Four days later, Jules was buried under more résumés than she knew what to do with. Human Resources’ software had supposedly weeded out the weakest ones and given Jules the cream of the crop. She wasn’t sure how creamy they were, but some pretty big names had made it to the top of the slush pile: the sons and daughters of society people, kids with big trust funds and bigger expectations in life. They were pursuing degrees in fashion design, art, philosophy—very rarely anything to do with publishing.
However, getting the right degree still didn’t mean you could do the job. The most important thing initially was to be the fastest draw in town in answering a phone and to possess self-esteem that could survive Du Jour dropping boulders on it every five minutes. That sort of experience didn’t show up on a résumé.
In the car one morning, watching Jules frantically scrolling through the applications, Vivian said, “Have you found any likely candidates?”
“Three so far.”
Vivian held out her hand. “Let me see.”
Jules handed over her tablet showing the résumé PDFs. Vivian took ten seconds to look at all three of them and tossed the device back into Jules’s lap. “No. Keep looking.”
The dismay was nearly impossible to hide. These had been her top picks. “Okay. Can you tell me what was wrong with these so I know what to avoid next time?”
Vivian leaned over and tapped on one image. “I hate her mother.” She tapped on the second. “Her mother hates me.” She tapped on the third. “A 3.87 grade point average.”
“She’s at Columbia,” Jules protested.
“Oh, that’s right.” Vivian’s voice turned syrupy. “I’d forgotten that Columbia is the only school in the country that doesn’t practice grade inflation. That 3.87 GPA is really a 3.5, and you know it.”
Jules scowled. “So what was my 4.0?”
“Don’t take this personally. By the time I hired you, you had qualifications that actually mattered.”
“Oh. Thanks?”
“They don’t have professional experience yet. All we’ve got to go on are academic records and extracurriculars. Don’t settle for less than the best. We can afford to be picky.”
At least that gave Jules one starting point: a pristine college transcript. But how the heck was she supposed to know about the other stuff? Vivian’s feuds and squabbles with the New York elite were notorious and ever changing.
Well, so were everyone else’s. Everybody who traveled in those circles swapped and dropped friends often, and they were all drama queens.
“Don’t let me down, Julia.”
Jules held back a sigh. No matter what, she dreaded disappointing Vivian more than almost anything. Making Vivian happy made her happy too.
She remembered more often than she cared to the sight of Vivian laughing on New Year’s Eve, relaxed and amused. She would give her right arm to see it again.
And maybe she would. Vivian had a little more spring in her step these days, more of a sparkle in her eye. She’d had time to absorb the shock of her pregnancy, time to—well, not get over Robert’s infidelity, but she didn’t seem to be dwelling on it.
Reporters weren’t bugging her as much now as they had in the forty-eight hours after the news about her pregnancy had broken. Vivian’s position was still difficult, still something Jules wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy (okay, maybe her worst), but she seemed to be dealing with it better than Jules would have expected.
It was totally nothing to do with her, of course. Just because Jules was there to make things easier, just because Vivian relied on her more than she’d ever relied on another assistant, that didn’t matter. So what if she knew that Jules worked her ass off to make her happy? Why should that give her so much…bounce?
Not the time to let silly fantasies go to your head. If Jules really wanted to make Vivian happy and comfortable, she could start by doing her job and finding a halfway-decent intern.
Two days later, she finally preinterviewed a tall, willowy blonde who’d made it past the initial HR screening. She was majoring in art history at Columbia and had an impressive list of extracurriculars. She also had a permanent curl of her upper lip.
Nevertheless, Jules gave her a friendly smile. “Hi.” She extended her hand.
The blonde took it limply before dropping it again.
“I’m Julia Moretti, but you can call me Jules.”
“Huh,” the blonde—whose name was Victoria—said. “That’s cute.”
“Er, I guess. So, Victoria…it is Victoria, right? Or do you go by Vicky or something?”
Victoria looked revolted, but she only said “no.”
“Right.” Jules felt her smile becoming strained. Victoria had better say something impressive in the next few minutes if she wanted to have a prayer of landing this position. “Have a seat.”
They were in a small meeting room near Simon’s office. Victoria seated herself elegantly and folded her hands on the glass tabletop.
