The Music Room was…pink.
Seriously so. Pink chairs, pink tablecloths, wide stripes of pink on every wall. It was like stumbling into the world’s fanciest gender-reveal party. At least the elaborate holiday décor provided some relief: holly, ivy, ornaments, and gold ribbons were everywhere. Two splendid Christmas trees didn’t hurt either.
The room was also filled with flower-festooned round tables. A string quartet played unobtrusively in a corner. The food hadn’t been served yet, so everyone was still standing in little groups, chatting and laughing through their teeth as they sipped from glasses of wine or the occasional cup of tea. All very civilized.
But make no mistake, blood was in the water. It always was. When you got this rich and this powerful, you lost any sense of proportion. Or so Jules had observed over the past few years. The more these people had, the more they wanted. At this level, it was rarely about material possessions. It was about dominance. Being the best.
Right at that moment, she saw Vivian in the corner of the room talking to a couple of people. She looked transformed. Gone was the weariness. Today Vivian’s head was held up high, her pixie hair as precise as if she’d been to the salon two minutes ago. Her emerald sheath dress could have come right off the Proenza Schouler runway. Unlike Jules, she didn’t look like someone who’d stumbled off a plane before being thrown into the maw of high society.
She looked incredible.
Then Vivian looked up and saw Jules staring at her from the doorway. Her eyes widened, and a spasm of panic hit Jules. Shit! Her outfit was gauche. Her hair looked awful. Her makeup was clownish. She’d flown all the way out here only to disgrace Vivian and embarrass herself in front of some of the most powerful people in the industry. She should just bolt.
Before she could, Vivian gestured imperiously for Jules to join her. Her face had already reverted back to its cool mask. Jules headed toward her on shaking knees. Maybe after mumbling a hello, she could lurk in the corner until this was over. Or until Vivian ordered her out of the room in disgust.
But as she approached the group—Vivian, two men, and another woman—Vivian turned to look at her again. Her gaze was neither hard nor disapproving. It was almost…amiable.
Jules blinked. Vivian never shied away from expressing her displeasure, even in front of other people, since she could do it so well without speaking a word. Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she feared. Clinging to a newfound shred of confidence, Jules managed a smile for everyone and said, “Hello.” It only came out a little bit squeaky.
Vivian came forward and said, “Hello, Julia,” then—what the ever-loving bejesused fucking fuck?—leaned in and kissed the air to either side of her cheeks. Vivian’s skin was soft and warm as she brushed against Jules’s face.
When Vivian pulled away, Jules fumbled for an expression that wasn’t shocked. A smile would do. Hopefully, it didn’t look too ghastly.
Her face was tingling. It was not unpleasant.
“This is my assistant, Julia Moretti,” Vivian said to the three others. “She’s just arrived from Philadelphia this morning.” Her voice was pleasant without being cooing or false, just as if she were introducing a friend or something.
“How nice to meet you,” one of the men, a portly, balding guy in his midfifties, said. He held out his hand. “Geoffrey Barnhardt.”
Jules shook it while Vivian said, “Geoffrey is the managing director of Koening’s operations in the UK. And these are the Goldsteins…”
During the next ten minutes, Jules found herself being introduced to several ritzy-looking people who drifted toward and then away from Vivian as she held court, letting people come to her. This shindig wasn’t her doing, but somehow she still managed to be the center of attention.
Everyone here knew her. Few liked her. Most of them feared her. That was obvious right away.
Then it was time to be seated for the actual food. Jules scanned the tables and saw tiny nameplates at each place. Rats—she hadn’t been able to look around before Vivian had pulled her aside. Everybody else had already had time to find out where they were sitting.
Jules didn’t want to be the only one wandering around like an idiot, so she dared to ask Vivian, “Sorry, but do you know where I’m supposed to sit? I haven’t had a chance to—”
“We’re at the center table.” Vivian gestured, then proceeded like a queen to the center table with Jules trailing in her wake.
