Her friends and family clamored for her guidance: "'Hillary, could you look at this?' I'd look at it, and you know what? It was a crummy stone," Ms. Beckman recalled. "Did it have the right clarity on the cert? Did it have the right color on the cert? Sure. There's more to it than that. If I looked at the percentages for the table and the depth, I would know if that stone was a good make. I could look at a stone and see if the girdle was consistent." Excuse us? Cert ? Girdle ?

It was only when Ms. Beckman, then a schoolteacher, was shopping for her own wedding band that the terrible frustration of buying a diamond ring hit home with full force. All she wanted was an emerald-cut wedding band with matched stones in a common-prong platinum setting. What was so hard about that? But nothing was easy in the diamond district. "They would show me a layout of emerald-cut stones and tell me that they were VS1," she said, throwing around more of that fancy terminology. "I'd look at them and I'd see black piques. And I'd look at them and I'd say, 'These are not VS1 stones.'"

She made up her mind to buy a plain band devoid of diamonds-a passive-aggressive statement of puritanical restraint.

Then she had dinner with her future father-in-law, a lawyer who had done a restaurant deal for a guy whose family owned a diamond-manufacturing company, "'Listen, I spoke to him about your problem," her father-in-law told her. "He said, 'Send her up to me. We'll do something for her.'"

Immediately upon meeting this man, Ms. Beckman realized that his company was different. "They wanted to know about my problem: What was I experiencing? How was I feeling?" Her emotional landscape was just as important to them as the hard, cold facts. This evolved into a diamond experience unlike anything Ms. Beckman had ever dreamt of. "I watched people with their hands and the wheel cutting these stones …. And I watched it from birth to finish," she said. Through the intimate process of creating her perfect ring, Ms. Beckman formed a deep bond with the owners of this manufacturing company, a family that keeps a low profile, whose inventory is "only whispered about on the street."

Ms. Beckman compared the owner, an expert cutter, to a horse whisperer, describing his uncanny ability to "look at a stone, feel a stone, listen to it … and find the right grains to cut on …. To maximize the light and vitality and potential, the brightness and the sparkle of it-that's a true artist."

She ended up with the ring she'd always dreamed of, her excess joy spilling over even to her husband. "Before it was like: 'You want a diamond wedding band-well, I want a flat-screen TV. Which one are we getting?'" she said.

And when the mystery manufacturer needed to present a critical proposal to the Diamond Trading Company, the rough-diamond sales arm of the De Beers Group, they asked Ms. Beckman to do it. "Here I was, a teacher who just wanted a wedding band, and now all of a sudden I was intricately involved in this business," she said incredulously. After her initial success with the presentation, Ms. Beckman and this mystery family continued to work together, developing their concept of a high-end retail store that would offer the highest-quality diamonds while allowing customization of each piece of jewelry.

Seated behind the desk in her chic, intimate fourth-floor store, Ms. Beckman pointed out her favorite pieces of jewelry. The opera-length eternity necklace, 198 diamonds with a total weight of 38 carats, would certainly be hard to beat. "You have to find enough diamonds that match, that are so similar that you can put them into one piece of jewelry and it looks consistent," she said. "When you wear it and you walk"-Ms. Beckman demonstrated, her long hair cascading into the diamonds-"it moves …. And it just catches the light beautifully.

"Look at these things," she proclaimed, gesturing towards the display of glistening jewelry in front of her. "They're like stars!"

"I want it to tour like a rock band," said I.O.C.’s designer, Tara Subkoff, who has been swanning around like a bit of a rock star herself recently in the pages of Harper’s Bazaar, etc. "I had an idea for a store that was completely minimalist, completely functional and completely nomadic, so that my shopkeeper could pick it up and run with it down the street if need be."

Ms. Subkoff’s "shopkeeper" is her brother’s best friend, Jed Miner. He was standing inside the Plexiglas in a pale suit and tie, with angelic golden locks, delivering a steady stream of banter. The "Imitation Store" was slated to hit 30 New York City locations in one week, Mr. Miner said, with a new item each day, and is ultimately destined for Los Angeles, Paris, London and Tokyo. "And my bedroom is an additional location, for all you groupies out there," he murmured.

