The Blind Spot Bar was perfect for the intimate yet glitzy bash that Prabal Gurung was throwing. The lighting was low, the furnishings were elegant, and the bar at the end of the room glowed golden with the promise of alcohol. Small tables were grouped throughout the room so that guests could sit and chat cozily with each other, but there was still plenty of space to maneuver back and forth.
Yeah, it was nice. Maybe Jules could camp out here until morning, when she’d have to call her parents and beg them to buy her a coach-class ticket home.
Until then, she had to get it together. There were important people here, more important people than she’d ever met before without Vivian’s help. And since she would never have her help again—
Because she’d just hurled herself right out of Vivian’s life—
She might as well make the most of it.
Monique Leung’s assistant was nowhere in sight, but the crowd was still building. It was pretty unfashionable of her to have arrived right on time. She should have stopped somewhere else for a drink first.
Time to remedy that, then. She headed straight for the bar and started to open her clutch. “Hi. Just keep a tab running.”
He held up his hand. “Open bar tonight, miss.”
Finally, something nice. Jules rested her elbows on the polished wood bar with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Open bar?” she said. “They ought to call this the Bright Spot.”
“Never heard that one before,” he said with a straight face. “Long week?”
“The longest.”
“Seems like. What can I get for you?”
Jules shouldn’t order an old fashioned, which was suddenly the only thing she wanted to drink. “I’ll just have a gin and tonic, please.”
“One G&T, coming right up.” He picked up a bottle of Tanqueray, and Jules watched him mix the drink as if it were the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. Then she took it like it was the holy grail. Delicious.
When she finished the drink, she said, “I mouthed off to my boss tonight.”
“Did you?”
“Oh yeah.” In a big way. Mouthing off didn’t even come close. The ride on the Tube had calmed her down. And now that she was feeling saner, she realized she’d said things that would be beyond the pale for a lowly assistant giving sass to her boss.
Vivian had deserved every word, but still.
“What did you say to your boss?” the bartender asked, sounding hopeful for good drama.
A whole lot. “Um, I don’t want to go into it. She said some bad stuff, and I got upset, so I said some stuff back, and then I walked out on her.”
“Sounds more like a lovers’ spat to me.” The bartender set out two bowls of water crackers.
Jules couldn’t even rise to the bait. Too depressing. She took a cracker and let it sit on her tongue for a second, flat and tasting of nothing. Then she started chewing and said around her mouthful, “Not exactly.”
“Well, you’ll find something else.” The bartender looked over Jules’s shoulder and smiled. “What can I get for you, sir?”
Jules took the hint and edged out of the way for the guy behind her to order the cocktail of the night. It was something called a Lavender Haze, made with vodka, soda, fruit liqueur, and actual lavender. It sounded good, honestly, and Jules ordered one.
As the bartender moved on to other customers, Jules reached for her clutch to get out her phone. Along with a drink, she could drown her sorrows by scrolling social media.
Or I could see how many times Vivian’s texted and called to rip me a new one.
Jules yanked her hand back as if her clutch had caught fire. Hell no. Not now. She could have a couple more hours of blissful ignorance before facing the music.
She knocked back her second drink. Then she put the brakes on and tried the hors d’oeuvres so she wouldn’t be completely sloshed. Not that she couldn’t use the buzz, but on the off chance that she hadn’t just torpedoed her career in the industry, she wanted to be able to look these people in the eye later.
You’ll find something else. The bartender had said it with such confidence. She fought the urge to go back and beg him to say it again.
The problem, of course, was that she didn’t want something else. She wanted what she had, only more of it. She wanted to be at Vivian’s side, bowled over and besotted. She wanted all of that, and she wanted more. She wanted to see her own desire reflected in Vivian’s face. Wanted those hard eyes to soften, those stern lips to curve in a slow smile for Jules and Jules alone.
Dummy! She’s not worth it. Remember everything she said. You want more of that? What’s wrong with you? Grow a spine!
Fury tightened her stomach again. She could let it give her strength. It had worked an hour ago. She could get over Vivian for real this time. She could…
“So you made it.”
Jules snapped out of her reverie to see Monique Leung standing before her, clad in stunning fuchsia, her hair in an elegant twist.
“Yes.” Jules fought the urge to look down at her drink to see how much was left. She was definitely a little buzzed. She should have had another hors d’oeuvre. “Thanks for inviting me. It’s a beautiful bar. Um…how’s the week going?”
Monique smiled. “It’s going okay. I’m sure you’ve been plastered to Vivian’s side, as per usual.”
Jules’s spine stiffened at the mention of Vivian’s name.
Monique seemed to see this. “You caught hell for coming here, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Jules sighed.
Her smile grew wry. She looked almost knowing—but what was there to know? “That speaks volumes. I’m glad you came in spite of that.”
“Of course. Monique…” She had to ask. After the previous week, and her confrontation with Vivian, Jules’s tolerance for artifice had officially run out. “Why did you invite me?”
