Page 3 of By A Thread
“Mom,” I greeted her, leaning in to kiss her on one flawless cheek before I slid into the booth opposite her.
“That was quite the entrance,” she said, resting her chin on her palm.
She was the picture of confidence in an off-the-shoulder ivory sweater and red leather skirt. Her hair was its natural sterling silver, cut in a short, hip cap. The haircut—and the chunky emerald on her right middle finger—had been her gift to herself the day after she’d kicked my father out of their Upper East Side townhouse a few decades too late.
My mother was a beautiful woman. She always had been. She’d begun her career at fifteen as a doe-eyed, long-legged socialite-turned-model before deciding she preferred the business side of fashion. Now sixty-nine, she’d long ago abandoned doe eyes in favor of wielding her sharp mind and tongue. She was comfortable being both lovedandfeared in the industry.
“She was incredibly rude,” I insisted, watching as Sex Hair made small talk with a table across the skinny restaurant.
“Youwere incredibly rude,” my mother countered.
“It’s what I do,” I said, snapping open the menu and scanning. I tried to ignore the temper that was bubbling up inside me like a sleeping dragon awakened. I’d spent thirteen months locked down, on my best behavior, and I was starting to crack.
“Don’t start the ‘I’m an asshole’ spiel again.” She sighed and slid her reading glasses back on.
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to give up on the hope that I’m a human being with a heart of gold underneath it all.”
“Never,” she insisted with a saucy smile.
I gave up. “Why are we here?”
“Because I wanted to spend time with my only son—the light of my life—away from the office.”
Our working relationship was as old as her new haircut.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
“Sorry,” I said and meant it. “I’ve been busy.”
“Darling.” She said it wryly, and it was warranted.
No one was busier than Dalessandra Russo, former model and current editor-in-chief ofLabel,a fashion magazine that had not only survived the onset of the digital age but spearheaded the transition. Every month, my mother oversaw hundreds of pages of fashion, advertising, interviews, and advice, not to mention online content, and delivered it all to readers around the world.
If she were photographed in a pair of shoes or sunglasses, they sold out within hours. If she sat front and center at a show, the designer’s collection was picked up by every buyer in attendance. She made designers, models, writers, and photographers important, successful. She built careers. Or destroyed them when necessary.
And she hadn’t asked for or earned the chaos of the past year.
For that I had to atone as well.
“Sorry,” I said again, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. The emerald winked at me under the fluorescent lights.
“Can I get you a drink?” Rude Sex Hair was back.
“I don’t know.Canyou?” I shot back.
“We’re fresh out of the blood of children, Satan. How about something that matches your personality?” She was saying the words nicely. Sweetly even.
“I’ll have a—”
“Unsweetened iced tea,” she filled in for me.
Bitter. Boring. Bland.
“Is this one of those places where you pay people to be assholes to you?” I asked my mother.
“Oh, honey. I’m doing this for free.” Sex Hair batted thick lashes in my direction.
I opened my mouth to destroy her.