But seriously, folks: "I will be doing my best to uphold the fashion-design sensibilities of Tara Subkoff," Mr. Miner said. "Rich people really do want to show the rest of the world that they can spend $7,000 right next to the hot-dog stand."

Several days later, Ms. Subkoff showed up at Bottino on 10th Avenue and 24th Street—following Daniel Subkoff, her brother and creative partner, by a few minutes—and ordered lunch (brunch was no longer available, much to her chagrin). She was wearing a one-sleeved silver-gray work shirt and suede shorts, accessorized by Roman-style sandals that came all the way up her lovely calves, and she was accompanied by a small entourage that included Mr. Miner. Her blond hair was slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck in a Grace Kelly style. The designer said she had tried to avoid negative press by braiding her hair in cornrows for the show—"by having them put me down rather than the ideas," she said. "By having them completely make fun of me and my hair style."

After her salmon arrived, Ms. Subkoff began discussing I.O.C.’s runway show, which had begun with a small child reading the Pledge of Allegiance aloud, while photographs of women and children in Iraq were projected on the back wall and four American flags hung from above. Ms. Subkoff alleged that it wasn’t a runway show at all—despite the presence of male and female models parading up and down the catwalk in clothing of her design—but "a complicated social experiment."

And what was the outcome of this experiment?

"You saw it, you came, you were there," the designer said flatly. "I’d rather you explain it than I."

Then she relented a bit. "I think this President we have now should be impeached," Ms. Subkoff said. "He’s atrocious. The only area of influence I have is the fashion world. If I changed one person’s mind, then I think all the bad reviews would be worth it."

Of her new retail venture, Ms. Subkoff said: "I’m not trying to start a movement—I’m just trying to have a completely original branding experience. I think my store is the most democratic store that ever existed! We have no security guards, and our salesman is lovely to everyone equally." And then, with commendable exuberance: "I think we have the most American, patriotic store that ever existed on the planet!"

One of the store’s first stops had been amidst the throng on Grand and Wooster, right outside the Deitch Projects opening of Terry Richardson’s revolting Terry World. "Terry—who is a dear friend, who was such a good sport …. " Ms. Subkoff said, then trailed off. That evening, the Imitation Store sold a $400, vintage-1930’s pair of glass eyeballs, which had been worn by the same man: one in the daytime and the other at night.

The top three designers from each country with the most sales "win." The prize: an opportunity to stay on as part of Opening Ceremony's permanent collection. Last year, the U.S. "team" competed against and conquered Hong Kong; it's currently battling Brazil. At the end of August, the proprietors will tally the sales and announce the medalists, and then Germany will enter the fray.

Opening Ceremony announces the new country a full year in advance so that everyone, especially the amateurs straight from design school, gets a fair shake. The store's owners discover the foreign designers through their international network of friends and business associates. The first year, the Hong Kong designers were a little vague on the nature of the contest-so, fortunately, they didn't quite take in the fact that they lost. "I don't think they were aware of what we were doing," Mr. Leon said.

The predominant aesthetic here is unisex. Opening Ceremony might as well be operating under Title IX, since there's a male and female version of practically every article of clothing in stock. The current house line, which is designed by Mr. Leon, comes in six sizes and includes items like a white blazer ($225) and reversible trench coat ($325). Most retail stores "buy their men's very specifically and their women's very specifically," he said, "whereas we buy it very identical." If you bought your entire wardrobe here, you wouldn't look too much like a woman, or a man, which means that all people-male and female, gay and straight-would have the option of finding you attractive. That's the theory, anyway.

"It's for a girl who's O.K. with looking different," Mr. Leon said. "The 18-year-old, really fun girls. They want to buy really fun things that none of their friends can have."

Ms. Lim cited another demographic: "Working professionals. Like women in P.R. who can really appreciate a certain aesthetic," she said. "It's a very intellectual customer."

