I came into work Monday dragging ass. My mood was reflected in the head-to-toe black-on-black of my outfit. The only signs of Fun, Energetic Me were my gold hoop earrings with tiny colored beads, a Christmas gift from my father a few years ago.
“Hey, girl,” Gola said, popping up in my cubicle, sucking down a green smoothie. “How was your weekend? How did that out of office meeting go with Mr. So Cold He’s Hot?”
My weekend had been a mess. I squeezed in hospital visits between bar shifts, dance classes, and a sorry-for-flaking-on-you last-minute catering gig my boss had offered up. I hadn’t so much as lifted a broom or watched a “How to Hang Drywall Yourself” YouTube tutorial.
I was so far behind on my plan that it made me want to hyperventilate into a paper bag just thinking about it.
To make matters worse, my last visit with my dad had been an ugly one. I could handle him not knowing who I was. I could handle him calling me by my mother’s name. Hell, I could even handle him listlessly staring into space.
But I couldn’t handle it when the man I’d known and loved all my life became aggressive. It happened. Something would trigger him, sending him into an agitated state and the happy, kind-hearted, lovable man disappeared only to be replaced with a belligerent, violent stranger.
“The meeting was good. The designer was great. And I just worked all weekend,” I told her. “You?”
“I met a guy,” she said, trying to bring the straw to her lips but nearly taking out an eye instead.
“You did?” I wasn’t in the market. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t live vicariously through friends’ lives.
“Lunch. I’m definitely going to need more details about you sitting side-by-side in the back seat with a certain gorgeous grump in Midtown traffic,” she warned me.
“And I want to know all about this guy,” I told her.
She wiggled her fingers at me and headed toward her desk.
I booted up my desktop and was pulling my headphones out of my bag when Zara and her sticky notes appeared. “Don’t get comfortable,” she said blandly.
“Fired already?” Damn that Dominic Russo.
“New assignment,” she said, peeling off a note and slapping it on my desk. “Linus needs extra hands this week. You’re the lucky admin. You’ll be stationed at a temp desk near his office on forty-three for the week.”
“On it,” I said, slipping my headphones back into the bag.
“On your way, hit up IT. They have something for you,” she said.
I frowned. “What is it?”
“How the hell should I know? No one bothers to tell me anything,” she said. “Now go be productive and drop some hints that your supervisor has her eye on the new Marc Jacobs bag in case Linus needs to rehome it after the shoot tomorrow.”
IT was a dungeony, cave-like room full of unhappy, casually dressed creatures.
I introduced myself to the closest one just across the countertop that protected the staff from human encounters.
The girl had jet black hair tied in pigtails on top of her head and wore a baggy pink sweatshirt that said Try Unplugging It. Her jeans were name brand and distressed in all of the right places.
“We can’t help you with your personal electronic problems without a Help Desk Ticket,” she said flatly, her dark eyes boring soullessly into mine. She slid an iPad toward me. “Fill this out, and we’ll get to you when we get to you.”
If bored were a human, I was looking at her.
“Uh. Yeah. Actually, I’m here to pick something up,” I told her.
She blinked in slow motion.
“I’m Ally Morales from the admin pool,” I tried again. “My supervisor said I was supposed to stop in and pick something up.”
“Oh.” Pigtails wandered away, and I stood there, unsure if I should follow her or wait to catch the attention of a different robot.
I was still debating when she returned with two boxes. “Here.” She slid them across the skinny countertop.
“What’s this?”
She slow blinked again. “It’s a laptop and a phone. They are smaller, more portable versions of—”
I held up my hands, surrendering to her sarcasm. “I mean, why am I getting a laptop and a phone?” I asked, convinced there’d been a mistake. Especially since the laptop was the latest and greatest model that had bells and whistles for graphic design.
I’d secretly slobbered over a similar model in an electronics store a few weeks ago and added it to my Future Ally List. Right under a mango margarita with a long straw.
“You want me to tell you why you need a computer and a phone to do your job?”
I had a feeling Pigtails was one second away from unplugging me.
“Never mind,” I said, taking the boxes and backing away. If it was a mistake, someone would tell me about it sooner or later. In the meantime, I could dabble with fun new technology. “Thanks.”
Pigtails didn’t respond.
Linus had an office down the hall from Dalessandra’s and was unfortunately also two doors down from Dominic’s frozen den of grumpiness. But I didn’t have time to worry or fantasize about Dom. Linus, in black trousers and another black turtleneck—I wisely swallowed the twinsies joke on the tip of my tongue—gave me a generous twenty seconds to stow my stuff at an empty desk before following him.
He flung instructions at me over his shoulder as we dodged assistants and makeup artists and delivery people.
There were models partially dressed in athletic wear pouting for makeup artists and working frantic thumbs over phone screens while stylists attacked their hair.
Still more people were organizing endless rolling racks of clothing.
“I need you to track down the size-eight Nikes because Colossus over there lied about her shoe size,” he said, waving a dismissive hand toward a barefoot model dressed in running tights and a crop top. Her hair was classified as wind-machine-Beyoncé fierce.
Size eight.
“Once you do that, get the crew’s coffee order. We need these people caffeinated.”
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.