Far from being offended, Monique seemed pleased by Jules’s forthrightness. She smiled again. “You’re right—let’s skip the bullshit.”
Jules flushed.
Monique shrugged. “I think your time could be better employed. You’re up to your neck in industry contacts, you’re a decent writer, you know how the sausage is made, and—to be honest—Vivian Carlisle’s pissing me off.”
Jules started in surprise. Decent writer. “You’ve read my work?”
“Of course that’s the part you heard.” Monique chuckled. “I keep up with Salon, yes. Your article wasn’t a work of genius—I think you know that—but it’s good enough, and it shows you have hustle.”
Damning with faint praise. Jules’s industry contacts would obviously be more useful than her talents as a writer. Plus the other thing.
“And Vivian’s pissing you off,” she said wearily.
“It’s not a secret, is it? I wouldn’t poach you just for that, but it’s not a disincentive.”
So Vivian had been right about at least one thing. Jules seemed to have found the one person at Fashion Week who’d find it a plus that she’d alienated Vivian Carlisle.
“Poaching me for what?” she asked. “You already seem to have a good assistant. And I don’t speak any form of Chinese.”
She couldn’t help thinking about what else Vivian had said. Jules wasn’t the only one she’d accused. Vivian thought Monique was trying to seduce her.
Even if Jules wasn’t buzzed, she had a hunch that it wouldn’t hold water. Monique showed not the slightest hint of desire. Jules just must not be an editor in chief’s type.
“I’m not proposing you be my assistant,” Monique said. “I’m proposing you get out of our incestuous Du Jour family and broaden your horizons.”
Jules’s eyes widened.
Monique gave her a level look.
Thoughts raced through her mind. Mark Tavio might be conspiring against Vivian, trying to replace her during her pregnancy. Now, Monique was trying to get Vivian’s notoriously loyal assistant out of Du Jour entirely. Was this a cog in some kind of plot? No matter how pissed Jules was at Vivian, she couldn’t be a part of that.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’ve started my own fashion label. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard—it’s China-based, and the Western fashion market’s still learning to give a shit about that.” Her expression went sour before clearing again. “But it’s doing well and I’m branching out. We’ll be in Paris, New York, and London this fall.” She paused. “Especially London.”
Whoa. This was a big deal. Also not a Mark Tavio plot or an indecent proposal. Looked like Vivian wasn’t always right after all.
“Do you have a distributor in stores?”
Monique smiled at Jules’s enthusiasm. “In Asia, I have my own boutiques. Here in London, I’m in Dover Street Market and Harrod’s, and I’m planning to expand into my own store. In the States, we’re still mainly an online presence on sites like Net-a-Porter. But Chinese street fashion is trending everywhere, and I’ve been careful to get my pieces out there, so I’m confident in my buzz.”
Jules’s head spun. “That’s really cool. But …what can I do?”
Monique tilted her elegant head to the side. “How do you feel about being a Jacqueline of all trades to start? I need someone on the ground in our London office.”
Oh. Another assistant-type job. She tried not to flag. At least it was something on a night when she’d probably lost everything.
Vivian thought she was going to jump ship. How depressingly on-point. But what choice did she have? Other than Monique, who in the fashion industry would give her a paycheck after Vivian put out the burn notice?
Monique appeared to see Jules’s lack of enthusiasm for the job title. “In a new enterprise, there’s more opportunity for promotion. Prove yourself, and you can move up the ladder pretty fast. I won’t pretend it’s not a risk, but I wanted to float it past you, whenever it comes to pass.”
Jules pressed her lips together. “When might ”whenever” be?”
Monique grinned. She had amazing teeth. “Stay tuned. My London group will be in touch when it’s time to launch. Besides, you’ve got a steady job right now. What’s the rush?”
Thank God the low lighting would hide Jules’s blush. “Right, yeah. No rush, for sure.”
“Figure out if you’re interested and get in touch with Randall before you leave. He’s hovering somewhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She smiled at someone standing behind Jules.
“Of course.” She took a hasty step out of her way. “Thank you so much.”
But Monique had already moved on, leaving Jules to find Randall on her own. After a few minutes, she located him in a corner, looking down at the glowing screen of his phone while his thumbs tapped furiously.
He looked up at her approach. “Hi. You joining Monique Leung?”
It took Jules a second to realize he was referring to Monique’s new label rather than being weirdly formal about his boss. He’d asked a good question. Was she joining Monique Leung?
The opportunity would get her away from heartbreak while also exposing her to new facets of the fashion industry. She’d see more of the world too. On the other hand, it meant dealing with a host of logistical nightmares, to say nothing of moving far away from Vivian.
Vivian, who’d just said she didn’t need Jules anyway, along with a lot of other awful stuff. Vivian, who would never care about Jules half as much as Jules cared about her.
The answer should be obvious, and yet all Jules said was “I’m not sure yet.”
He sighed. “Me either.”
“Really?”
