Coffee order. Easy.
From what I could tell, everyone present had already downed multiple espressos.
The photo studio was a circus. Busy worker bees unfurled white backdrops while photographers and assistants tested lighting and barked orders. Tables with every hair and makeup product known to humanity cut an L down the middle of the space. On the far wall was another table with sad-looking low-carb snacks.
“What about lunch?” I asked hopefully.
Linus stopped in his tracks, and I bumped into him. “Ally, these people don’t eat. They drink, and they smoke, and they work very hard. Then they go home to drink and smoke some more.”
“No lunch. Got it,” I said.
He stormed on, weaving his way through a crowd of model assistants. I could tell they were assistants because they were dressed and made up to the nines but had their phones trained on their bosses.
“Then you need to go to this address, pick up four dogs, and bring them to the Balcony Bridge at Central Park no later than two p.m. We have a very tight window with the permits and the light. Do not. I repeat. Do not fuck this up.”
“Hang on,” I said. “Dogs?”
Linus spun around and gave an elegant eye-roll. “You are not here to have all of your life’s questions answered. You are here to cross off items on my to-do list.”
“Dogs. Linus. I don’t have a car. What am I supposed to do? Take them on the subway?”
He retrieved a black silk handkerchief from a pocket and daintily dabbed at his forehead. “Try not to be completely useless, Admin Ally. You will take one of the company SUVs. Preferably one that won’t need to be used tomorrow so the driver can get it cleaned before God forbid someone important gets dog hair on their gown. You will go to the address, pick up the dogs, and bring them to—”
“Central Park. Yeah. I got that part,” I said dryly.
I spotted a Nike shoebox shoved under one of the makeup tables and ducked to scoop it up.
Size eight.
Triumphantly, I held the box toward Linus. He held up his palms. “Don’t give them to me. Give them to Colossus, along with a judgmental look for providing fake measurements. Then coffee. Then dogs.”
“Is there anything else? How about a tasty little pastry to go with your coffee?”
“Be gone, woman.”
I’d managed all of three steps before I heard Linus’s stage whisper. “Blueberry scone.”
I grinned and got to work.
17
Ally
The behind-the-scenes of a Label editorial photo shoot was exciting enough, interesting enough, to pull me out of my funk.
In front of me, five models preened and posed for the photographer on a set constructed entirely out of white boxes. Music thudded from overhead speakers. The contributing editor in charge of the shoot gnawed nervously on a pen cap behind the photographer.
There was a bearded dude in stonewashed jeans whose sole job seemed to be flipping a large piece of cardboard at the models to make their hair look windblown.
Linus snuck his phone out of his pocket and snapped a few pictures in rapid succession.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
He checked his watch and nudged me toward the door.
“We’re doing high-level babysitting,” he explained, firing off a text and tucking his phone back into his pocket.
“You’re reporting to Dalessandra,” I guessed, taking a slurp of the cappuccino I’d ordered myself on the company card. The caffeine and sugar made me giddy.
“That’s right. I reassure her that everyone is doing their jobs so she can focus on doing hers. Usually it’s all lies, and we’re all just holding on by a thread.”
I ducked as an assistant trundled a rolling rack between us.
When it passed, Linus was already halfway across the room. He snapped his fingers as he headed toward the door.
“Where are we going?” I asked, jogging to keep up.
He gave me a scornful head-to-toe look. “To do something with that God-awful footwear. And maybe the pants if we have time.”
A Carolina Herrera skirt hit me in the face. I barely managed to catch the red, high-waisted pants that came next. We were in the area of the forty-second floor dubbed The Closet. It was a huge expanse of ruthlessly organized racks and shelves. Thousands of designer samples lived in this room.
My heart tapped out a happy little pitter-pat when I spotted the pair of leather moto leggings that I was positive Cher had been photographed in last year.
“This, too.” A gold corded belt flew in my direction. My arms were already full of luxury brand apparel, rained down upon me by a man who’d apparently lost his mind.
Linus turned away from the rack and held up a creamy cable-knit sweater to my chest. “Eh, close enough,” he muttered
“What exactly is all this for?” I asked, spitting green silk out of my mouth.
“For you, Admin Ally with the wardrobe of a sad, poor teenager.”
“I can’t afford any of these,” I squeaked as he dropped a pair of slobber-inducing pumps in purple suede on top of the pile. I was starting to tip backward.
“These are all seasons old. No one needs them. No one but you, Ms. Thrift Shop 1998.”
“Linus, I have zero money. Like ‘if I see a penny, I will pick it up’ have no money.”
“Don’t be annoying. I’m gifting these to you like a black, crabby Santa.”
“Are you kidding me?” Half of the items I was clutching fell to the floor.
He rolled his eyes and picked up a floral print dress. “Try to show Tracy Reese a modicum of respect.”
“Are you messing with me right now because I have to be honest. If you tell me these are all mine for free, and then you turn around and say ‘psych,’ I will cry and very possibly burn down your house.”
“Psych?” he repeated with disdain. “We’ll worry about your vocabulary later. For now, let’s focus on the more important. Your appearance.”
A laptop. A smartphone. And a new designer wardrobe.
“Is it Christmas? Did I somehow stumble onto the set of Oprah’s Favorite Things?” I asked, still afraid to get my hopes up.
“These are not presents. I am not a benevolent lady billionaire. These are tools to do your job. I can’t have you waltzing around Central Park photo shoots looking like fifty-percent-off day at the second-hand church sale.”
“Your words wound me, Linus,” I said, drooling over the pair of to-die-for caramel suede booties he pointed to.
I wanted to make out with them.
“I don’t care. I just can’t take this shapeless sweater thing for one more second. You’re making my forehead veins throb.”
“You don’t have forehead veins.”
“Thanks to BOTOX. Now don’t make my forehead veins pop through the botulism barrier. Go put on anything other than that outfit and grab one of the Burberry coats on your way out.”
“You don’t fool me,” I told him over the armload of fashion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.
“You’re being nice and covering it up with charming mean.”