“Hello, babe,” he says, his voice cheerful.
Obviously, I’m right about him not being bothered about the way our conversation ended yesterday. So I decide not to let it bother me. “Ryder! You can’t just skip meetings so you can go shopping!”
“Don’t be a nanny.”
“But you have a personal shopper for that.”
“I don’t think Josephine can do this for me.”
“For the kind of money you pay her, she totally can.” Josephine Martinez is not cheap. Her rates used to be somewhat reasonable, but then her business exploded a couple of years ago, and now she has a waiting list.
Ryder laughs. “Why are you so upset? It’s no big deal. All work and no play makes Ryder a dull boy.”
“That doesn’t mean that you can just skip—“
“Look, the meetings are no big deal. Mira doesn’t mind rescheduling, and neither does my guy at OWM. What’s his name again?”
“Pete Monroe,” I answer automatically.
“Yeah. He was happy to accommodate. And so are other people.”
My phone beeps with another call. I check the caller ID. “I have Josephine on the line.”
“Excellent. Talk
to her.”
“About what?”
“Catch you later, doll. Bye.” He hangs up.
I cringe. Josephine selects a few items each season and sends them to Ryder. Sometimes she comes up with an entire wardrobe. Every designer who wants Ryder to wear their stuff goes through her since he doesn’t bother with details like that. She rarely calls me, and when she does, it’s to discuss something that Ryder already gave me instructions about. This time, I have no idea.
“Hello, Paige,” she says, her voice brisk but not cold. “I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch break.” Unlike some people who are perfunctory, she genuinely is considerate.
“Not at all. I already ate.” Translation: I was starving and couldn’t wait until noon.
“What’re your height, bust, waist and hip measurements?”
“Excuse me?”
“And shoe size.” She pauses for a moment. “And any allergies to metal?”
“Uh, no, none. Why do you need my measurements?”
She clucks her tongue. “Why would a personal shopper and fashion consultant need your measurements? What could it be, what could it be? Come on now, I don’t have all day.”
Rattled, I give her the numbers she wants. She makes non-committal noises.
“Any colors you prefer, or don’t prefer?”
“Um. Not really.”
“Great. I’ll just choose then. You haven’t tanned or changed your hair color since I saw you last month, have you?”
“No. But wh—”
“Good.” She hangs up.