Hanging by a Thread. Karen Templeton
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said the company’s discontinued the floral print! Which means I have to pick a substitute! And I’ve got stores expecting those sundresses in six weeks!”
Even I can see there’s no turning off the panic button until the crisis has been resolved. Now, you might ask (understandably enough) why the woman can’t just pick a substitute fabric and be done with it. Well, there are several reasons, number one being—as you may have noticed—Nikky’s brain shuts down in a crisis. Two, since several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of orders are riding on this particular item, the substitute fabric has to be chosen very carefully. And three—and this is something almost no one else knows—Nikky is color-blind.
Yes, it’s very rare in women. And she only has trouble distinguishing greens, which is why you’ll never see any green items in her line. But she wanted a bold rose print for this particular model, and roses have leaves, and leaves are green (at least, they were in this print), so she had to rely on someone else to “see” the green for her and make sure it wasn’t some ugly baby poop color or something. But I’d really like to get home on time tonight, which means I could do without the handholding routine. However, if I don’t help her, Harold will get involved, and God knows—
“Problem, Nik?”
—nobody wants that.
Nikky schools her features before turning to her husband. “Nothing, just a little detail I need to work out with Ellie.”
Droopy-lidded eyes give me the once-over; it’s like being scrutinized by a jowly Kermit. Sparse strands of no-color hair cling to his liver-spotted scalp like drowning men to a life raft; underneath a white dress shirt and pleated suit pants quivers a large, amorphous body. I practically have to pin my finger to my lip to keep it from curling.
“It’s that goddamn Volare, isn’t it? I heard on the extension—”
A real jewel, this guy.
“—they pull a fast one on you, what?”
“They didn’t pull a ‘fast one,’ Harold,” Nikky says wearily, “they just discontinued the fabric for one of the items, it’s no big deal—”
“Goddammit, Nikky, what the hell’s the matter with you? I told you to dump those shysters, didn’t I? Right? Didn’t I tell you that, after the last time they pulled this shit? How many times you gonna let those sons of bitches do this to you before you find the balls to take your business elsewhere?”
“Oh, get over it, Harold!” Nikky crosses her arms and meets his gaze dead-on. When push comes to shove, she can stand up to him, I’ll give her that. But at what price? “I’m not going to destroy a twenty-year relationship simply because they canceled a fabric on me!”
“Why do you let these sons of bitches screw you to the wall over and over, Nikky? Why? I mean, Jesus—when’re you gonna stop acting like a woman and start acting like a businessperson?”
Silently, she stares him down for several seconds, then turns to me. “Come on, Ellie—”
“You stay right there,” Harold orders, jabbing a finger first at me, then his wife. “You’re gonna get on that phone, and you’re gonna tell those sons of bitches they will honor that order or that’s the last one you’ll ever place with them! Or better yet, maybe I’ll let Myron give ’em a goose, let ’em know they can’t get away with this shit—”
“You even think about calling the lawyer and you’re a dead man! This isn’t your business, Harold Katz, it’s mine! And I will run it as I see fit!”
“Right into the ground, the way you’re going! And since I sank every dime I had into this harebrained scheme of yours, I’ll stick my nose in whenever I damn well like!”
By this point, I half expect to see the hair raised on the back of her neck. Mine sure as hell is. And you should see Angelique’s eyes.
“And since I paid you back—three-fold—since then,” Nikky says, barely above a snarl, “butt the hell out.” Her gaze deliberately shifts to mine. “Ellie?”
I rise and follow, managing not to go “Ew, ew, ew” when I have to brush past the man. Who watches us, his little amphibianesque eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, before I eventually hear his footsteps retreat to his office.
How—why—the woman puts up with the man is beyond me.
Especially as I notice, when we reach her office, how shiny her eyes are.
I never know whether I should say anything or not, whether she’d welcome my sympathy or spurn it. Pride’s an unpredictable thing. But while Nikky might be addle-brained and totally disorganized, at heart she’s not a bad person. Medical plan or no, I wouldn’t still be here after a year if she was. And nobody deserves to be talked to like that. Ever. Well, except Harold. Or your average despotic dictator.
Then she pulls the substitute swatches out of the FedEx envelope with shaking hands, and my conscience shoves me from behind.
“Nikky, I—”
But she shakes her head, cutting me off.
“I don’t…” She clears her throat, then smoothes her hand over the polished cotton. The roses are similar to the original, if a bit smaller and redder. But the green is this yucky olive that brings to mind things nasty and distasteful. “I don’t think this one’s too bad, what do you think?”
“I think…” Oh, hell. “I think you should call the rep and tell him you’re holding them to the original contract. Or you’ll sue.”
Nikky’s head jerks up, the ends of her silver hair brushing her silk-clad shoulders. In her own, paralyzed way, she looks as flabbergasted as I feel.
“You agree with Harold?”
Since I’d always figured I’d have a better chance of agreeing with Rush Limbaugh than Harold Katz, you can image what this revelation is doing to my insides. “I think he…has a point. Even if I do have issues with how he makes his points.”
That gets a short, airy laugh. “You don’t have to be so diplomatic.”
“Yes, I do. I need this job.”
Another laugh, this one with a little more substance to it. Nikky sinks into her chair, a high-backed swivel number in a gorgeous flame stitch fabric. She twists the cap off a bottle of designer water, then digs a pill box out of her purse. Hell, if I had to live with Harold, I’d probably be scarfing down whatever the la-la drug of choice is these days like M&M’s.
She takes another swallow of water and replaces the cap. “Why?” she says, all smiles. Wow. Must be good stuff. “Why do you agree with Harold?”
“Because—” I pick up the substitute swatch. “Because this is total crap compared with the original. Because something tells me they are pulling a fast one. I mean, think about it—why should they yank the pattern when you’ve got how many hundreds of yards on order? Unless—”
“Unless a bigger designer saw it and pulled rank. So they’re only telling me it’s no longer available. I have figured that out.”
She doesn’t seem particularly surprised. Or disturbed. I, however, am both. Her lips curved at my obvious distress, she gestures for me to sit, then takes a cigarette case from her desk; five seconds later she’s calmly blowing smoke away from me. “Darling, in the scheme of things, six hundred yards is nothing. Especially if another house comes along and orders twice, maybe even ten times that. I don’t know….” A stream of smoke cuts through the air. “I can’t really blame the supplier for wanting to make the other guy happy, right?”
“But you’ve been a loyal customer for twenty years….”
“Because they’re willing to work with me and my smaller orders.” She leans forward. “Sure, there are other fabric houses I’d rather use. You think they’d give me the time of day?” The cigarette smoke stream