Free The Prada Paradox by Julie Kenner

had arrived for the event resplendent in a wooden skirt (yes, wooden). It clacked when she walked and was absolutely fabulous. I’d never wear it, mind you, but in theory it totally rocked.

    At any rate, today I have tote-bag-and-purse tunnel vision, so I don’t waste a lot of time scoping out the display pods. Instead, we head straight into nirvana.

    An impressive staircase fills the center of the room, leading up to the second floor and the clothes that I know Lindy craves. She calls it the stairway to heaven, and immediately abandons me. I call it a distraction. After all, why get all muddled about clothes when there are perfectly good purses right there on the first floor? Purses that fill that nearly unfillable void in a girl’s life. Purses like that one right there in the nearby glass case. The black bag, with the buckles and the oversize straps.

    The floor is made up of black-and-white tile in a checkerboard pattern, and I play my way across the room, absolutely certain of my next move. I lift a hand and signal toward Armen, my favorite sales associate. He sees me, and his eyes go wide. He rushes over, not too fast, but with a definite spring in his step.

    “Miss Taylor!”

    “Devi,Armen. How many times do I have to tell you?”

    “At least half a dozen more,” he says. I don’t even bother to argue. He’s too well trained. And I want my bag too much to waste any more time. “You should have come in through the VIP entrance,” he scolds. “I had no idea you were here.”

    “And miss walking down Rodeo Drive? No way.” There’s a VIP door tucked in the back. It actually has a sign and everything. But it’s just not the same. If I simply wanted to open my checkbook, I could send Susie. I want the experience.

    “That one,” I say, pointing at my precious baby, tucked away in the glass case. “That one looks like it needs a good home.”

    “What?” he teases. “No trying it on for size? No walking down the street for a test drive? You’re not even going to give our other bags a chance? Darling, you’re breaking my heart.”

    I laugh. “If it will make you feel better, I’m happy to stroll down Rodeo with that bag over my shoulder. And you know as well as I do that the odds of me getting out of here with only one purse are virtually nil. But you may as well wrap it up for me now, because we both know I’m getting it.”

    “I already have.”

    I cock my head, sure I’ve misunderstood. “Pardon?”

    He lifts a finger, signaling for me to wait, then disappears into the back. After a moment, he returns, a familiar Prada shopping bag hooked over one finger. He extends his entire arm and presents the bag to me with as much ceremony as if he were passing off the crown jewels.

    I look inside and see the tissue-wrapped tote. I use my fingernails to pry the tissue away and reveal my bag in all its glory.

    Considering all the pomp and circumstance, I can’t say that I’m surprised. What I am, though, is baffled. “Did you set it aside for me the last time I was in here?”

    “I wanted to, but you told me not to.”

    I had. At the time, I’d still been wavering. I have an entire closet in my house devoted to purses, after all. Then again, a girl really can’t have too many bags.

    “Then why is it already wrapped up?” I ask.

    “Because you are one lucky lady.” He cocks his head. “Or did you pull a few strings?”

    He looks so eager, but I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

    “Huh?” (How’s that for articulate?)

    His face seems to fall. “Well, damn. I was so sure that you’re the one who arranged this.”

    “Armen! Whatthis? ”

    “The bag,” he said. “It’s a gift from the producers. Apparently the order of the day is Givenchy—what with the movie title and all. But you, my dear, are getting Prada, since everyone knows you love us so much. Well,” he adds, hedging a bit, “I think you’re getting something Givenchy, too. I really didn’t get all the details.” He waves a hand, as if he’s moving the