The two owners spend practically every waking hour together, often meeting before work to play tennis, eat breakfast or just hang out. "

"We could both sit here and not talk to each other for six hours," Mr. Leon said. "We basically are more in a relationship than in our relationships!"

Their rare differences are handled with tactful phrases like "What made you decide to do that?" or "Do you think that was the smartest thing to do?"

"We've never actually fought about anything," Ms. Lim said. "I mean, maybe one particular skirt I was like, 'Hmmm …. ' We talk sometimes in code." She gave an example: "What's the B.D.? There's a C here and there might be an S, a big S."

Translation: "What's the big deal? There's a customer here and there might be a sale, a big sale."

Mr. Leon stressed that it's not all fun and games at Opening Ceremony. "When we're at work, we're really serious," he said. "It's not like we're having cocktails at home and we come down here and continue that."

Wooden chairs form a diamond shape in the center of the store's floor, each piled with black-and-white sweatshirts at $70 apiece. Noteworthy Brazilian entries include a silver metallic leather jacket by Lorenzo Merlino ($495); a black cape/dress by Eduardo Inagaki ($295); and an off-white jean skirt by Alexandre Herchcovich ($195).

The founders of Opening Ceremony hope that their store opens people's minds to other countries and cultures. "People may not go to Brazil," Ms. Lim said, "so we try to expose a little bit." The long-term vision is that the Olympic theme could expand to other fields: publications, music, "eventually food," she said.

But for now, the clothing designers remain the focus. "We offer not only an opportunity for them in the store … but it really adds up to something much bigger in the future," Mr. Leon said. And ultimately everyone's a winner-even those who don't make it to the "medal podium." "We still communicate with those other designers," Ms. Lim said. "You know: 'How's your collection going?'"

[35 Howard Street, Monday to Saturday, 11 a.m. to 8 p.m., Sunday, noon to 7 p.m., 212-219-2688.]

How did this skinny pre-teen go from selling a gossip column at Nightingale to selling preppy clothing on 74th and Lex?

The business had its genesis in tragedy: When Camilla was just 2, her mother, Marilyn Bradley, died in a car accident. All of Marilyn's clothing-everything she owned-remained in the Bradley household. By the time Camilla was 5, she had claimed the nail polish and the sexy nightgowns for herself. "I was the woman of the house, and I could do whatever I wanted," she said.

Young Ms. Bradley wasn't particularly sentimental about any of this schmatte. "I wanted to throw half of it out," she said. "I'd be like, ' Eeuw !! Why would anybody ever wear that?' And then all of a sudden, year by year, it would change, and I'd be like, 'Ooh, this is amazing!'" She had no qualms about cutting up expensive clothes for the sake of innovation, starting with the Lycra tops: "I would chop off the sleeves, sew up the sleeve holes and make them into tube skirts," she said. There was an enormous supply of high-quality materials with which to execute her youthful visions. "You can not have that mother around," she said, "but yet she shapes completely what you're doing …. I know everything about this woman. Everything, everything. "

Going on to attend Trinity College, Ms. Bradley hated the fact that the students all wore the same "uniform." The sight of endless co-eds in Gucci loafers, Barbour jackets and Brooks Brothers ribbon belts offended her creative sensibility. So she made herself a few daring ribbon belts with animal motifs. Her friends were impressed. "Uhh … that's great!" said Ms. Bradley in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, mimicking their reaction.

But she suspected that her classmates wouldn't pay for the belts, however compelling, if they knew they were homemade.

Then her father came to the rescue. It turned out John Bradley had thousands of labels left over from a college business named Tally Ho Designs. (He had sold clothing and romantic gifts for Princeton boys to give their sweethearts; sample wares included orange bras with black tiger paw prints on them.) Appropriating these labels that barely escaped the breast of a Princetonian's girlfriend, Ms. Bradley sewed them one by one onto her belts-she later added totes to the mix-then posed as a sales rep. "I would lay [them] out on the lawn in the middle of campus or in the dining hall, and people would come in and place orders," she said. "I'd have all the different ribbons, and they could put this ribbon on that ribbon and choose their D-ring." The Trinity students easily fell for the fake/borrowed label.

