“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.”
“We’re freezing our collective asses off in Central Park,” I said.
Scarf Guy laughed, mistaking my assholery for a sense of humor.
I’d rectify that and make sure Linus had serious second thoughts about putting me in front of the camera ever again.
I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing speech about whatever I felt like when someone shouted “Heel!” behind me.
“Oh my God,” the camerawoman said, panning over my shoulder.
I turned around and beheld the spectacle.
Ally, in a tweed car coat that flapped in the wind behind her, was being dragged in my direction by four hulking dogs of questionable heritage.
I’d checked the shoot notes before I left the office. Those were not dignified, well-groomed Afghan Hounds. Those were unruly, untrained mutts.
“Where are my hounds?” Linus shrieked.
“Scheduling conflict,” Ally called out, fruitlessly trying to dig her skinny heels into the sidewalk and stop the team of dogs before it plowed into him. “Bruno, sit!”
The basset hound in a plaid sweater stopped abruptly and sat.
I made a grab for one of the leashes before Ally was ripped in half by bad-mannered dogs who seemed hell-bent on sniffing things on opposite sides of the park. I came away with a psychotic chocolate lab who hurled himself at me. His front paws caught me in the gut, which apparently wasn’t high enough because the dog immediately leapt off the ground and into my arms. Long, pink dog tongue slathered my face.
“What the h—” My words were choked off by a dog-instigated French kiss. I dodged the next assault, and the lab put his head on my shoulder and let out a sigh.
“Aww. He thinks you’re his people,” the camerawoman said.
“I’m nobody’s people,” I grumbled, wrestling away from joyful dog tongue. Dopey brown eyes looked into mine.
Ally shoved the remaining leashes at Linus. The long-legged one was an interesting mottled gray and looked like it had been bred with a greyhound that had chased the rabbit on the race track a few times. The last one was a big-ass brindle pit bull with shoulders like a tank.
“Where did you find these canine monstrosities?” Linus demanded, yanking a flask out of his jacket pocket with a free hand. “In a back-alley dumpster?”
“Midtown Fur Friends Rescue. I promised them credit. Rescue name, dog names, and a link to the adoptables,” Ally answered, carefully reaching into her pocket.
“These things are adoptable?” I asked. They looked like they could destroy an apartment in under two minutes.
“They’re not that bad,” she insisted delusionally.
The basset hound was happily trotting around Linus as he screamed, effectively ensnaring the man’s legs in leash.
I choked out a laugh. I had to admit. The dog I was holding might be ruining a perfectly good cashmere coat, but it was worth it seeing Linus lose his mind.
Ally smiled up at me, and I forgot about the coat and Linus and the cold and the dog tongue.
Scarf Guy hurried over and plucked the sixty pounds of dog out of my arms. “I’ll just take this before…” he trailed off and scurried away.
Before what?
Did I look like the kind of person who would drop-kick a homeless dog? Christ.
“Here. Hold this one,” Ally said, shoving a tiny, scruffy, shivering thing into my hands. At least she didn’t seem to think I was going to devour it.
“What the fuck is this, a hamster?”
She pressed her lips together. “The shelter told me it’s a dog. But I’m not buying it. He might just be something one of the bigger ones coughed up. His name is Mr. Frisky, and he’s bonded to the one-eyed pit bull over there making time with your models.”
The very large brindle dog was making moony eyes—correction, eye—at the women.
“Aren’t you just the most handsomest boy in the whole world?” the Croatian, Kata, crooned to the beast.
“His name is Pirate,” Ally whispered to me.
“We can’t shoot with these mutants. Someone bring me a Xanax and a deep-dish pizza,” Linus wailed.
“It’s your turn for his pep talk,” I said, nudging Ally forward. She grinned at me, and damned if I didn’t feel my own mouth responding.
“You said solutions,” Ally said, taking the man by the shoulders. “Here’s your solution. Now show us how to make this work. Make it work, Linus, or a homeless dog just vomited in Label’s Escalade for no reason. Give us a reason.”
The little blond ball shivered again, so I tucked it into my coat against my chest. “Your buddy is right there,” I told Mr. Frisky, pointing toward Pirate the pit bull who was curled up on one of the blankets belonging to a delighted model and showing the woman his belly. The hairball’s rat-like tail tapped out a happy beat.
Linus pinched his eyebrows with his fingers. “This is impossible. This won’t work. We’ll be laughed out of the industry.”
I waited for it.
“Unless,” Linus said, lifting his head.
“Unless?” Ally repeated.
“I’m going to need sweaters, people. With flowers. And belts. Long, gold ones. Don’t just stand there!”
