“Begone, Didn’t Wear It Better.”
“I’ll make you proud,” I promised as I headed in the direction of the closest restroom.
“I doubt that,” he called after me. “Change fast. You have twenty-three minutes for lunch and then dogs.”
I raced down to the cafeteria with my lunch—beef fried rice from Mrs. Grosu—and threw myself into a chair next to Ruth.
“I have three minutes before I have to leave to go pick up four purebred Afghan hounds.”
“That sweater,” Gola said.
“Those boots,” Ruth breathed.
“I just told you I’m running a dog trafficking scheme, and you want to talk fashion?” I joked.
“Welcome to Label,” Gola snickered. “I once had to wait five hours in an emergency department to pick up half a dozen sweaters that a bike messenger was carrying when he got hit by a cab. How’s life on the forty-third floor?”
“Colorful. Chaotic. We need to catch up,” I said as I ripped the lid off my meal. I didn’t have time to heat it up.
“Let’s grab drinks after work,” Ruth suggested.
“Can’t,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “Teaching a dance class tonight.”
“Where? We’ll come,” Gola said, perking up.
“It’s not ballet,” I warned them.
“Is it hip-hop?” Ruth wanted to know. “Can I wear leg warmers? I live for any excuse to wear leg warmers.”
“Leg warmers are great. And it’s pop and hip-hop and R&B. Kind of like dirty dancing for fitness.”
“Yaaaaas!” Ruth clapped her hands. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Wine after,” Gola decided.
“Our treat,” Ruth said before I could remind them of my poorness.
“One glass. I have to finish up a pitch on a freelance gig.” One that would hopefully net me a few hundred dollars.
“Deal,” Ruth said.
My lovely new phone made an angelic harp noise. My signal to hit the road. “Shit. I have to go.” I gathered my new coat, my old backpack, and the last few bites of fried rice. “Later, ladies.”
“You look great,” Gola called after me.
I raised a hand in the air and plowed my way toward the front of the building.
I was delighted to find Nelson waiting for me at the curb.
“Mind if I sit up front?” I asked him.
“Not at all,” he said, opening the door for me.
We chitchatted on the drive. Nelson had a wife, two daughters, and three granddaughters. He spent his weekends at soccer games and science fairs.
The traffic gods smiled upon us. We were fifteen minutes early. I hopped out in front of a three-story brownstone and jogged up the stairs, my fancy new coat swirling around me nicely like the cape of a superhero.
Had I done a better job with my hair and makeup this morning, I’d feel almost stylish.
Stylish, in control, and basically killing it at my new job.
I pressed the buzzer and smugly waited to succeed.
“Nelson, we have a problem,” I said, pulling the door shut and riffling through my bag for my phone.
“I notice you returned without any four-legged passengers,” he mused.
“There was a mix-up with the date. The dogs are at some fancy show in Connecticut.”
“I hate when that happens,” he said.
I found my phone and fired off a text to Linus.
Me: There’s a problem.
Linus: Do not bother me with problems. Dazzle me with solutions.
Me: This is a big one.
Linus: I’m deadly serious. I’m up to my well-groomed eyebrows in disasters. How can three models have pinkeye at the same time? Never mind. Don’t answer. Just solve the problem or don’t bother coming back.
I was pretty sure he was going to regret that one. I could solve problems. But the solutions might not be up to his standards.
Me: Fine. The photo shoot. What’s the vibe?
Linus: Grey Gardens. Only less depressing and with more fashion. Now leave me alone.
I could work with that. “Nelson, we need to make a stop.”
18
Dominic
“Where are my dogs?” Linus demanded. He clapped his hands at a wardrobe assistant. “You there. Tell me how exactly we’re supposed to shoot this without any dogs.”
The wardrobe assistant wisely tried to disappear into a hedgerow.
It was fucking cold. February was right around the corner, and if there was anything colder and damper than January in New York, it was fucking February.
Of course, fashion didn’t heed below-freezing temperatures. No. Fashion made its own rules outside of time and space and temperature. We descended upon Central Park with a team of forty people. It wasn’t even for the magazine. It was digital content for our YouTube channel and website.
The models were huddled under blankets and coats around patio heaters staffers had hauled out here. There were cables and wires running everywhere except the fifteen feet of dreary, dead natural backdrop where we were supposed to be shooting models and dogs.
Everyone was decked out in parkas and knit hats and gloves that made doing their jobs impossible. The skies were a dull gray, and I bet there would be snow tonight.
A pretty whitewashing of snow was not the look we were going for here. We were shooting flower prints on a miserable, dead background. You know. Like the cavern in my chest where a heart should have been.
This had all sounded fine and not completely stupid five months ago when it was brought up in an editorial meeting. Back when we were indoors and not battling frostbite. I shook my to-go cup of now cold tea and longed fervently for the days when my main fashion concerns were which cufflinks to wear and whether I should go with suspenders or a vest.
“Since I have you, and absolutely nothing else is going right with this shoot, you’ll do a one-on-one with the camera while I find and fire Ally,” Linus said to me.
“No. I won’t. And good luck with that.”
The woman in question was the reason I was here. It wasn’t that I cared about her emergency Friday, it was that I was curious. A very important and, okay, maybe slightly ambiguous designation.
“Yes,” he insisted. “And watch me. Why are you here anyway?” he asked, pausing as if noticing me for the first time.
To check up on an annoyingly attractive admin. Fortunately, Linus wasn’t in the mood to wait for answers.
“Never mind. I don’t actually care.” He snapped his fingers. “You there. Cameraperson. Get your tush over here and interview Mr. Russo on whatever the hell it is we’re doing.”
The woman with the video camera sprinted toward me, and I swore under my breath.
A guy from the media team with a scarf wrapped up to his eyeballs jogged after her.
I glared at the red light on the camera.
“We like to keep these informal, Mr. Russo.” Scarf Guy’s explanation was muffled by layers of blue and white stripes. “Just tell us what we’re doing out here.”