Hanging by a Thread. Karen Templeton
look up. Jock’s leaning against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of pleated black trousers, a lock of black hair casually slung across his forehead, just a hint of chest hair curling over the dip of his black, V-neck cashmere sweater. He has these weird light eyes, somewhere between gray and green, that surrounded by his olive skin seem to laser right through me.
“The 1140?” I say.
He smiles. “I have no idea what the number is. Do we have more than one pleated linen skirt?”
“No, actually,” I say, riffling through the pile on a padded bench until I unearth it. Needless to say, it’s a total mess. Which means I’ll have to press it, blech.
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Jock says, crossing the room to take it from me, his aftershave arriving five minutes before he does. “Cara? Are you all right?”
My head whips around at the genuine concern in his voice. “I’m fine. Why?”
To my shock, he tucks a finger under my chin, his eyebrows dipping. “You are lying. I see worry in your eyes.”
I turn away from his touch, which I neither need nor want. Or rather, I don’t need or want Jock’s touch. Because I’m suddenly and profoundly aware that I wouldn’t mind somebody’s touch. You know, a little masculine tenderness? Some guy who wants to take care of me, for a change? Not that I need to be taken care of, but it would be nice to have someone who wanted to.
Does that make sense? Or does it just make me a dopey, prefeminist throwback? And do I really care?
“I’m tired, that’s all,” I say, realizing I’m perilously close to tears and really, really pissed with myself that I am. A linen blouse slips to the floor when I try to hang it up; Jock retrieves it, deliberately grazing my hand with his when he gives it back. It’s everything I can do not to roll my eyes.
“That Mr. Harold,” he says gently, “he is a son of a bitch.”
Tempting as it is to agree with him, discretion isn’t exactly one of Jock’s strong suits. And playing people against each other is. So I mutter something noncommittal and will him to go away.
He doesn’t.
“Ellie…you are so young to be taking on other people’s burdens,” he says, so naturally I turn to say, “What are you talking abou—?” which Jock somehow interprets as an invitation to kiss me.
I guess I kinda poke him with the hanger because the next thing I know he’s yelling “Ow!” and holding his palm over his eye.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you! But I don’t fool around with married men, Jock. Ever.”
“It was just a little kiss,” he says, pouting. He slowly lowers his hand, as though he’s afraid his eyeball might fall out.
“Something tells me your wife might not see it that way.”
“She would not have to know.”
“I would know. You would know. Whether she knew or not is immaterial.” When he frowns, I explain, “It wouldn’t matter. Whether she knew or not. Because we did.”
“Ah. You have, how do you say? Principles?”
“One or two I keep tucked away for special occasions.”
A rueful expression crosses his face. “I apologize, then. It was just that I thought—”
When he hesitates, I prompt (because I’m clearly insane), “You thought what?”
“I see a very pretty young woman who has not been kissed in a long time, so I think maybe I should do something about that.”
Gotta hand it to the guy. If he was aiming to stun me silly, he accomplished his mission.
“You know, maybe I should’ve wrapped this hanger around your neck instead,” I say, jamming it into the blouse’s sleeves and clanging it onto the nearest rack. “Even if it had been a long time since I’d been kissed—which you would know how?—where do you get off thinking it’s up to you to do something about that?”
Jock chuckles. God, what an annoying little man. “Ah, there is the passion I suspect lies beneath that beautiful skin of yours.” He leans closer and winks. “The passion I feel in your soft lips.”
And then he walks away, rumpled skirt in hand.
Leaving the words “beautiful,” “passion” and “soft lips” hovering in the air in his wake.
Is my life a joke or what?
I take several deep breaths, reassure my poor bedraggled hormones it was just a false alarm, to go back to sleep, and manage to get through the next several hours without anyone trying to either bully or seduce me. Later that afternoon, I’m checking in several bolts of a gorgeous silk/linen blend that just arrived when Nikky—who’s been gone most of the afternoon—pops up beside me.
“Were you able to make that phone call, darling?”
“To Fields’? Yep. All taken care of. I’ve already relabeled everything for UPS. Second Day Air.” When a pained look crosses her face, I add, “It was that or nothing, Nikky.”
She nods. I fully expect her to leave. But as I rip through the plastic wrapping to inspect the next bolt of cloth, she says, “Is everything okay?”
Geez, am I wearing a sign on my forehead or something? I blink up into what passes for Nikky’s worried expression. I mean, I think she really wants to be empathetic. It’s not her fault she’s missing that gene.
“Yes, everything’s fine.”
“Oh. Well, then…Marilyn and I were wondering if you could do us a huge favor.”
Marilyn’s the daughter. Who must’ve come in the back way, unless I can now add blind to befuddled and depressed. While I can tolerate doing favors for Nikky—since she pays my salary and doesn’t treat me like pigeon poop—the idea of doing a favor for her daughter—who doesn’t and does—isn’t sitting well, just at the moment. However, resisting would require more energy than I have. So I abandon the bolts of fabric and follow Nikky back to her office.
And there she is, the dear.
“Hi, Marilyn,” I say brightly. “How’s it going?”
Suspicious, dull blue eyes peer out at me from the safety of an equally dull, lethargic pageboy. A silvery gleam catches my eye—a stethoscope, nestled against a flat, broadcloth-covered chest all but hidden by a blah-colored trenchcoat. “Vintage” Burberry, as Vogue would say. Otherwise known as “old.”
Her chapped, bare lips purse, the word “Fine” squeezing through like a desiccated turd.
This epitome of charm and elegance is a first-year resident at Lenox Hill. I’ve yet to see her when she hasn’t looked like a snarly, starving dog who dares you to take its bone away. However, since I’m a nice person—mostly—I offer her a smile. It is not returned. I do not take this slight personally, since I’ve never seen Marilyn be nice to anybody. Somehow, I doubt she’s in medicine due to an overwhelming desire to ease the suffering of her fellow man.
I catch the expression on Nikky’s face when she glances at her daughter, though, and I can’t help but ache for her, a little. It’s that did-I-do-this-to-you? look. It’s a look I hope to God nobody ever sees in my eyes. A look I’m petrified somebody will, someday.
Do all mothers live in mortal fear of screwing up? I think of Tina, her terror at the thought of being a parent; of Frances, the worry lines permanently etched between her eyebrows, bracketing her mouth, lines that deepen to gullies whenever her kids pull a number on her. Whenever Jason enters her line of sight.
My heart begins to race as all the 4:00 a.m. ghoulies make a rare daytime appearance, that Starr will be irrevocably damaged because I work / am single / leave her with her grandfather / leave her with