It wasn’t until catching other people watching her with raised eyebrows that Jules realized how unusual this had to look. The center table was prime real estate at any function and usually occupied only by the people in charge and their most important guests. People like Jules, if they were lucky enough to get invited at all, always sat at the tables on the outermost periphery. But there it was, a tiny card made of embossed cream paper with Jules’s name in beautiful calligraphy, right next to Vivian’s.
She lowered herself into her seat, feeling as if everybody in the room were watching her. Which they weren’t. Of course they weren’t.
Vivian was already chatting with the man seated at her left, and the woman on Jules’s right was talking to the person on her other side, so Jules was left to sit mutely and try not to fidget. Fortunately, at that moment, waiters emerged carrying trays of salad with scallops and prawns. Jules had eaten a decent breakfast a few hours ago on the flight—first class food was a world apart from coach—but her mouth still watered, and she had to force herself to eat sparingly. It would look bad for Vivian Carlisle’s assistant to gobble her food like a starving animal.
She glanced at Vivian, who appeared to have the same problem. Hunger pangs again, and not a pizza in sight. Jules bit her lip and looked back down at her salad; if Vivian caught her smirking, she’d be more likely to slap Jules’s cheek than air-kiss it.
Jules blushed again. That had been so weird. So unexpected. Nobody at Du Jour would ever believe it. Why were her fingertips tingling again?
The woman on Jules’s right turned to her. They had already been introduced, but, to her horror, Jules realized that she couldn’t remember anything about her. She looked to be in her late forties, possibly early fifties, with blonde hair a few shades more natural than Vivian’s.
“Did I hear that you have just come today from Philadelphia?” the woman asked with a German accent.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jules said. “I was visiting my family for the holidays.” Was being the operative word.
“I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Is it far from New York?”
“Er, no. A little over an hour by train.”
The woman pursed her lips. “One of your famous figures lived there, I think. What was his name…Franklin?”
Jules straightened with pride that absolutely would have labeled her a nerd back in school. “Ben Franklin, yes! He did a lot for the city. It’s a pretty cool place, actually, though people tend to ignore it in favor of New York. Lots of history.”
Oh no. She was rambling. The German woman was already starting to look bored. Jules fumbled for something more interesting. “Where are you from?”
“Berlin.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of history there too,” she said as her brain scrambled to catch up with her mouth. “Uh, the war, and Soviet occupation, and…so much.” Shut up, shut up!
Vivian cleared her throat. “Helga, how’s your son doing?”
Oh, thank God. Jules was saved. Helga Schumann was her name. And her husband Georg sat to Helga’s right. He was a big shot executive who owned tons of shares in Delton Wright, Koening’s main rival publishing house. Corporate scuttlebutt was that they’d tried to lure Vivian away from Koening several times over the years.
“Karl is wonderful,” Mrs. Schumann gushed, looking away from Jules as if she’d already forgotten all about her. “He turned sixteen last Wednesday. He’s at the top of his class. We are so proud.”
“How wonderful.” Vivian’s voice was bland.
“And you, my dear.” Mrs. Schumann returned her attention to Jules with a gleam of interest in her eyes. “You look so young! How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” Was Mrs. Schumann about to take revenge for Jules’s conversational idiocy?
“A baby,” cooed Mrs. Schumann. “Isn’t she, Vivian?”
Vivian’s expression remained inscrutable as she sipped her water. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Hmm, I suppose not. But doesn’t it seem that as we get older, twenty-five seems younger and younger? I thought I was so wise at that age.” Mrs. Schumann shook her head. “But it does seem like that. Perhaps they are just taking longer to mature than we did.”
Jules didn’t love being talked about as if she weren’t there. “I don’t know, Mrs. Schumann. I think in some ways we’re having to grow up faster than our parents did.”
Mrs. Schumann’s eyes widened.
Vivian inhaled audibly through her nose.
“Although you’re both younger than my parents!” Jules added instantly. “I wasn’t implying—um, ha-ha.”
Helga Schumann pursed her lips, then opened her mouth to reply.
“You aren’t completely wrong, Julia,” Vivian said mildly.
Jules actually grabbed the arm of her chair to make sure she wasn’t about to fall out of it.
“The amount of time your age group spends on social media is both a blessing and a curse,” Vivian continued. “It’s made you socially aware and tragically misinformed.”
