“Have you arranged Charles Street for Christmas?” Vivian asked as she slid into the car seat next to Jules, having just finished lunch with the photographer Mario Sorrenti.
Jules was in mid text with a Du Jour PR intern but switched tracks instantly. “Yes. It’s all ready.”
One of the many tasks Jules had had to juggle today was making arrangements for Vivian’s Christmas. This year, she was going to London. It wasn’t clear why since she had no family there. But she always rented the same elegant townhouse on Charles Street in Mayfair for the London fashion weeks in spring and fall. She had been specific in telling Jules to reserve it for the holidays as well.
The owners had intended to stay there for Christmas. Thank God Vivian had a the-sky’s-the-limit attitude when it came to getting what she wanted; the price tag had nearly made Jules faint.
“I’ll forward you the reservation,” she added. “They changed the security code.”
“Good. The last one was too easy to guess.”
Jules looked down at her phone and swiped open the email app. Where was the reservation? She got so many emails, it was almost impossible to—
“Where are you going for the holidays?” Vivian asked.
What?
Jules looked up at once. Maybe Vivian had gotten on the phone in the last half second and was talking to someone else. Or maybe Jules had misheard.
But no. Vivian was calmly looking right at her after asking a personal question for no apparent reason.
“Just back to Philadelphia,” she replied, trying not to sound as astonished as she felt. “Going to see my family.”
“Ugh. I hate Philadelphia,” Vivian said. “Dirty place.”
“New York’s not squeaky clean,” Jules snapped before she could stop herself. Dammit. But what did Vivian expect when she went around insulting people’s hometowns? True, Jules had been ready to get out of there when she did. Still, there was a difference between criticizing Philly when you were from Philly and criticizing it because you lived in the oh-so-superior New York City.
To Jules’s surprised relief, instead of chastising her for sass, Vivian only said, “No, it’s not.” She turned to look back out the window. Jules thanked her lucky stars for her narrow escape, but then Vivian abruptly spoke again.
“I grew up in Ohio,” she said. “Outside of Toledo.”
Jules sat silently, shocked.
“I guess that’s even worse,” Vivian added with a derisive little chuckle.
“Do…do you ever go back?” Jules asked.
“No.” The reply came with such finality that the subject was clearly closed. Still, it was more than Jules had ever expected to get out of her. About anything.
In fact, it was more than anybody got. Vivian had a Wikipedia page. Jules had scoured it before applying to work at Du Jour. There hadn’t been anything about her childhood or family, and she never gave interviews that included personal information. But she was telling Jules?
Okay, she told herself as her palms sweated. It’s okay, it’s not weird, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut. Like she knows you will.
So Vivian Carlisle, high-and-mighty queen of New York City, had started out as an Ohio girl. The greatest tastemaker in fashion had risen from Middle America. Judging from the look of it, she was overcompensating like hell too. If you thought about it for a little bit, it was funny; if you thought about it for longer, it was sad; if you thought about it for too long, your head hurt, so Jules stopped thinking right away.
She ventured, “Well, I’ve never been to London.” There. Conversational gambit attempted.
“You will,” Vivian said, still looking out her window.
Jules managed a smile. That had been a pretty nice response, actually. “Yeah. Someday.”
“I mean, you will,” Vivian said, and Jules could imagine her rolling her eyes. “For London Fashion Week.”
“Oh.” Jules’s cheeks flamed. “Right. Of course.” Dummy. How could she have forgotten?
Then she did some quick mental math. London’s spring fashion week was at the end of February this year. The Du Jour hotel accommodations were already booked, as was the Charles Street townhouse, and there wasn’t much else Jules could do until they were closer to the actual trip.
The end of February. Vivian would be more than four months along. Would she be showing by then? What the heck was she going to wear? Did Alaïa even make a maternity line?
Well, that part, thank goodness, was entirely out of Jules’s hands. Vivian might expect the world to take care of all her life’s mundane details, but nobody—nobody—told her what to wear.
* * *
Simon left for the Du Jour LA shoot on December 3. He returned four days later, a duration that seemed more like four years. Jules had never been in the office when he wasn’t there and Vivian was. She never wanted to do it again either. Without Simon, Vivian was even more impatient and brusque, as if the absence of her right-hand man only made it more obvious to her how incompetent everybody else was.
