Lipstick Jungle

“It must have been a department store. Bloomingdale’s maybe . . .”

“Honey,” Myrna snorted, placing her hand on Victory’s wrist. “I know your stuff. I’d recognize your designs anywhere. That’s my business, remember?”

“But that’s impossible,” Victory objected.

Myrna held up her palms in protest. “I know what I saw. I was in the Dress Barn in the Five Towns on Sunday and they had a whole rack of dresses that looked just like yours. They even had the lace gloves with the velvet ribbons . . . And what’s up with that new company Howard’s started across the street in 1411?”

Victory shook her head blindly. In the Garment District, people referred to the buildings by their numbers only, and 1411 Broadway was the most down-market building in the area. Lots of clothing were auctioned off to the commercial chain retailers like slaves; the building was the ugly stepchild of the industry that no one wanted to talk about. She was filled with a terrible feeling of dread. Thanking Myrna, she ran across the street, dodging traffic. It couldn’t be, she thought. Even Howard wouldn’t be so stupid as to be secretly selling her clothes in 1411. It would ruin her name and his investment, and it didn’t make sense. She’d checked the inventory statements last month, and nothing seemed to be amiss . . .

It wasn’t possible, she thought, trying to reassure herself.

The foyer in 1411 reeked of grease from the millions of bags of takeout food that had passed through the lobby in the last seventy years. On the wall was a listing of all the businesses in the building, but Victory didn’t know what she was looking for—Howard might have called his new company anything, and he was certainly smart enough not to use his own name. She decided to head up to the second floor where the auctions took place, and sure enough, in the middle of a cavernous room filled with racks and racks of clothing waiting their turn on the auction block, she found two racks of clothing that were exact duplicates of her designs. She felt the fabric and shuddered—the difference was that these pieces were executed in cheap materials that would fall apart after three or four wearings and would shrink at the dry cleaner’s. She turned over the hem and saw that the stitching was uneven and not finished; then she checked the label. Her trademark was a pink square with the words “Victory Ford” stitched in whimsical lettering. The label on these cheap knockoffs was nearly the same, the only difference being the actual name, which read “Viceroy Fjord.”

She dropped the garment as if it were diseased, and stepped back, putting her hand over her mouth in horror.

She doubled over in pain. He had hardly bothered to even change the name. He must think she was an idiot. Did he really think she was going to let him get away with this? Obviously, he did. He probably saw her as a stupid little girl who would do whatever he wanted, someone he could use and rip off and then toss away without any consequences.

Well, he had another think coming.

She was suddenly filled with rage. He had stolen her child, and she was going to kill him. No. She was going to mangle him first, and then kill him. It was one thing to fuck with her, she decided, but another thing entirely to fuck with her business.

These feelings were completely new to her. She had no idea she could ever be so angry. As if on automatic pilot, she went back to the lobby, found the name of his “new company,” and marched in the door. Howard was sitting at a metal desk with his feet up, shoving something into his mouth that appeared to consist entirely of crumbs, and talking on the phone. “Wha-a-a-a-t?” he said, as if he were irritated at her interruption.

“You fucking asshole!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, snatching up his paper from his desk and throwing it onto the floor.

“What the fuck,” he bleated, and speaking into the receiver, said, “I’ll call you back.”

“How dare you?” she shouted, advancing on him like she was about to hit him, and wishing that she were a man so she could. “I saw those clothes. On the second floor . . .” But before she could go on, he jumped up and interrupted her. “How dare you?” he shouted back, pointing at her as if he were the injured party. “You don’t ever come into my office screaming again.”

The fact that he was defending himself took her by shock, and she opened and closed her mouth, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“I saw those pieces . . .”

“Yeah? So what?” he said, bending over to pick up the newspaper. “So you saw some clothes. And then you come in here, screaming like a crazy woman . . .”

Her rage flared up again. “You stole my designs,” she shouted. “You can’t do that. You can’t rip me off.”

He screwed his face up into an expression of distaste. “You’re insane. Get outta here.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Can’t do what?” He shrugged scornfully. “This business is all about copying—everyone knows that.”

“Let me explain something, Howard,” she said threateningly. “You don’t mess with me. And don’t think you’re going to see another penny from my hard-earned profits . . .”

“Oh yeah?” he said, his face reddening. He walked up to her and jerked her arm, pulling her toward the door. “I got a piece of paper that you signed that says different. So don’t even think about it.” And in the next second, she suddenly found herself out in the hallway and Howard was closing the door in her face.

Every vein in her head throbbed with anger and humiliation. For a few seconds she stood in the hallway in shock, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Howard should have been scared of her; he was in the wrong, and he should have at least had the decency t

o look frightened. But instead he’d somehow turned it around so that she was the ogre, the crazy woman, and she suddenly realized that she’d lost all her power the minute she started screaming.

And goddammit, now he knew that she knew. Walking to the elevator, she punched the button several times, in a panic to get out of the building. She didn’t want Howard to come out of his office and find her there—she wasn’t ready for another confrontation. She should have kept quiet about the fact that he was ripping her off until she’d gotten some information about what to do about it. The elevator door finally creaked open and she got in, leaning against the wall as her eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t fair. She’d spent her whole life working her ass off to try to create a name and a company, thinking she’d be rewarded for her good work, and all that happened was some creep had come along and ripped her off. She couldn’t let him get away with it.

“You’ve got to stop acting like a little girl and grow up,” her banker friend advised. “You’re a businesswoman. You don’t get into a personal confrontation with this asshole. You put your money where your mouth is. You sue. Take him to court and sue his big fat white butt.”

“I can’t hire a lawyer,” she said. “It’s too tacky.” But then she thought about it. If she was going to survive in this business, she needed to send a message to the fashion industry: If you messed with Victory Ford, she would retaliate. There would be consequences.

She got Kit to pose as a buyer from a chain store, and sent her in to meet with Howard at Viceroy Fjord. Kit pretended to love the clothes and took pictures with a Polaroid camera. Then Victory took photographs of her own designs. She found a lawyer through Myrna, who felt bad about what had happened to her.