“Social media!” said Mrs. Schumann. “Do not get me started!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Helga,” Vivian said.
Jules tried to shrink down into her seat as the two women stared at each other, Mrs. Schumann trying to decide if she’d been insulted, Vivian cool as a cucumber.
Thankfully, at that moment, Georg Schumann said something to the man on his right, and Mrs. Schumann turned from Jules to participate in the conversation.
Jules gave Vivian an apologetic look. Vivian returned a look that seemed sort of…amused. Which had to be impossible.
Suddenly, Jules desperately wanted to know how she was—if she was less fatigued, if she was eating enough, sleeping well. But of course she couldn’t ask any of that here, so she just said, “Have you heard from Simon since you arrived?”
There. Conversation that wasn’t small talk. Vivian had limited tolerance for small talk.
Vivian sniffed. “The LA pictures didn’t come out as well as either of us had hoped. But they could be worse, I suppose. We’ll make do.”
We’ll make do? That one sentence told Jules volumes about how Vivian felt. She never “made do.” Was she tired, or was she bending to Mark Tavio’s pressure to keep costs down? Or both?
She wondered yet again what Mr. Tavio would say when he learned that Vivian was pregnant and the circumstances surrounding it. Robert dumping her, an extremely acrimonious divorce, Vivian being a single mom… It’d be all over the papers, on the lips of all of New York society. Of course, it would reflect on Du Jour, on Koening, whether that was fair or not.
Jules had heard that any publicity was good publicity. She just hoped Mr. Tavio felt the same way. Vivian had threatened legal action if he didn’t, if she faced any discrimination related to her pregnancy, but she was fighting so many battles right now—would she have energy for one more?
“What?” Vivian’s eyes narrowed, and Jules realized she’d been staring with what was probably a blank, stupid-looking expression.
“Oh!” she said. “Sorry. I was just, um…”
Vivian tilted her head away as if already bored by whatever excuse Jules was about to offer and turned to speak to the man on her left again.
Feeling oddly dejected, Jules spent the next ten minutes poking at her food. She should just stay quiet and pray she wasn’t noticed for the rest of the meal. That’d be a dumb move, though. She was wasting an opportunity to meet important people. How many assistants got a chance like this?
So she made a deliberate effort to make eye contact with and smile at those important people over the roast fillet of halibut. By the time dessert was served, she was chatting shyly with none other than Vincent Wright: the CEO of Delton Wright, the host of the luncheon and clearly the most important person in the room.
Vivian appeared pleased that Jules was managing to fumble her way through a conversation about Broadway musicals, which was something, anyway. She also looked relieved not to be speaking. Was that why she’d wanted Jules at the luncheon, to take up some of the slack?
If so, that was pretty easy. Once Jules had engaged the CEO’s attention, naturally everybody else wanted to get in on the conversation, and she didn’t have to say much after the initial observation on how much she’d liked Hadestown. The conversation ran from there. It turned out some of the most important people in publishing were dying to talk about show tunes, so long as Mr. Wright was too.
Vivian said little but sipped from her water glass and looked idly around the table, moving her gaze from face to face. Even the quickest of glances told Jules that she was tired.
Well, that makes two of us. Her former irritation returned just the tiniest bit. This might be a great opportunity, but she was starting to fade again, now that the initial rush of adrenaline was wearing off.
Then she was saved yet again. Jules hadn’t even taken one bite of her cardamom cream with basil jelly when Vivian announced, “This has been wonderful, Vincent, but I’ve got to run.”
Mr. Wright didn’t look surprised, but he put up a token protest anyway, along with the other people at the table. “So soon, Vivian? Surely you can have dessert.”
Vivian shook her head, wearing a fake gracious smile. “Thank you, but jet lag strikes again. Let’s go, Julia.”
Jules quickly put her spoon down, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and rose to her feet while a nearby waiter pulled out Vivian’s chair for her. All the men at the table stood.
Jules smiled at everyone and said, “It was so nice to meet all of you. Thank you very much,” she added to Mr. Wright. “I had a lovely time.”
He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Julia. Happy Christmas. Enjoy London.”