So when he breezed through the door at eight a.m., Jules had to restrain herself from giving him a huge welcome-back hug. She settled for her widest smile and a hot cup of his favorite coffee: the whole milk mocha that he only allowed himself as an occasional indulgence.
“It’s so nice to be missed,” he said as he sipped.
“You were,” Jules said fervently. “Oh, my God, do you know what she’s like without you?”
“I’ll let you work that little logic puzzle out on your own,” he said, then headed into Vivian’s office with his silver laptop under his arm. “Good morning,” he said as he disappeared from sight.
“Thank God,” Jules heard Vivian say. She didn’t bother to repress her smile.
She was smiling less by the end of the day, though, when she was still at her desk at ten p.m.
Simon seemed to pick up on it when he stopped in front of her to drawl, “Still hard at work?”
She glared at him. He of all people knew by now that Jules didn’t go home until Vivian said she could, work or no work. “Very perceptive.”
“That’s me,” Simon said, “Mr. Perceptive.” Then he leaned back until he could see Vivian at her desk and called, “Vivian? Can I steal Jules from you for about half an hour? I promise to have her back before bedtime.”
She expected Vivian to give her disinterested permission. Instead, she sounded remarkably suspicious when she asked, “Why? What do you need her for?”
“Things,” Simon said blandly.
Jules grinned and hoped he would get away with it.
He did. “Fine,” Vivian said, sounding huffy but not really irritated. Probably because at this hour of the night, they weren’t likely to get many calls.
Jules, relieved at even a temporary escape, gamely followed Simon out of the receiving area. “Where are we going?”
“Federico’s.”
Federico’s was a stylish bar across the street. Jules was pretty sure that Vivian wouldn’t have let her leave if she’d known Simon was going to take her to a bar. “Why are we going there?”
“Well, when one is celebrating, one should have a drink,” Simon said.
“Celebrating?”
“All in good time, my dear.”
Jules kept her silence until they reached Federico’s and took a table, but she had to admit she was a little uneasy. She’d gotten to know Simon pretty damn well while working for him, and he had a telling gleam in his eyes.
So when the waiter delivered the two neon-orange-colored cocktails Simon had ordered, she said, “Okay. Now: what are we celebrating?”
“Cheers,” he said.
Jules sighed, dutifully raising her glass, clinking it with his. She’d just raised it to her lips and taken a sip when Simon spoke.
“Vivian’s pregnancy, of course. New life is so exciting, isn’t it?”
Jules’s mouthful of orange cocktail went everywhere.
He dabbed at his cashmere sweater with a napkin. “I’ve always wondered if people actually did that spitting thing. Now I know.”
“Wh-what are you talking about?” Jules croaked, fumbling for her own napkin and trying to ignore the stares she was getting from the other patrons. “Vivian’s what?”
“Don’t even try it.” He sounded stern. “You’ve already shown me everything I need to know.”
Jules whimpered and closed her eyes. She was dead. Worse than dead.
“True, it was a long shot,” he mused. “I mean, at her age… Well, it is Vivian. I guess it makes sense that her ovaries would still be kicking ass after everybody else’s have thrown in the towel.”
“She’ll kill me,” she moaned. “Simon, I didn’t tell you. I didn’t—”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
She opened her eyes to see him regarding her intently.
“And you’ve been holding her hand the whole way, haven’t you?” he asked. “That doctor’s visit was about this, wasn’t it? And she took you along.”
Jules nodded mutely.
“And the lawyer too. You were there for that.”
Another nod.
“My God,” he chuckled. “Were you even there when Robert got the big news?”
She bit her lip and nodded one more time.
Simon’s eyes widened. “I was kidding. Really?”
“It was awful,” she whispered. This seemed like betraying Vivian’s trust. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, give Simon any more details, but at the same time, it was so nice not to be the only one who was in on this.
“What does this mean for the divorce?” he asked. “Will he—”
“I can’t talk about that. Simon, please don’t ask me to talk about it. She’d kill me.”
“Is she going to have an abortion?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” Jules looked helplessly at the door. This was weird. She’d often found herself longing to flee Du Jour and head straight for a bar. She’d never expected it to work the other way around. “Simon, she’ll tell everybody when she’s ready.”