“So, Victoria…” Jules glanced down at the list of questions she’d prepared. “To start, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“What about me?” Victoria looked around, appearing impatient. “Listen, I’m sorry, but my time is kind of at a premium today.”
She couldn’t have heard that correctly. “What?”
“I came here for an interview,” Victoria said. “Is Ms. Carlisle busy or something?”
“Ms. Carlisle?”
Victoria glared at her. “You’re her assistant, right?”
“Yes,” Jules replied, astonished.
“So you’re in charge of her schedule. When is she going to be free? How long do I have to wait?”
“Well”—Jules looked at her watch—“no longer, actually. Come on.”
She headed for the door, Victoria following her eagerly. Then, as it became clear that they were heading for the exit, Victoria stopped and frowned. “Wait a minute.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jules said sweetly, pointing ahead. “You probably know your way out already.”
“Huh? What about my interview?”
“We just had it,” Jules said. “Good luck with the job hunt.”
Victoria’s eyes bugged out. “You were interviewing me? An assistant?”
“Yep. I sure was.”
“Do you know who my father is?”
Screw that. Jules gave Victoria her best glare, one modeled on Vivian herself. It must have been good because the young woman took a step back.
Jules slowly raised her arm and pointed at the exit. “Bye. We won’t call you. We won’t keep your résumé on file. And if you play your cards right, we won’t send it to other people as a warning either. Or a joke.”
Victoria opened her mouth.
“Goodbye.”
Victoria turned beet red and actually looked about to cry. She turned and headed for the exit. When she was out of sight, Jules exhaled heavily.
She couldn’t believe how terrifyingly good that had felt.
* * *
“What about that internship candidate you met with this morning?” Vivian asked in the car later that day.
“Totally disappointing.” Jules sighed.
“I’d get used to that feeling, if I were you.” Then Vivian tilted her head toward Jules, a smile playing around her lips as if they were sharing a joke.
Something in Jules’s chest became so warm and light that she forgot about being disappointed at all.
* * *
Two days later, the world had mercy on her. A short, slight redhead stood in front of her. She was young, pretty, and fashionable enough to work at Du Jour. She seemed awed by the offices, awed by Jules, awed by even the idea of Vivian Carlisle.
She was also sweet natured, hardworking, and—as Jules’s grandfather would have said—a few tomatoes short of a good marinara.
“The question is,” Jules said carefully, “can you pretty much just do as you’re told?”
“Oh yes,” the girl—whose name was Allie—replied. She smiled brilliantly. “Everyone’s always told me that’s my natural area of expertise!”
“Sit right here.” Jules then hurried into Vivian’s office.
Vivian was on her cell phone, though it sounded like she was wrapping up the conversation. As Jules approached, she quickly said into the phone, “Why, that sounds marvelous, darling. Yes. I’ll see you then.” Then she disconnected and looked back at Jules.
God, her eyes are blue. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say there’s an internship candidate I just interviewed.”
Vivian glanced toward where Allie was sitting. “Well?”
“I think we’ve got a live one,” Jules said, hoping against hope that she was right.
“Call her in.”
Jules crooked her finger at Allie, who had been watching them both anxiously from the outer office.
She trotted in, smiling brightly, a copy of her résumé in hand. She was nervous and excited and offering her throat to Vivian like the zeta female to the alpha.
Vivian’s eyes gleamed, and Jules knew she’d chosen well. “So,” Vivian said neutrally, “who are you?”
“Alexandra Lake.” Allie then added, “Allie, please.”
Vivian’s lip curled. “And what brings you here, Allie?”
Allie blanched. “Um.”
“I’ll just go mind the phones,” Jules said.
Vivian nodded, a satisfied look on her face.
Jules sat down at her desk. She was listening in, but she couldn’t help thinking, She called her Allie. She calls me Julia.
Maybe she thinks I’m special.
No. Time to pay attention. Jules focused back on the interview. She heard Vivian say, “think you can bring to the table?”
“Oh, I love fashion,” Allie replied earnestly. “My mom got Du Jour in the mail every month when I was growing up, and I always read it cover to cover.”
“Really,” Vivian purred. “Well.”
Jules could just picture the look on her face. She rather thought she could pat herself on the back. Score one brand-spanking-new minion. She tried not to preen. Finally.