Her family put up a fuss, but in the end, there wasn’t much they could do. It wasn’t until a tearful Jules was on the verge of calling an Uber that her father consented to give her a lift to the station.
During the car ride, Jules realized she hadn’t told anybody in her family about Vivian’s pregnancy. It wouldn’t exactly be a violation of her unwritten confidentiality agreement if she told her dad. It wasn’t like the Morettis would tell all of Twitter.
So she spilled the beans, concluding with “And her husband doesn’t even want anything to do with it. He’s been cheating on her for months!”
Her father wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. “That’s a lousy thing to go through, no matter how rich and famous you are. And I’m sorry it’s happening to her. But, sweetie, it’s ludicrous that she’s calling you and threatening you and…” His voice dropped into a growl. “People aren’t things, Jules.”
“I know,” she pleaded. “But…I don’t know. I mean…” She looked down at the hands in her lap, then back at him. “She needs me.”
Her father rolled his eyes.
“No.” Suddenly, Jules had to make him understand. It’d be tough since she didn’t understand it herself. “I know it’s weird, but it’s true. I’m practically the only person she talks to now. I’m the only one in the office she’s even told officially.”
Her father slammed his hands against the steering wheel and scowled. “You shouldn’t be in that position.”
It wasn’t anything Jules hadn’t thought before, but she heard herself say, “It’s not Vivian’s fault this happened to her.”
Her father sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you that I haven’t already said. You’re grown up, and you’re on your own. You make your own decisions.”
The words suddenly made Jules feel very young indeed, and she fumed in silence the rest of the way to the station.
* * *
An exhausted Jules exited Heathrow Airport to find Jimmy, Vivian’s London driver, waiting for her in a Jaguar XF. She’d called him the moment she’d landed and the flight attendants said it was okay.
“Glad you made it all right,” he said. “There’s bottled water, if you’re thirsty.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Happy Christmas, then.”
Jules fought the urge to glare at him. He was just trying to be nice. He probably didn’t want to be working on Christmas either. “Thanks. You too.”
“Plans got spoiled, I expect. London’s a good town, though. Been here before?”
“No. I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, there you are,” he said heartily.
“Um…yeah.” Jules sat back and looked at her phone. She’d flown out of New York at 10:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve and had staggered into Heathrow at 10:30 a.m. on Christmas Day, local time. Jet lag was going to suck, and worse, she’d be the only one suffering through it. Vivian would have adjusted to the time change and would be as fresh as a daisy.
Coffee would help. Jules leaned toward the pod-style coffeemaker nestled between the front seats and picked up a pod. Sumatra blend, nice.
“Looking forward to the luncheon?” he asked.
She looked up with a frown. “The what?”
“The luncheon. Didn’t you know?” He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “When I told Ms. Carlisle what time you were getting in, she told me to make sure you got there in time to attend.”
Fantastic. Jules dropped the coffee pod back into its holder with a moan. “No, I didn’t know. Where is it? What’s this luncheon for?”
Hold it. She knew this. Vivian’s itinerary was already etched into her brain and had been for weeks. Today was Christmas, which meant, oh God, it was—
“The Christmas Day luncheon at the Ritz,” he said. “In the Music Room. Loads of publishing supremos. Very posh.”
Jules looked down with horror at her wrinkled pants and shirt. “We’re going straight there?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said patiently.
No. No way could she show up like this. “We have to make a quick stop somewhere. It won’t take me more than a few minutes to change. Please!”
He quickly held up a placating hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll set it right. Let’s see… My friends John and Nora have a flat not too far out of the way. I’ll ring them, see if they’re home.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Jules was practically sobbing with gratitude in front of a bemused-looking British woman. Christmas music played merrily in the background.
“Well, Jimmy’s told us stories about Vivian Carlisle,” Nora said, looking over at him with wide eyes. She had a sprig of holly pinned to her sweater. “I suppose they must be true. Here, you can change in our bedroom, love. Down the hall.”
Jules hauled her suitcase to the bedroom and threw it open. There must be something that would work. “Very posh,” Jimmy had said, but how posh was posh? It was lunch, so no evening gowns, which was good because Jules hadn’t thought to pack one, though obviously she should have. Shit! Well maybe this gray skirt would do. And this green blouse. And these black heels.
Dammit, she looked like a secretary. Well, she kind of was a secretary, but still… She rummaged around her jewelry and found a pair of pearl drop earrings to lend the ensemble a little more elegance. She could fix her makeup and hair in the car.
“Thank you so much,” she said as she hurried back out into the living room.
Jimmy stepped forward to take her bag.
“Oh, don’t you look nice,” Nora said.
“Really?” Jules looked down at herself anxiously.
“Oh yes,” Nora said. “Very sophisticated. I especially like those pearl earrings.” Her voice was a little too placating, but Jules decided to take what she could get and thanked her yet again.
“I’ll tell John about this,” Nora said. “He won’t half laugh.” She took Jules’s hand and squeezed it. “Enjoy your party.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jules muttered, and she and Jimmy hurried back down to the car.
“We’ll be cutting it a bit close,” Jimmy said as Jules slapped on lip gloss in the back seat. “But we ought to get you there in time. It’s just that Ms. Carlisle is—”
“—particular about this kind of thing,” Jules finished for him. “Believe me, I know.” She put away her lip gloss and spent a risky couple of minutes with her mascara wand before deciding she looked good enough—well, except for the dark circles beneath her eyes—and then she went to work on her hair.
Thick, wavy locks were a nightmare to arrange at the last minute. There was only so much she could do with a brush and a few bobby pins, but by the time Jimmy pulled up to the Ritz, she’d managed an acceptable—if slightly sloppy—bun. Hopefully, it would pass for shabby-chic sloppy instead of I-practically-got-dressed-in-the-car sloppy. Either way, it was too late to do anything about it now.
Time to enter the fray.