He snorted. “That’ll be the day. It’s not how she thinks. I promise you, we’ll just all watch her expand and say nothing until the kid’s actually in a bassinet.” He checked his watch. “We still have fifteen minutes. I’d say you’ve more than earned it. Finish up your drink, but take your time.”
Jules took another sip, then a horrible thought occurred to her. “She’s not going to tell anyone at the office? I’m going to be the only person who officially knows?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Then I’m going to keep doing everything myself?” Jules hadn’t expected that. She’d planned on keeping this secret until Vivian chose for it not to be a secret anymore. Then other people would step forward and help. Jules would no longer be a lone ranger but instead part of some kind of fetching-and-carrying network with other peons. She couldn’t be the only peon.
“What’s ‘everything’?” he inquired, looking genuinely interested. “What have you been doing for her?”
“Her food,” Jules whimpered. “The doctors and the lawyers, and I’ve been reading stuff about babies, and she sent me to Givenchy, and she told me she’s from Ohio—”
Simon stared at her. “She is?”
“You didn’t know?”
He grinned. “She told me she was from North Stamford.”
“Oh no.” Jules hid her face in her hands. “Simon—”
“Relax. It’s not like I ever bought it. ‘Vivian Carlisle’ isn’t even her real name.”
“It’s not?” Simon had never divulged this kind of intelligence when Jules had worked for him. “What is it?”
“How should I know? I didn’t even know where she was from. But it’s not Vivian Carlisle, I can tell you that.” He gave her a half smile. “If anyone’s in a position to find out, apparently it’s you. You’ll let me know if you learn anything, right?”
“Ha, ha, ha.” She took another big swallow of her stupid orange drink that she didn’t even like. Too sour. “Don’t change the subject. What am I supposed to do? She doesn’t have anyone but me.”
He looked at her in silence.
“No, really,” she said softly. “She doesn’t. It’s—”
“I guess that answers my question about Robert,” he said.
This time, Jules let her head fall all the way down until it hit the table.
Simon reached across and patted her shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard. I’m sure with some practice you’ll develop that thing called caution.”
“Why, though?” she asked, the wood table cool against her forehead. “Why isn’t there anybody else?” She looked up again pleadingly. There had to be a reason she was the one Vivian had FaceTimed in the middle of the night. “Why aren’t there any friends? Or are there? Maybe she’s talking to friends and I just don’t know about it.”
Her gut told her otherwise, and the shake of Simon’s head proved it correct. “Vivian doesn’t do friends. Not the kind you mean, anyway. She’s had too many bad experiences. She—look, I didn’t tell you any of this, okay?”
Whatever Simon said, Jules would take it to the grave if it helped her make sense of this. “Of course.”
“You lose a lot of friends in a divorce. Now imagine losing three times that many. Now add in that when you’re powerful and famous, it’s impossible to know who cares about you and who’s just using you. Now add in all the people you stepped on while you made your way to the top—”
“I get the idea.” There was likely even more to it than that. Vivian was strong-willed but intensely private. It was easy to see she’d put up walls within walls. She’d have a hard time keeping close friends even without the factors Simon had mentioned.
“Are you her friend?” she asked. “Are you as close as she gets?”
His silence told her everything.
And right at that moment, Jules’s phone rang. Vivian. She tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Vivian asked.
“Um. With Simon. Um—”
“Come back now.” Vivian disconnected.
Jules winced. “We’re being summoned. Or I am, anyway.”
“Ah.”
“Maybe the phones started ringing again,” she said glumly. Then she glared at him. “Or maybe she realized you were going to try to worm stuff out of me.”
“Or maybe she panics when she realizes you’re more than ten feet away.”
Jules blushed, then felt embarrassed for blushing because Simon might take it the wrong way, which only made her blush harder.
“You’re heading into undiscovered territory, you know,” he added. “And every explorer should be cautious.”
The words gave Jules a shiver. “What do you mean?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure what I mean.” He waved their server down for the check. “We haven’t seen anything like you yet.”
She inhaled sharply.
He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t decode. “Good luck.”
* * *
When she returned to Du Jour, Jules found herself in Vivian’s doorway wringing her hands.
“I’m back,” she said.
