How did her dream client become her nightmare?

I’m doing a quick grocery run when my phone vibrates.

“I sent you an email,” Leah Malka announces. She’s one of those people who don’t trust that I read my emails.

“What’s up?” I prompt, grabbing two bunches of bananas. It’s the only solid food Rikki will touch.

“More like what’s down,” she sighs. “Business, that’s what.”

“Uh-oh, that’s bad.” Yogurt, I need yogurt.

“Yeah. So listen,” she perks up, “What I need from you is a super-striking, impossible-to-miss, tremendously convincing ad.”

“Okay.” Creamy Blends, Stacker — it’s Greek Kids Vanilla, or a Yossi-level meltdown.

“…since March,” Leah Malka is saying.

“Hmmm.” Greek Light, I.Q. — there it is.

“…with this fresh competition.”

I stack eight containers precariously between one hand and my chin, trying not to drop my phone in the process.

“Why don’t I call you from home?” I suggest. “I’ll check out your email, brainstorm a bit, and let you know what I come up with.”

“Sounds good.” Leah Malka agrees, “But think super flashy, exceptionally eye-catching. Something that hollers ‘Buy AccessoriZe!'"

I chuckle and head to checkout. “In six years, have I ever let you down?”

True to my word, once I’ve got my groceries unpacked and my sheitel off, I settle at my desk. Shaya at Shoeniverse emailed me — Vennetinis are only 15% off, could I amend the sale announcement; there’s another e-fax from the Queen of Sheba, Macy’s is running a one-day flash sale, and I see the message from Leah Malka, marked urgent. And oh, wait, who’s this? I click open an email from adamz@treschicusa.com.

Good Morning Mrs. Blau,

My name is Adam Zuckerman, and I’m the marketing executive at Très Chic LLC.

Très Chic! My heart rate quickens. A key player in the frum fashion industry.

We are looking to pair with a graphic designer, and Samuel Lazarowitz recommended you. I would like to invite you to meet with me in my office, so we can discuss potentially working together.

I gape, mouse in hand, double check the email address, and read the message again.

Wow. This is just…wow! Talk about a lucky stroke. I beam at my screen, steady my fingers, and hit reply.

Adam Zuckerman turns out to be an impossibly tall black-haired fellow whom I peg as mid-forties. He waves me into an upscale office, offers a curt greeting, and it’s immediately apparent that I’m dealing with a finger-steepler. Finger-steeplers intimidate me.

He takes his time perusing my portfolio, swiveling to and fro in an oversized white chair. I’m wondering if it’s me, or if ergonomic chairs are less comfortable, when he looks up abruptly. “Your art’s sharp.”

“Thank you.” I’m way better at art than at self-promotion.

Adam drops the papers onto an immaculate desk, and fixes steely gray eyes on me. I try not to squirm.

“So,” he says, “You’ve been in the line how long?”

I inhale and aim for confidence. “Ten years, though I officially launched in 2013.”

“I see.” His gaze never wavers. “As far as lead time…”

We negotiate technicalities for the better part of an hour before he’s ready to get to the point. “Très Chic, as you may be aware, is actually an umbrella encompassing various brands. Chateaux, Diva, they’re all ours.”

I nod. I’m aware all right. In every tingly nerve in my body.