Best not to say that she probably wouldn’t see much of it. Instead, Jules thanked him again, then quickly followed Vivian, who was already hightailing it out of the room, pausing only to wave at certain acquaintances on her way out.
Once they’d left the room, Jules pulled out her phone to call Jimmy and tell him they were ready to go.
“Get my mink.” She handed Jules her coat check ticket.
Jules hurried to fetch their things and returned wearing her own coat and carrying Vivian’s mink stole.
Jules slid the garment around Vivian’s shoulders. Lately she’d been allowed to help with stuff like that. Jules had no idea why, what it meant, or if it meant anything. Vivian could just be tired. Or distracted.
Either way, it wasn’t the worst feeling to watch Vivian Carlisle’s slender shoulders disappear beneath the luxurious fur.
They reached the curb as Jimmy pulled up. “Home, Ms. Carlisle?” he asked as they settled in.
“Yes.” She closed her eyes briefly, then gazed out the window. They’d just pulled into traffic when she murmured, “Thank God that’s over.”
“The food was nice,” Jules offered.
“The fish was bland and poorly cooked.”
“Except for the fish,” Jules mumbled.
Vivian sighed. She rested a hand on the black Hermès clutch in her lap, tapping her fingernails on the pebble-grained goatskin. “You’re too easily impressed. A little longer at this and you’ll acquire—”
Snobbery.
“—enough taste to tell the mediocre from the good. Don’t be overwhelmed by a famous venue and a pretty room.”
Hey, that wasn’t fair. Since she’d started at Du Jour, Jules had seen plenty of famous venues, and it wasn’t like Penn hadn’t had its own fair share of opportunities. She’d studied abroad in Italy for a semester and seen some of the world’s most beautiful buildings, fashion, and artwork. She hadn’t been invited to sit down with the Pope, but being in his general vicinity had to count for something.
She meant to say so, but what came out of her mouth was, “That ‘pretty room’ was too pink.”
A poorly muffled laugh emanated from the driver’s seat.
Vivian frowned at the back of Jimmy’s head. “I didn’t know your standards were so high, Julia. I didn’t mean to bring you to a hole in the wall for lunch.”
“Wait, no,” Jules said in horror. “I—”
“And to make you slum it with such unimportant people.”
“I didn’t mean that!” Jules dug her fingers into her skirt.
“What did you mean?”
“I just meant I wasn’t… I knew how sophisticated the venue was, Vivian. And I really appreciate that I got to meet all those people. Thank you. But I don’t just walk around with stars in my eyes instead of paying attention.”
Vivian regarded her for a long moment. “You do pay attention to things,” she said eventually. “I’ve noticed that.”
Jules’s job was about paying attention, noting the minutiae of what each day needed. But that was every PA’s job. Vivian meant it in a different way. It wasn’t totally clear how, but Jules dared to glow anyway.
“You handled yourself well,” Vivian said absently.
That wasn’t how Jules remembered it. “I did?”
“Once you got past your history lesson, yes.” As Jules cringed, Vivian waved her hand. “Talking to Helga Schumann is an Olympic trial in patience. Nobody likes her. You did better with the people who mattered.”
Jules’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad.”
She didn’t seem to care whether Jules was glad or not. She turned to look out her window.
Jules should do the same. She was on her first trip to London and hadn’t once taken the time to look at her surroundings. It was a city she’d always wanted to visit.
But for some reason, when she tried to focus on the scenery, she couldn’t take any of it in. She remembered the air kiss Vivian had given her. Her cheeks burned again, and she wondered if she’d fallen into some alternate dimension.
“Now,” Vivian said out of nowhere, “we need to discuss tomorrow.”
Oh. Right. Jules was here to work. She pulled out her phone. “Do you want me to schedule a meeting with someone?”
“Why would I want that?”
She blinked at Vivian, who frowned right back.
“Then…um, what do you want?”
“It’s dinner at the Chislehursts’,” she replied slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “Don’t you remember? That’s what’s on the schedule for tomorrow. The only thing. I had to give up my Christmas Day to a bunch of sharks. Is it asking too much that I get the day after—one single day—for myself? What are you staring at?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. What?” Jules pushed a stray curl out of her face, knowing she’d narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “You don’t have anything for me to do tomorrow?”
