Louise took a deep breath and quickly started to recite the schedule to her boss.
“So, as you know, the gala is tonight. The table plan is in your room for final approval as you requested. Your car arrives tomorrow at ten o'clock to take you to Charles de Gaulle. I'll be checking out of the hotel earlier to get the Guerlain samples that you requested for your sister, so I'll meet you at the airport at quarter to eleven.”
Louise knew this was an exercise in futility. Her boss knew the schedule back to front, and yet she felt the urgent need to fill the awkward silence that permeated the back of the limousine. She subtly turned her wrist in her lap to look at her watch.
“Hm,” Victoria murmured.
Louise looked up to see if her boss would say anything else.
Victoria continued to look over the top of her glasses at the passing Parisian scenery.
Louise debated if she should say something else. Maybe give another rundown on the first-class menu on offer on-board the flight from Paris to New York. Maybe attempt to get a tiny amount of kudos for having changed the red meat option from lamb for the entire cabin, simply because Victoria couldn’t abide the smell of lamb.
Not that Victoria would ever acknowledge any of the backbreaking, soul-destroying work that Louise did on a daily basis for the impossible-to-please woman. But she lived in hope that a nugget of gratitude would work its way into Victoria’s conscience.
Maybe enough to promote her from her role of assistant. Being an assistant to Victoria Hastings was certainly prestigious. Sadly, it didn’t pay the therapy bills that Louise would need if she managed to survive the role.
Louise’s mobile phone rang, and she answered immediately. “Yes?”
It was that awful French man from the gazette again. Blathering on about something or other and making little sense.
“Look, I’ve told you before, Victoria will not be doing any interviews. If you wanted to speak to her then you should have called before she arrived in Paris for Fashion Week. Do you have any idea how busy she is? Of course you don’t.”
The man continued talking hurriedly. Louise just shook her head, not even bothering to listen to what he was saying. She couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. Thinking that Victoria Hastings of all people would be able to drop everything and speak to some nobody. Did he have any idea who she was?
“Absolutely not, and don’t call this number again!”
Louise huffed, hung up the phone, and tossed it into her bag.
“Damn French,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Problem?”
Louise looked up and realised that Victoria had turned to glance at her. Louise took pride in her appearance, checking her reflection at least every twenty minutes to ensure she was looking her best. But the second Victoria looked at her, she felt certain that she must appear a wreck.
Victoria was the kind of woman who always looked perfect. She must have had a long conversation with Mother Nature in which she put her foot down and insisted she wasn’t going to age another minute. And so, forty-seven-year-old Victoria Hastings looked like a perfectly turned-out woman in her mid-thirties. Not a hair was out of place in her fashionable blonde bob. Her makeup was light but always on point, just enough to rouge her cheeks, plump her lips, and accentuate her steely green eyes. Nothing less could be expected of the editor of one of the world’s leading fashion magazines.
Louise realised that she had been silent for too long. Her panic at potentially not looking her best under Victoria’s frosty glare had thrown her.
“Um. No, no problem, Victoria. Just a journalist, some awful little French man. You know what journalists are like. I don’t even know why I bother sending out press guidelines. He has been calling me here and Claudia back in New York every single day… I… He…” Louise swallowed nervously.
She’d said too much, she’d bothered Victoria with details that were of no interest to her.
Victoria simply stared at her in silence. Slowly, she rolled her eyes. Louise was sure that Victoria was internally questioning the incompetence she was surrounded by. She usually did. Now it was just a matter of whether Victoria would deliver a softly spoken, but scathing, remark, or if she would ignore her. Louise held her breath while she waited for judgement to be passed.
After a few more frosty seconds, Victoria turned and looked out of the car window again. The conversation was over.
Louise released the breath she had been holding. Silently.
Paris Fashion Week was everything she’d hoped it would be. The shows, the designers, the clothes, the city. But now it was drawing to a close. Three months of doing nothing but planning Victoria’s schedule had paid off. It had been a success. Not that anyone would know it from Victoria’s expression.
From the moment they had landed in Paris, her boss has been quiet and detached. More so than usual. At the best of times, no one would ever accuse Victoria of being friendly or talkative. In fact, Victoria was famously known for destroying careers with a simple look.
But the last few days had been worse than usual.
Louise reminded herself that there was just one more night between her and her comfy bed back home in New York. And the next morning she would be getting to the airport bright and early and thankfully not travelling with Victoria.