Nikky says as she comes up behind him. “Leave Ellie alone. It’s not her fault—”
He whirls on her. “That’s right, it’s not. It’s yours, for being so goddamn disorganized you can’t even make sure your goddamn orders are delivered on time!”
She doesn’t say a word. Nor does her expression change. But not even three layers of makeup are sufficient to mask the color exploding in her cheeks.
Swear to God, I want to wrap my hands around the man’s blubbery neck and choke him until his froglike little eyes pop out of his head.
“Nikky?” I say, “I’ll call the buyer, see what I can do. Maybe if we give them a small discount—?”
“Like hell!” Harold bellows.
“Hey!” I bellow right back, because frankly, I don’t care if Harold Katz thinks I’m the biggest bitch on wheels. “You wanna give me a little leverage here, or you want the whole order to land in an outlet mall in Jersey?”
The aubergine begins to fade to a dusty magenta. “Do what you can,” he finally says. “Just don’t start out talking discounts, you got that?”
He turns on his heel and storms off. I’m tempted to salute behind his back, but Nikky’s still standing there, looking at me as though I’ve either lost my mind or deserve a medal, I can’t quite tell. Then it occurs to me that, to add insult to injury, Harold didn’t suggest Nikky call the buyer. That he trusts some schleppy little assistant with about as much clout as a worm more than he does his wife, who happens to own the business.
“You wanna call ’em?” I say.
She seems to think this over for a minute. “I take it you’re not asking me because you don’t want to make the call.”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure that anybody should be making this call. But I don’t mind doing it. If that’s what you want.”
Her Lancômed lips twitch into a smile. “Start off with ten percent, on top of the standard seven/ten EOM.” The usual seven percent discount for bills paid by the tenth of the month following delivery. “And then pray the damn stuff sells so it doesn’t boomerang back to us, anyway.”
Then she, too, turns and walks away, basically trusting me to fix things. Not that I mind—or care—but, excuse me? What’s happening here? Is this really the same woman who only a few days ago played hardball with that fabric vendor, who shrugged off her husband’s bad-mouthing as nothing more than a mild annoyance?
Suddenly, I want to curl up in a ball and cry. Or go to sleep for a very long time. And I have no idea why. Aside from the fact that all the yelling has made my head hurt. But that, for the moment at least, seems to be over. Nikky, Harold and Jock have all spun off in different directions; all I can hear now is the hum of the heaters, the stop-and-start whirr of the sewing machines, the sporadic ringing of the phone and Jock’s totally irritating Easy Listening FM station.
I’ll make that phone call in a few minutes, when I’m not feeling quite so shell-shocked. Instead, I wander back out into the showroom, which, once again, is a wreck. So I start cleaning it up, my thoughts more jumbled than the samples covering every piece of furniture.
Luke’s going to be a father, which he’s always wanted. Tina’s going to have the baby, which absolves me from having to keep a secret that was going to make me sick to keep. And who knows, maybe they can work things out, get their marriage back on track.
So why do I feel like shit?
Actually, I think I know. But going there would be on the same level as the dumb-as-dirt Gothic novel heroine who goes down into the cellar, by herself, at night, in her nightgown, because she hears a strange noise.
I pick up a wool crepe dress with a loose waist. The fabric is gorgeous, but I’ve never liked the neckline. Or where the waist falls. What’s the point of making loose-fitting clothes if they just make a heavy woman look fatter?
You could do better, a voice whispers, startling me.
“Ellie, cara, have you seen the pleated linen skirt?”
I look up. Jock’s leaning against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of pleated black trousers, a lock of black hair casually slung across his forehead, just a hint of chest hair curling over the dip of his black, V-neck cashmere sweater. He has these weird light eyes, somewhere between gray and green, that surrounded by his olive skin seem to laser right through me.
“The 1140?” I say.
He smiles. “I have no idea what the number is. Do we have more than one pleated linen skirt?”
“No, actually,” I say, riffling through the pile on a padded bench until I unearth it. Needless to say, it’s a total mess. Which means I’ll have to press it, blech.
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Jock says, crossing the room to take it from me, his aftershave arriving five minutes before he does. “Cara? Are you all right?”
My head whips around at the genuine concern in his voice. “I’m fine. Why?”
To my shock, he tucks a finger under my chin, his eyebrows dipping. “You are lying. I see worry in your eyes.”
I turn away from his touch, which I neither need nor want. Or rather, I don’t need or want Jock’s touch. Because I’m suddenly and profoundly aware that I wouldn’t mind somebody’s touch. You know, a little masculine tenderness? Some guy who wants to take care of me, for a change? Not that I need to be taken care of, but it would be nice to have someone who wanted to.
Does that make sense? Or does it just make me a dopey, prefeminist throwback? And do I really care?
“I’m tired, that’s all,” I say, realizing I’m perilously close to tears and really, really pissed with myself that I am. A linen blouse slips to the floor when I try to hang it up; Jock retrieves it, deliberately grazing my hand with his when he gives it back. It’s everything I can do not to roll my eyes.
“That Mr. Harold,” he says gently, “he is a son of a bitch.”
Tempting as it is to agree with him, discretion isn’t exactly one of Jock’s strong suits. And playing people against each other is. So I mutter something noncommittal and will him to go away.
He doesn’t.
“Ellie…you are so young to be taking on other people’s burdens,” he says, so naturally I turn to say, “What are you talking abou—?” which Jock somehow interprets as an invitation to kiss me.
I guess I kinda poke him with the hanger because the next thing I know he’s yelling “Ow!” and holding his palm over his eye.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! But I don’t fool around with married men, Jock. Ever.”
“It was just a little kiss,” he says, pouting. He slowly lowers his hand, as though he’s afraid his eyeball might fall out.
“Something tells me your wife might not see it that way.”
“She would not have to know.”
“I