“Really. I always thought publishing was where it’s at.”
So had Jules. She’d clawed her way past hundreds of applicants for her internship at Du Jour, and as maddening as it could be, she loved working there. Loved the energy, the industry, and the way everyone came to her if they needed to know something. In a magazine that was a revolving door, she’d somehow found her still center. Until now.
Randall continued, “But Monique’s amazing, so I don’t know. You should think about it. Share your contact card with me.”
“Of course.” She could just ignore her lock screen full of angry texts for a couple of seconds, right? But when Jules reached into her clutch for her phone, she touched only empty air.
Panic raced through her. Where had she left it? Oh…
On the kitchen counter back at the townhouse.
“Shit,” she whispered, her blood going cold. “I left my phone at Viv…at my hotel.”
Randall looked appropriately horrified. A phone was an assistant’s lifeblood. “Then give me your number. I’ll text you and you’ll have it when you get back.”
Sure. Yeah. That’d be fine. Jules breathed deeply. Vivian had left for dinner. If Randall texted with Don’t forget your amazing new job opportunity with Monique Leung, Vivian wouldn’t see it.
Not that she’d care at this point.
Jules gave Randall her number and thanked him. Then she escaped into the chilly night air of London in mid-February with too many things to think about for comfort.
Comfort would be a long time coming. She couldn’t face going back to the empty townhouse, just waiting for Vivian to come home and ruin her life. And it seemed cowardly to go, grab her stuff, and bail to a hotel. She’d return after Vivian was home for the night, and what would be would be.
It just probably wouldn’t be very good, that was all.
* * *
By the time she reached Vivian’s townhouse, Jules’s body was clenched with tension from head to toe.
You were right, she reminded herself, and she was wrong. She should never have said what she said to you. You’ve got a way out. Don’t forget that.
During the past few hours, Vivian hadn’t seen fit to cordon off the place with a chain-link fence, dig a moat, station a guard, or do anything else to signal Jules wasn’t welcome. She took a deep breath, went up the stairs, and turned the key in the lock. Vivian hadn’t thrown the latch. That was something.
Jules crept into the house, taking off her shoes as soon as she gained the hallway, and grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter. The display showed that Vivian had called her once. No voicemail.
She sighed and tiptoed up the stairs. There was no light shining from behind Vivian’s bedroom door, but her coat had been hanging in the hall closet. So she was definitely home, even if she wasn’t emerging from her lair to breathe flames in Jules’s face before putting her onto the first flight out of London.
There was no sticky note on Jules’s bedroom door reading You’re fired. Nor a message written in blood-red lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
That just made it worse somehow. Vivian was just stringing Jules along, making her wait in agony for the final blow. Vivian was good at that kind of thing.
Sleep seemed impossible. Jules was ping-ponging between righteous fury and sheer grief at the probability of exile.
But the bed was soft and the covers warm, and even Jules’s chattering psyche was no match for her weariness tonight. Too much. She’d been through too much today, too much all week, to keep her eyes open for another second. So she closed them and dropped into a deep, though unquiet, slumber.
Unfortunately, although Jules had dodged her earlier, Vivian was waiting for her in her dreams.
“I told you I couldn’t trust you,” she said. “Now I have to fire you.”
She had Jules’s phone in her hand. Jules reached for it, but Vivian pulled it away.
“Don’t fire me,” Jules whispered. “Don’t make me go.”
“I have to,” Vivian said. “Everybody knows that. You knew this couldn’t last. You know you should go.”
“But you can’t send me away! It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Then Vivian pushed her shoulder.
“Hey!” Jules grabbed her arm. “What was that for?”
“Wake up.” Vivian shoved her arm again. “Julia, I said, wake up.”
She opened her eyes to find that someone had grabbed hold of her shoulder and was shaking her back and forth.
“Wake up,” Vivian’s voice repeated. She sounded pissed off.
Jules blinked and squinted. Someone had turned on the lamp by the door. It must have been Vivian, in fact, who was now sitting on the side of Jules’s bed and shaking her awake. She dropped her hand when Jules opened her eyes and pulled it back into her lap. She was wearing pajamas.
The clock on the nightstand read 5:32 in big red numbers. Jules propped herself up on her elbows, ready to fly out of bed. It had to be an emergency. Something to do with the baby. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
“No,” Vivian said coolly. “And neither are you.”
Her eyes were hard. Jules’s sleepiness packed its bags and fled, never to return.
“Right,” she said quietly.
“Is it? I wouldn’t say this is ‘right’ at all. Sit up and pay attention. This is important.”
Jules licked her dry lips. Her mouth felt like cotton and tasted awful. “Vivian, I know…”
“You don’t know half as much as you think.” Her voice seemed to shake on the final word.
Jules’s eyes widened. She must have imagined that. Slowly pushing herself up from her elbows into a sitting position, Jules whispered, “Vivian?”
Vivian lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, Julia,” she said. “Let’s talk.”