Ms. Bradley lost money on her venture at school, but it turned out to be well worth it for the P.R. "You know, I had this college campus of Trinity students wearing the stuff," she said. "So they go to Nantucket and the Vineyard, Maine-da, da, da, da. And then people see it and they're like, 'Where did you get that?'" The business picked up steam after graduation, when she packed up her car with belts and totes and headed straight to a store in Newport, where the Bradley family summers. "The woman there asked me, 'How much are the totes?' I said, 'Oh, how much do you want them to be?'" she recalled with a grin. "The next store I went to in Nantucket, I said, 'Oh, I sold to a store in Newport.' So that sounded great."

Operations were based in a bedroom in her dad's Upper East Side New York apartment for two years because Ms. Bradley couldn't afford rent (she could have set up shop on her family's 3,000-acre estate, just an hour up the Hudson, but it would've been kind of a schlep. ) "So our living room was just piles of hundreds of totes," she said. Shipping day was every Wednesday; U.P.S. would show up at the swanky building to cart out 30 huge, heavy boxes. "I'm surprised they didn't kick us out!" she exclaimed.

Since he adored his daughter, her father willingly went along with the program, but Ms. Bradley knew the business couldn't be run out of his place forever. After CK Bradley started to take off, (the K stands for Kerr, her middle name) she found a space on 81st Street for $3,000 a month, and then a couple of years later moved to a higher-profile, more expensive spot on 74th. She likes having her office at the back of the long, narrow store so she can see her customers when they come in and hear what they're asking for. Her accountant berates her for paying the prime retail rate for the office, but she's attached to the space. In fact, Ms. Bradley can picture staying in this location forever. "We have a little garden and a ping-pong table in the back," she said. "So we'll have little mixers in the summer."

No longer scrawny-very, very cute, in fact-the blond, blue-eyed proprietress circled through her attractive store recently, pointing out various items: a strapless trellis dress in yellow, green and pink silk, decorated with birds; a silk dupioni dress in pink, green and yellow stripes (both between $200 and $300); and a striking miniskirt in an orange, red, pink and green flower pattern ($160). Of special note was the "bitches and hoes" tie, decorated with little female Dalmatians (the bows indicate their sex) and a garden hose. The most consistent and striking element of CK Bradley clothing is the vivid color. "Everybody can wear black, everybody can buy black, everybody sells black," she said wearily.

On the counter, the goldfish bowl has only one goldfish, and his name is Stewart. The other goldfish, Martha, died recently. "Oddly enough, Martha's gone," Ms. Bradley said dryly.

She takes care to hire high-school and college interns, in addition to her six full-time employees, and asks them to keep a scrapbook of their ideas. Ms. Bradley wants to keep closely in touch with customers like the high-school girls from Chapin and Nightingale. Often, the girls bring their moms in to shop and buy matching mother-daughter outfits.

[146 East 74th Street, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., Monday to Friday, noon to 6 p.m., Saturday and Sunday, 212-988-7999.]

Complicated situations like these are made easy at Trixie and Peanut. It's a destination store: Feverishly devoted customers have been known to fly in, jump in a cab and arrive carrying their luggage-which sometimes includes their animals.

Owner Susan Bing started the business five years ago, with a catalog, after she wasn't able to find the quality and variety of pet products she wanted for her two boxers, Trixie and Peanut. "People laughed … right in my face!" said Ms. Bing, 34. "Especially guys: 'You're going to start a company selling pet things ?!'" Then an art director for Tiffany's, Ms. Bing had a lot of experience designing catalogs and newspaper advertisements. "I saved up this money to buy an apartment," she said, "but instead I decided to start a business."

The catalog swiftly expanded to the Internet, and she opened a physical store in November, running it with her husband, Mark Edwards, along with their manager, Douglas Gleason. They sell clothing, collars, harnesses, beds, pet carriers, pet bags and all kinds of toys, treats and food for dogs.

