Hanging by a Thread Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œNikky, I—”
    But she shakes her head, cutting me off.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œBecause—” 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—”
    â€œUnless 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?”
    â€œBut you’ve been a loyal customer for twenty years….”
    â€œBecause 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 jumps as she sinks back against the chair. Frowning, she brushes an ash off her left breast, then looks at me. “I’ve got more clout than some, less than others.” A shrug. “You learn to compromise. Pick your battles. Contrary to what Harold thinks, pitching a fit isn’t going to endear