Hanging by a Thread

She may have a point. However, as I’ve been listening to Luke since we were communicating in monosyllables and grabbing our Gerber teething biscuits out of each other’s hands, I can’t say as his voice has made much of an impression on me. Okay, maybe once or twice, in a weak, deluded moment, but not for a long time.

A very long time.

“He’s a plumber,” I say, don’t ask me why. “Well, plumbing contractor. Works for his father.”

“Hey. Plumbers make good money. And they’ll never be out of work.”

This is true. “But he’s married,” I repeat, realizing this is the first real conversation Angelique and I have ever had. And possibly the last, if I win the how-long’s-she-gonna-last pool. “To my best friend.”

After more paper shuffling and clicking, Angelique says, “So. You have a boyfriend?”

I don’t have the time or energy to deal with a puppy, what on earth would I do with a boyfriend? This, however, doesn’t stop images from springing to mind. Involving things one might do with boyfriends and various appendages attached thereto. I quickly, if regretfully, push the images away.

“Not at the moment. My old one broke and I never got around to replacing him.” I then add, tempted to look around furtively and lower my voice, “I have a daughter, though.”

Her dark eyes light up. “Me, too! How old is yours?”

“Five going on forty. Her birthday was a couple of days ago.”

“You got a picture?”

Do I have a picture, is the woman nuts? Like CIA operatives in a clandestine meeting, we drag out our wallets and compare children. I compliment Angelique on hers, already a knockout at seven. But let’s be honest here, Starr is going through what I hope to hell is an awkward phase. God knows, nobody’s going to mistake me for Catherine Zeta-Jones—even at her most pregnant—but my baby’s skinny, she’s nearsighted (like her mama), she’s got all this frizzy black hair (like her Great-Gran Judith)…poor thing looks like a myopic johnny mop.

“She looks very…sweet,” Angelique says at last.

Sweet is not the word I’d choose to describe Starr, but my heart cramps anyway because I’m crazy in love with her. Even if she totally freaks me out at times. “Thanks,” I say softly.

It’s kinda nice, being able to talk about my kid at work. Not something I ever thought about when I was really single. I mean, please—is “single mother” an oxymoron or what? “Single” implies “alone,” and God knows, the one thing you’re not once you’ve got a kid is alone. Anyway, it’s not as if nobody knows about Starr, it’s just that women who aren’t mothers aren’t real interested in hearing about your kids. Not that I blame them. If you’re not living it, it’s kinda hard to understand the excitement generated by that first dump in the toilet. Still. It gets old, pretending your children basically don’t exist while you’re at work. As if they’re houseplants or something. Because, you know, we couldn’t possibly be a hundred percent focused on our work if we’re also worrying about our kids. Never mind that some of us can actually do two things at once. And do them well, to boot.

Nikky suddenly bursts into the office, a frantic expression overriding the Botox. “Ellie! Darling! Come quick! You have to help me!”

Exclamation points whiz past my ears. “Sure, I’ll be there in a sec, right after I get this cutting list done—”

“No! This can’t wait! The Volare rep just called and said the company’s discontinued the floral print! Which means I have to pick a substitute! And I’ve got stores expecting those sundresses in six weeks!”

Even I can see there’s no turning off the panic button until the crisis has been resolved. Now, you might ask (understandably enough) why the woman can’t just pick a substitute fabric and be done with it. Well, there are several reasons, number one being—as you may have noticed—Nikky’s brain shuts down in a crisis. Two, since several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of orders are riding on this particular item, the substitute fabric has to be chosen very carefully. And three—and this is something almost no one else knows—Nikky is color-blind.

Yes, it’s very rare in women. And she only has trouble distinguishing greens, which is why you’ll never see any green items in her line. But she wanted a bold rose print for this particular model, and roses have leaves, and leaves are green (at least, they were in this print), so she had to rely on someone else to “see” the green for her and make sure it wasn’t some ugly baby poop color or something. But I’d really like to get home on time tonight, which means I could do without the handholding routine. However, if I don’t help her, Harold will get involved, and God knows—

“Problem, Nik?”