“Obviously.” She kept her eyes on the editorial spread in front of her. “Where’s Simon?”
“He’s gone home for the night.”
“And where did you two go?”
Might as well ’fess up. “He took me to Federico’s.”
“Sit down,” she said, still not looking up.
This couldn’t be good. Jules tried not to shake as she sat across from Vivian’s desk.
“Well?” Vivian said.
“He knows,” Jules mumbled.
Vivian looked up sharply at her.
“I didn’t tell him,” Jules added quickly. “He already knew. He guessed.”
“Hmm.” She leaned back, not seeming angry at all. She looked over Jules’s head at the ceiling and drummed her fingers on the desk. “I’m disappointed.”
Jules’s heart raced in panic. “I’m sorry. But I didn’t tell him.”
“I meant in Simon,” Vivian’s voice went almost gentle, a tone Jules had never heard her use before. “Not in you.”
“Oh,” she said after a moment of surprised silence.
“He asked you, not me. Why do you think that is?”
What a strange question. Was Jules expected to know the intricacies of Vivian and Simon’s relationship? “I don’t know.”
Vivian gave her a hooded look. “No? You worked for him for some time.”
Jules took a deep breath. “I guess he trusts me.”
“And should he? Is that wise of him?”
A few months ago, Jules would have said “Sure.” Not because she was working for Simon but because she considered herself a trustworthy person. Trustworthy and loyal. Now she understood that was a good thing—in the hands of the right person.
“I don’t think he’ll ask me again,” she said.
Would Vivian hear what she was really saying? You can trust me, Vivian. I’m yours now.
Wait, that wasn’t how she meant to put it, even in her own head. I work for you now. That was it.
Vivian gave her a long look. then followed it up with a slight nod, as if she’d heard it after all. “Call my driver. Let’s go home.”
Jules closed her eyes in gratitude. Excellent. She’d made it out of this conversation alive. Plus, it was ten thirty-five and they were on their way out the door. That hadn’t happened in ages.
Jules called Ben, then happily followed Vivian to the elevators. Time to rush to the subway.
But when they got outside, Vivian pointed to the car. “Get in.”
Jules looked at her, startled, before obeying. Yes, Vivian had given her a ride home once. She’d thought it had been a one-time thing after Vivian’s shocking discovery. But tonight it was business as usual as Vivian rattled off a litany of instructions to be fulfilled tomorrow when they arrived at work. Tonight, when they pulled up to her house, Vivian told Jules, “Ben will pick you up at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re ready to go.”
“What?”
But Vivian had already exited the car and was heading into her house. As she left, Jules heard her murmur something to Ben.
Ben closed Vivian’s door. Jules met his gaze in the rearview mirror when he returned to his seat. “Where are you supposed to take me tomorrow morning?”
“Du Jour,” he said patiently. “Where else? Well, after we pick her up, of course.”
She looked at the back of his head, unable to speak for a full thirty seconds. Then she managed, “Huh?”
“Looks like you’re the first stop on my route now. She just told me so.”
Her jaw slowly sagged open. “Holy shit,” she said, then, “oh no, you have to get up even earlier? I’m sorry, Ben.”
“Well, it’s not up to us, is it?” he said, but she detected annoyance in his voice anyway.
She closed her eyes. Great. She liked Ben: he’d always been friendly and helpful, and they’d shared a good laugh together once or twice about Vivian’s eccentricities. Hopefully, he wouldn’t resent her for this.
Besides, while the subway was a pain in the ass, it gave Jules time to wake up and get herself together before she had to face Vivian and Du Jour. Now she’d be at Du Jour from the moment she stepped out of the door in the morning to the moment she returned at night.
Maybe she panics when she realizes you’re more than ten feet away.
Jules watched the insides of her eyelids and decided that what she wanted was to go to sleep and wake up to find that nothing was weird anymore. That’d be great.
“She was talking about you yesterday morning,” Ben said.
Jules opened her eyes again.
“About your trip to Givenchy. The second one.”
Her mouth parted.
“Said the way you handled yourself was quite impressive.”
Jules’s mouth snapped shut.
This time Ben’s voice was good-natured when he said, “Keep it up and you’ll be some kind of executive vice president this time next month.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’ll be something all right.”