Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,23
Week tents to speak with Ms. Harmon. After last night, I need to find out if she still wants us to cater her runway show with Fen on Sunday—a long shot by any stretch.”
“You’re bearing a caffeinated gift, I see,” Esther noted. “Good idea.”
I held up the latte. “Yes, a frothy bribe. You and Moira hold the fort until I get back.”
“Let me bag that up,” said Moira, taking the hot cup.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well, if you’re trying to bribe her, why don’t you throw in a couple of those Ricciarelli the baker brought this morning?” said Esther. “Didn’t Tad say something last night about Lottie loving them?”
“Good idea,” I noted and sighed with relief as I left to find my jacket on a hook in my second floor office. Esther had always been a reluctant worker, but she was really rising to the occasion now and I was grateful. A few minutes later, Moira handed me two paper bags, and I stepped out to a brisk fall day—not cold, but with a distinct chill in the air.
The sky over Hudson Street, pristine and cerulean blue, offered a vista only possible near the ocean. Coupled with a cool breeze off the water a few blocks away, this particular autumn morning reminded New Yorkers of a fact they often forgot—that their fair city was also a port, and the salty waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped at her shores.
I caught a cab on Hudson and listened to Bollywood music on the cabbie’s sound system as the Sikh driver raced uptown. Traffic was light and I was soon climbing out of the cab in front of the New York Public Library’s flagship building on Forty-second Street. The pair of immense stone lions that guarded the cathedral-like front entrance stared impassively as I paid the fare and followed the wide sidewalk to the back of the massive structure, where a lovely patch of green sat nestled among the skyscrapers just one block east of Times Square’s blinding neon and crazy congestion.
Although this midtown space has been called Bryant Park since 1842, the area itself has endured a checkered history. In the 1970s, for instance, when Times Square was a haven of prostitution and pornography, Bryant Park was a blighted site of muggings and drug deals. But a decade-long effort begun in 1980 has totally transformed the space and redeemed its fallen reputation. A refuge of peace and calm, Bryant is a true urban park, full of historical monuments, gravel paths, green chairs, and even a jaunty carrousel.
Bordered by the Main Library to the east, the modern Verizon Building to the west, and a brace of skyscrapers north and south, this emerald rectangle—named after the poet William Cullen Bryant in honor of that man’s tireless efforts to create large garden parks in New York City—has, since its renovation, become a midtown mecca for nature-starved urban dwellers seeking sunshine, the feel of grass under their feet, the sounds of a free concert in spring and summer, or the glamour of Fall Fashion Week in early autumn.
I entered the park along a gravel path which paralleled one of the three flower beds bordering the shady north lawn. Along both the northern and southern sides of the park were twin promenades lined with tall London plane trees—the same species found at the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris. The long trunks and delicate leaves of these one-hundred to one-hundred and twenty foot trees lent the place a distinct European character—the illusion completed by the towering stone backdrop of the New York Public Library, standing in for the Louvre.
Because of Fashion Week, the entire south and west sides of the park were dominated by several huge white tents, the largest of which appeared sizeable enough to house an airliner. Along Fortieth Street, which had been closed to vehicular traffic for the duration of Fashion Week, large mobile homes lined the curbs, all of them brightly painted, and decked with signs and the logos of the designers who used them.
The sidewalks were crowded with people. Many were obvious fashionistas—designers, wardrobe specialists, makeup artists, and young apprentices—beautiful and vacuous-looking enough to be aspiring models themselves. They were easy enough to identify by their bright blue T-shirts with the Spring Fashion Week logos, and their identity badges hanging from yellow cords around their necks. As I passed a trailer marked Malibu Bitch Swimwear, a door opened and out came a poised thirty-something woman in a conservative business suit. She waved a clipboard and