"Dogs come in every shape and size-even more than people," Ms. Bing explained. A lot of people have no idea how to measure their dogs, she said. For clothing, you're supposed to measure the dog from the base of the neck to the base of the tail. "Some people measure to the tip of the tail, and we're like, 'No, no, no-to their little butt.'" Ms. Bing said that small, skinny dogs definitely have the most options in clothing and look the best in everything. Yes, just as in women's clothing, fat dogs suffer from discrimination. But if you have a pudgy pooch, don't worry: Trixie and Peanut carries the canine equivalent of Marina Rinaldi, with some particularly nice plus-sized jackets. "You've got to work on what designer will fit that dog," Ms. Bing said.

There is pathos behind Trixie and Peanut: Namesake Trixie was in a fatal car accident three days before her "mother" finished that first catalog shoot. Ms. Bing was inconsolable. Her photographer, a close friend, had to get stern. "I was hysterical," she said. "He had to slap me, and he was like, 'Wake up! You're either going to do this or you're not. You're wasting all this time and money-you have to get it together!"

Peanut, still happy and healthy, has spent many hours of her life in front of the camera modeling clothing. Ms. Bing describes her boxer as a "nudist" who often refuses to wear any clothes at all-an act of rebellion that Ms. Bing understands. However, she makes Peanut wear a sweater and boots in the winter. The boots, both fashionable and practical, protect Peanut's paws from the salt on the sidewalk.

Devoted to her canine customers, Ms. Bing can rattle off a dog's name, size and entire wardrobe. She enjoys the fact that her store has blossomed into a prominent social spot where people can meet up with their friends (and their dogs' friends). The long, narrow store has plenty of space for the dogs to run. She and her husband, Mr. Edwards, let the dogs try on as many clothes as they want to, which many pet stores won't allow.

Occasionally, Ms. Bing gets sent down to the basement by her husband for "attitude adjustment" when she gets out of sorts with an unreasonable customer. She doesn't understand why some people seem to feel that they have a right to walk into Trixie and Peanut and criticize the store. "People come in here and look around and say, 'This is ridiculous! This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen!'" For example, Ms. Bing bought large quantities of a little motorcycle jacket so she could price them very low-but that hasn't stopped some customers from marching right up to the motorcycle jacket and saying, "' Twenty-nine dollars for this-for your dog?!' And they have no problem saying that, just out loud," Ms. Bing added disconsolately.

She also told the story of one woman who complained that T&P's dog beds were overpriced, with comments like: "Isn't it nice to be cheating people?"

"I was like, 'Petco is two blocks away. Please feel free to go to Petco, because they have a nice collection of beds.'" Ms. Bing recalled. Sure enough, the customer returned with her tail between her legs, so to speak. "She said, 'You know, those beds at Petco really aren't that nice, and they're like the same price as yours.' And I said, 'See, you just could be nice when you come in here. We were happy to help you, and we have even more beds on the Web site, and the beds start at $29. The ones at Petco are $60, and they're not even that nice.'

"There are some people you just can't please," Ms. Bing concluded. She was unable, for example, to help the middle-aged couple whose poodle wears only real diamonds. Trixie and Peanut does stock some dog collars ($12) and dog-bone charms decorated with lovely Swarovski crystals, but the elderly ladies who frequent Upper East Side pet stores often walk in and then walk right out. "They don't understand it," Ms. Bing said.

In the window of Trixie and Peanut, three doggy mannequins model rain slickers and matching boots in pale blue, pink and yellow. The "dog wall" runs along the left side of the bright white store: rows and rows of white plaster dogs' heads that almost seem to grow right out of the wall, allowing for an enormous display of collars. On the right side, very large photographs of dogs are mounted on pastel-colored boards. For the little Britney Spears–type hoochie-coochie pooches, there are wee T-shirts with sayings like "Gigolo," "Naughty" and "Stud" covering the center display, available in assorted colors ($22). And for all those canine benefits that take Manhattan every spring, tuxedos are available for $129. The store also offers feng shui "lotus bud" rubber toys for $15. "You have to do your research, because something like this isn't going to work everywhere. It's so New York," Ms. Bing said. "If someone's like, 'We're in Boston and we want to have a store just like this'- well, we don't sell to anybody in Boston! Maybe they're too practical and conservative."

