She doubtless had a closet full of Donna Karan suits, but she came to the door in pre-faded jeans and a striped sweater.
A successful publicity agent, she was petite, with dark hair and eyes and an obvious don't-bug-me take on life.
"Come on in. My nanny's here to help keep Kevin out of the way." She was sounding like she'd gotten her old spunk back, or so it seemed at first. "I've completely cleared the living room."
I looked around the place, now a vision of setup pandemonium. "You're sure this is all right?"
"Well . . ." She was biting at her lip. "Maybe we ought to talk first, okay? But come on in. I'll probably do it. Maybe I just need a good reason to. . . ."
As her voice trailed off, I found myself mining my brain for a sales point. Finally, out of the blue, I settled on one. "Because you're totally crazy?"
She laughed out loud. "Not a bad start. I live in total madness. It's the definition of my life."
I laughed too and looked around. No kidding. Her loft apartment was a wild mixture of stairs and galleries and levels—unconventional in every way. Also, it had a lot of in-your-face decor, outrageous posters, and African fertility masks, signs of a wonderful, irreverent personality. Then too, stuffed animals and toys were strewn all over.
"I can't really afford the rent," she declared, seeing me survey the place, "but I need the space for Kevin. I've just joined Bloomingdale's Anonymous. Twelve steps to shredding your charge plates."
Her nanny, a Jehovah's Witness from Jamaica named Marcy (who reminded me of a cuddly voodoo doll, complete with cornrows), was bringing Carly's little boy Kevin down from his bath in the upstairs bathroom.