Free The Prada Paradox by Julie Kenner Page A

conversation along. “Anyway, I was supposed to deliver it to you tonight, but since you’re here, I don’t see why I can’t give it to you now.”

    “Really?” I peel away the rest of the tissue and pull out my oh-so-fabulous bag. I am in awe. Truly. It’s not unusual for studios or production companies to buy cast and crew gifts, but usually I get an engraved box. Or a hat with the name of the movie embroidered on it. Or I get to keep my director’s-style chair.

    But Prada? And Givenchy, too? Be still my heart!

    “Did you tell them which bag was my favorite?” I ask.

    “Of course,” he says with a smile. “I did good?”

    “Armen, darling, if I didn’t think I would fall in love with you forever, I’d lean over and kiss you right now.”

    He laughs, and even blushes a little.

    “You know,” I add, “this just proves what I’ve been saying all along. My love of Prada is a force to be reckoned with. You guys really need to think about letting me be a spokesperson.”

    “Looks to me like you already are,” he says, then winks. “But I’ll send a memo.”

    I sigh, then rewrap my tote in its tissue and nestle it snugly in the shopping bag. Then I sigh again. As usual, retail therapy worked—even better than I could have imagined, actually.

    My day is definitely looking up…and I can’t imagine anything bringing me down now.

    Chapter10

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    Chapter11

    “Life is good,” I say, hugging my Prada shopping bag close to my chest. We’re back on Rodeo Drive, heading toward our cars.

    Lindy raises an eyebrow. “No more angst about inviting Andy over? No more nasty remarks about Blake?”

    “Maybe a few nasty remarks,” I say. “But they can wait until tomorrow. For the rest of the day, I’m basking.”

    “You’re too easy.”

    I hold up the shopping bag. “Easy? Or expensive?”

    She laughs. “Both, apparently.”

    “I still can’t believe it. A tote bag. And not the kind with the name of the movie silk-screened on the side. I mean, how classy is that? I didn’t know Tobias had it in him.”

    “It probably wasn’t Tobias,” she says, and for some reason, that comment gives me chills.

    “What do you mean?” I ask warily.

    “Just that Tobias doesn’t really seem like the Prada type. More like the McDonald’s Happy Meal type, if you know what I mean.”

    I do know, and I can’t help but laugh. (Well, snort, actually, but let’s not go there.) “Marcia, probably,” I say, referring to Tobias’s assistant. “She’s saved him from many a social and fashion faux pas.”

    “Trust me,” Lindy says. “Marcia hasnever saved that man from a fashion faux pas.”

    She has a point.

    “Listen,” she continues. “I know you want to get home and switch everything from your purse to your new bag, and I want to get back home before the traffic gets truly insane. So let’s do the Lucy shopping later.”

    I heave a sigh of relief and agree. I love my goddaughter, but that plan is fine with me.

    We part ways, Lindy to maneuver her way down to Manhattan Beach through the four p.m. traffic, and me to drive the fifteen or so relatively traffic-free blocks to my house in the hills of Beverly, as they say in theBeverly Hillbillies.

    In other words, ten minutes later I’m home.