Vivian had called her way the hell out here, and there wasn’t even anything for Jules to do? Was she out of her mind?
“Did I say that?” Vivian examined Jules’s outfit. “That skirt’s all right, but you’ll want a different top for the evening. Lady Chislehurst is obsessed with formalities, but you’ll never meet a better canapé in your life. I repeat, what are you staring at?”
“I’m going with you to the…” There was no point in finishing the question. She was going to meet the Chislehursts, whoever they were. And that was it? That couldn’t be right. Vivian wouldn’t have flown her all the way out here just to be her fucking dinner companion. She couldn’t be in that desperate need of a, of a—
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and collected herself. Don’t think. Just do. Don’t think. Just do. “What time are we leaving?”
“Seven.” Vivian still didn’t look her way.
“Fine.”
The slightest blush was creeping up Vivian’s throat, though whether it was from anger or embarrassment, Jules couldn’t be sure. The woman must know how ridiculous this was.
She must really feel like shit to pull this kind of stunt for company.
“So, what are we doing tonight?” Jules heard herself ask.
Vivian turned quickly to look back at her. “Do you have short-term amnesia or something? The schedule—”
“I know what’s on it.” Jules dropped her phone in her lap. “The schedule says Christmas Day, just like the calendar. What are we doing for Christmas?”
Vivian sneered. “I didn’t think you were the sentimental type. Maybe we should go home and watch It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“Maybe we should. Or some dumb Christmas movie on Lifetime. Do they have Lifetime here?”
“Are you kidding?”
Jules crossed her arms.
“I don’t like Christmas,” Vivian said.
Jules fought back the urge to laugh. Of course Vivian didn’t like Christmas. She was the most fashionable Grinch ever. She probably also disliked kittens, rainbows, and sunsets. “Well, I love Christmas. I was going to celebrate it with my family, but now I’m here.”
Vivian crossed her own arms, far more elegantly than Jules had. With the tilt of her head, she could have been a queen glaring at an impertinent subject. “Celebrating it with me?”
“Celebrating it with you,” Jules confirmed.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. It’s not like I expect a present or anything.”
What would a present from Vivian Carlisle be? A book titled An Underling’s Guide to Debasing Yourself More Efficiently?
“You don’t?” Vivian asked. “Then you must not have noticed the one you just got.”
“Huh?”
Vivian gave her a level look. “Didn’t you just say you appreciated meeting some of the most powerful people in publishing?”
Jules returned her look, dumbfounded.
“Do you think that disease-riddled PA was going to sit at my table? Or that she was attending at all?”
Her head was spinning again. The luncheon had been her Christmas present? It was supposed to make up for snatching Jules out of the bosom of her own family?
Yes, it was. In Vivian’s world, it was adequate compensation and then some. She had fled from Toledo, Ohio, to more glamorous things as soon as she could. She couldn’t imagine that everybody else wouldn’t have done the same. She’d given Jules the kind of present she would have wanted for herself.
It was weirdly sweet. And also pretty messed up.
All she could think to say was, “I…guess she wasn’t.”
“You guess correctly.” Vivian snapped open her black clutch and peered inside. “Anyway, that’s enough sentiment. If you’re insisting on Christmas, then have at it, although I have no idea what it’s supposed to look like.”
Jules just bet she didn’t. “I know what it looks like. Let me take care of it.” It’s what I do best, and you know it.
“Well, Julia, I’m intrigued now.” Vivian raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Impress me. For Christmas.”
“I will.”
They rode in silence then. Jules took another deep breath and looked out the window once more. Now was as good a moment as any to get that passing glimpse of London.
Although, who knew? Vivian might just decide to take her on a personal tour of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. Jules’s parents had gone to London on vacation last year, and they’d raved about both places.
Oh dammit! She’d forgotten to text her parents when she arrived. She’d call them at Vivian’s place instead. They must be worried. They’d also want to know what the deal was here.
Too bad Jules would have no idea what to tell them.