—nobody wants that.

Nikky schools her features before turning to her husband. “Nothing, just a little detail I need to work out with Ellie.”

Droopy-lidded eyes give me the once-over; it’s like being scrutinized by a jowly Kermit. Sparse strands of no-color hair cling to his liver-spotted scalp like drowning men to a life raft; underneath a white dress shirt and pleated suit pants quivers a large, amorphous body. I practically have to pin my finger to my lip to keep it from curling.

“It’s that goddamn Volare, isn’t it? I heard on the extension—”

A real jewel, this guy.

“—they pull a fast one on you, what?”

“They didn’t pull a ‘fast one,’ Harold,” Nikky says wearily, “they just discontinued the fabric for one of the items, it’s no big deal—”

“Goddammit, Nikky, what the hell’s the matter with you? I told you to dump those shysters, didn’t I? Right? Didn’t I tell you that, after the last time they pulled this shit? How many times you gonna let those sons of bitches do this to you before you find the balls to take your business elsewhere?”

“Oh, get over it, Harold!” Nikky crosses her arms and meets his gaze dead-on. When push comes to shove, she can stand up to him, I’ll give her that. But at what price? “I’m not going to destroy a twenty-year relationship simply because they canceled a fabric on me!”

“Why do you let these sons of bitches screw you to the wall over and over, Nikky? Why? I mean, Jesus—when’re you gonna stop acting like a woman and start acting like a businessperson?”

Silently, she stares him down for several seconds, then turns to me. “Come on, Ellie—”

“You stay right there,” Harold orders, jabbing a finger first at me, then his wife. “You’re gonna get on that phone, and you’re gonna tell those sons of bitches they will honor that order or that’s the last one you’ll ever place with them! Or better yet, maybe I’ll let Myron give ’em a goose, let ’em know they can’t get away with this shit—”

“You even think about calling the lawyer and you’re a dead man! This isn’t your business, Harold Katz, it’s mine! And I will run it as I see fit!”

“Right into the ground, the way you’re going! And since I sank every dime I had into this harebrained scheme of yours, I’ll stick my nose in whenever I damn well like!”

By this point, I half expect to see the hair raised on the back of her neck. Mine sure as hell is. And you should see Angelique’s eyes.

“And since I paid you back—three-fold—since then,” Nikky says, barely above a snarl, “butt the hell out.” Her gaze deliberately shifts to mine. “Ellie?”

I rise and follow, managing not to go “Ew, ew, ew” when I have to brush past the man. Who watches us, his little amphibianesque eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, before I eventually hear his footsteps retreat to his office.

How—why—the woman puts up with the man is beyond me.

Especially as I notice, when we reach her office, how shiny her eyes are.

I never know whether I should say anything or not, whether she’d welcome my sympathy or spurn it. Pride’s an unpredictable thing. But while Nikky might be addle-brained and totally disorganized, at heart she’s not a bad person. Medical plan or no, I wouldn’t still be here after a year if she was. And nobody deserves to be talked to like that. Ever. Well, except Harold. Or your average despotic dictator.

Then she pulls the substitute swatches out of the FedEx envelope with shaking hands, and my conscience shoves me from behind.

“Nikky, I—”

But she shakes her head, cutting me off.

“I don’t…” She clears her throat, then smoothes her hand over the polished cotton. The roses are similar to the original, if a bit smaller and redder. But the green is this yucky olive that brings to mind things nasty and distasteful. “I don’t think this one’s too bad, what do you think?”

“I think…” Oh, hell. “I think you should call the rep and tell him you’re holding them to the original contract. Or you’ll sue.”

Nikky’s head jerks up, the ends of her silver hair brushing her silk-clad shoulders. In her own, paralyzed way, she looks as flabbergasted as I feel.

“You agree with Harold?”

Since I’d always figured I’d have a better chance of agreeing with Rush Limbaugh than Harold Katz, you can image what this revelation is doing to my insides. “I think he…has a point. Even if I do have issues with how he makes his points.”

That gets a short, airy laugh. “You don’t have to be so diplomatic.”