Page 52 of By A Thread
I could work with that. “Nelson, we need to make a stop.”
18
Dominic
“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 Icaredabout her emergency Friday, it was that I wascurious. 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.