Trixie and Peanut is closed on Mondays, which sometimes causes violent reactions. "I have people banging on that door, cursing at me," Ms. Bing said. "Screaming, 'I need this collar!'"

[Trixie and Peanut, 23 East 20th Street, 212-358-0881; Tuesday to Saturday, 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.; Sunday, noon to 5 p.m.]

Bag Ladies Rule Uptown

Throughout Asia, there's a waiting list for Che Che handbags: hand-painted canvas totes featuring the iconic "Che Che" girl perching in a pink-beaded dress with legs crossed at a wrought-iron table, say, patting her greyhound and sipping lemonade with Audrey Hepburn insouciance, or striding long-legged down a Parisian street in blue jeans and a pink tank top, with a bouquet of flowers in one arm and the latest Che Che bag on the other (stuffed with baguettes; the Che Che girl is indifferent to carbs). In New York, the bags are more of a cult favorite. The bright colors sometimes draw customers into the Lexington Avenue shop, where the signature poche sells for $230. And they might even go home and look in their closet to figure out the best color. But at the end of the day? "They come back and get a black bag," said Marilyn Ko, who runs Che Che's Lexington Avenue outpost. "I'm just being honest."

Ms. Ko is the oldest of three sisters who own Che Che (indeed, one might almost call the company Che Chekovian); the other two, Eliza Ong and Helen Cheung, both in their 30's, live near company headquarters in Hong Kong, where they grew up. "I stay up late, and they get up early and stay up late," Ms. Ko said. "I was calling them at 1 in the afternoon today, and it was 2 o'clock in the morning and they were still having a meeting!" The name of the multimillion-dollar business derives from their maiden name, Cheung, and honors their father. Helen Cheung, the youngest daughter, said she is the primary source of inspiration for the "uncrackable, unshrinkable" Che Che girl. "I don't need to consult anyone else's opinion. I love to make decisions by myself," she said over the phone.

Eliza Ong, the middle sister, is the imaginative, artistic one-an introvert who communicates through her design. "I can't draw," Ms. Ko admitted frankly. (Over the phone, Ms. Ong said that her older sister does consult on small design details, as well as sharing advice about the tastes of American consumers.) After the designs are painstakingly drawn and painted by art-school graduate students, each bag is sent to one factory for beading and another for assembly by white-gloved workers. If the Che Che girl isn't captured to management's satisfaction, the bag will never make it to stage two.

Che Che's transformation from a small shop in Hong Kong to an international success happened in 2000, overnight-literally!-after a Japanese buyer slept on two pieces of fabric that Ms. Ong had given him. Recently, the trio opened a factory of their own in China where all three steps in the production process can be performed in one place. They do tons more wholesale than retail. There's a store in Tokyo and in Singapore in addition to the one on Lexington, which employs two people full-time (there are about 100 employees worldwide). Ms. Ko described herself as a lenient manager. "I don't look over their shoulder," she said. "I was an employee for over 10 years, and I know how it feels to be told what to do and be reprimanded for what you didn't do." She used to teach at Polytechnic University in Hong Kong and also owns KoKo, an antique store on 66th Street, with her husband.

But Che Che is her special baby. Inside the shop, a large silk-and-organza chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, over a round orange-covered table. Hand-blown colored tiles border the white tile floor, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It's a small place, but bright and cheerful. "In Asia, people like a very, very feminine color scheme," Ms. Ko said.

Her sister, Ms. Ong, hopes the line could eventually expand to accessories (presently they're selling a small selection of $10 rhinestone wire hair clips and $5 enamel flower hair clips), shoes and evening wear. "That's what I love!" she said.

But for now, Ms. Ko is busy trying to help New York women collapse those rigid categories, "casual daytime bag" and "formal evening bag." The Che Che girl, with her long legs, straddles both.

1034A Lexington Avenue between 73rd and 74th streets, New York, N.Y. 10021 (212-249-0819); Monday to Friday, 10:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.; Saturday, 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.