. You won’t see the hands of the make-up artist, just beauty appearing on the skin. Different women – all ages, all races – and, beside them, popping up in bubbles, some of the products we use.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Goddamn,’ Damian said. ‘That’s fucking cool.’
‘There will be men in there, too – groomed, shaved – looking sharp, like James Bond. We have a male section.’
‘What’s the slogan?’
Damian’s partner was Cliff Green. He was just as brilliant, maybe a little more of a businessman. And this girl had his antenna up.
‘Dina Kane – Extreme Beauty.’
He exhaled. ‘I fucking love it.’
‘It’s perfect for New York,’ Damian said.
‘And building my site is going to get you guys where you want to go, believe me. I don’t have the cash to go hiring the blue-chip firms, those tired old bastards with fancy offices. My architect is a Russian refugee. My first store is a basement strip club. You guys are students. But, together, we are going to build an empire.’
It could have sounded hokey, in the tiny dark room with the drills and the plastic table, but the young men were drinking in her every word.
‘Everybody on this team is making their name. You’re about to debut the smoothest site since Net-A-Porter. Since Sephora. You got it?’
‘Shit. We’re taking notes.’
‘So –’ Dina rose up and started to wave her hands, like she was literally building castles in the air – ‘this website is the business. The store is going to be amazing – and there will be more stores, bigger stores – but the website is where we make our money. Chanel doesn’t make money through ten-thousand-dollar suit jackets; it makes money through No. 5 sold in every airport concession in America.’
‘Right.’
‘So let’s start with the basics: it’s so easy to pay. Customers can use PayPal. They only need to log in once, then they stay logged in for six months. Credit cards are automatically retained, unless the opt-out box is selected. Password – six characters – anything you like. Understand?’
They nodded furiously.
‘Next, Extreme Beauty is immersive. First, you organise the products by type. I’ll give you the categories. Next, as soon as something pops up, I want videos of its application – just like the fashion sites show women walking in the clothes – consumers want it. We will have ten-second before-and-afters.’
‘Yeah. Cool.’
‘With every product, we add in partners. “Goes great with . . .” and two other things pop up. I will give you the list. There’s also, “Best suited to . . .” and categories: blondes, African-Americans, oily skin, whatever.’
The boys were typing now, barely looking up from their screens.
‘We want women to linger on this site – to play on it. Every image can be tacked to Pinterest – they all link back to us.’
‘Great.’
‘Searc
h. You can search for product category, by your hair colour and type, by your skin colour and type, by new products, by most wanted, and the last category I’m doing is “Toys for Girls”. That’s like our personal recommendations. There will also be Extreme Style, the men’s section, and gifts – stuff that works for everybody.’
‘OK. OK. This is going to be a big site – lot of real estate; lot of usage.’
‘I have the money. Animation must be smooth. Recommendations must fade in. I want you to think of this as the hottest make-up site you ever saw.’
‘My girlfriend is going to freak,’ Damian said.
‘Dude, shut up. You don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘I will after this.’ And he grinned.
‘You can sign up and, after you spend a certain level, you become a VIP and get discounts, makeover vouchers and free samples.’
‘OK.’
‘There needs to be a community section. It’ll be moderated; girls can send in photos of themselves using the products, offer their endorsements and suggestions. No reviews, though; I don’t need spammers marking the stuff down. Everything on Dina Kane is going to be perfect – if it’s properly used. Do you get it? Are you with me?’
They nodded furiously.
‘This is more than a place to buy cosmetics. It’s full of videos, bubbles, games, makeovers, enchantment. It’s Aladdin’s cave. It’s immersive. You know, Net-A-Porter built a billion-dollar business selling purses that cost a thousand bucks. There are a lot more women out there who can buy a top-line lipstick at thirty dollars. You know why Net-A-Porter works? Because it’s not work. They show the product on a woman. They video the product on a woman. You search by size and colour and they tell you what goes with it. Rich women are busy; they love it; it’s like a personal shopper on their computer. Understand?’
They nodded. She could sell ice to Eskimos, and the two gamer freaks were suddenly all about the cult of mascara.
‘So, you guys start. Send me links to the alpha pages. Use dummy items and prices.’
‘Absolutely,’ Damian said. ‘Yes, Ms Kane.’
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