Jules wasn’t sure how she’d expected her birthday to begin, but it wasn’t with a six thirty a.m. text from Ben telling her that Vivian’s Audi was refusing to start. He’d have to take it to the shop.
Which meant Jules would have to arrange alternate transportation. She groaned to herself, sent Vivian a quick text apprising her of the situation, and got on the phone.
Just as she was in the middle of securing a Mercedes S-class from a car rental, Vivian texted:
When will it get here?
Jules asked customer service and answered Vivian:
Around 8
She could imagine Vivian’s disgusted sigh and could picture her deciding she’d rather die before taking an Uber.
Vivian texted:
Nothing else is available??
By the time I found something else, I might as well have ordered this one
It was the sort of message she’d never have dared send to Vivian before, even though it was logical and true. But now things were different between them. Vivian wouldn’t demand the impossible like she would have before.
Right?
Vivian replied:
Fine. Let me know when it’s on the way.
Jules’s chest lightened with instant, reflexive relief. Whew. Then she frowned. Reflexive relief, indeed. She’d gone back to being a lowly assistant in a flash, hadn’t she? Freaking out about letting Vivian down. You probably weren’t supposed to feel that way about interacting with your lover.
Especially when your lover was your boss.
“Ma’am? Are you there?” the voice on the phone prompted.
“Oh!” Jules shook herself out. “Sorry. Yes. That’ll be fine. Thanks.”
She finished the arrangements and looked at her phone. She texted Vivian again:
I’ll take the subway to work today
Vivian replied:
All right. See you soon.
A few seconds later:
Happy birthday.
Something about the period after birthday made Jules snort with laughter. How festive. Maybe Vivian would show up carrying a bunch of black balloons too.
The amusement sustained her until she was on her way out the door. By the time she reached the subway, though, it had withered away. Instead, she kept going back to how it had felt to worry about disappointing Vivian professionally. Waiting for the hammer to fall the way it used to.
Vivian had told Jules in London that she wasn’t like the other people who worked for her. That she wanted Jules to have faith in Vivian’s feelings for her. At the time, Jules hadn’t worried it would be a problem. But maybe Vivian had a point.
And that wasn’t even counting the uncomfortable sensation Jules still felt in her gut whenever she thought about the Modernity article.
She rested her forehead against the subway pole she held. No, it wasn’t hygienic, but sometimes you just needed a place to bang your head.
Happy birthday indeed.
Jules reached Koening at seven forty-five. Unfortunately, she just missed the elevator. She sighed, rocking back on her heels. At least she had some extra time, since Vivian would be late.
“Going up?”
Jules blinked and turned. Mark Tavio was standing behind her, smiling.
He was a tall, thin man with sharp cheekbones, a full head of white hair, and a love of bespoke charcoal suits. His gray eyes were known for lowering the temperature of any room by at least ten degrees. And he carried himself with the easy grace of a man who knew himself to be powerful.
Her heart jumped into her throat. The anxiety she’d felt about displeasing Vivian suddenly felt like nothing when she was faced with the chairman of Koening. Especially when that chairman had been gunning for Vivian for months.
Right now, though, Mr. Tavio’s smile seemed benign as he looked down on her.
She summoned a bright smile of her own. “Good morning, Mr. Tavio.”
“Good morning, Julia. It is Julia, isn’t it?”
Mark Tavio knew her name? She nodded in surprise, but before either of them could speak again, the next elevator arrived. The door opened, and Mr. Tavio headed in. He saw Jules hovering and motioned her in with a chuckle. “Oh, come on. I’m not that scary.”
Jules managed another smile and hurried in. The other people in the lobby didn’t seem to share Mr. Tavio’s assessment of himself, however, and hung back with anxious faces.
The doors closed. Mr. Tavio pressed the button for Du Jour’s floor, then his own. The elevator jolted into motion.
Her hands were getting sweaty on her purse strap.
“Things going well at Du Jour?” he asked, his gaze on the doors.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes.” Jules kept smiling because he could at least see her reflection. “Busy as ever, but fine.”
Mr. Tavio hmm’d. “And Vivian? What’s she up to these days?”
Shit. She should have known. He was probing her for information. Who better to keep an eye on Vivian and then report back than her assistant?
“Just the usual.” Her voice was shockingly steady, thank God. “You know, being fabulous and all that. The Charleston shoot looks like it’s going to be great.”
His chuckle was decidedly less friendly. “It better be, for what it’s costing Koening.”
Jules stared at the elevator buttons as they lit up floor by floor. Why was it taking so long?
“I’ve heard great things about you,” Mr. Tavio said abruptly.
Her stomach flipped.
“Vivian puts her trust in you,” Mr. Tavio continued. “Completely, from what I understand. That hasn’t happened in all the time I’ve known her.”
She said nothing.
He looked down at her, his white eyebrows drawing together as if he just didn’t get the appeal. “Then again, these are unusual times for her. Times like this, you need all the friends you can get.”
That gleam in his eye portended nothing good. Here it came. He was going to ask her to narc. Not that Jules would. Not that there was even anything to narc on. Vivian wasn’t up to anything dastardly in the office. But Mark Tavio was paranoid and untrusting and undoubtedly thought a lowly assistant would jump at the chance to get in good with the chairman. Well, he was wrong. Never in a million years would Jules—
“I think Vivian could use one less friend,” he said. “You’re fired.”
Silence, except for Jules’s heartbeat in her ears.
He looked down at her with his subzero eyes.
“What?” she croaked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find something else soon, a smart girl like you. Get Vivian to help.”
“Help?” Jules said. Her eyes widened. “Mr. Tavio, I don’t understand.”
“Not a lot to understand,” he said. “I just fired you.”
She stared at him. He stared right back.
“But,” Jules whispered, “you can’t just…”
“Oh yes, I can.” Now his eyes were hard. “I think you’ll find, Julia, that I can hire and fire anybody in this building, regardless of what Vivian Carlisle has to say about it. Make sure she understands that before you go. You can stay until the end of the business day. After that, you’re done.”
He looked back at the doors.
Jules couldn’t respond. Surely none of this was real. Surely this wasn’t actually happening.
They reached Du Jour’s floor. The doors slid open.
He glanced back at her, and this time his gaze was not without pity. “First-class flights to London cost a pretty penny, especially on the company card. Tell her to find a less expensive accessory next time.”
Jules gaped at him.
He pressed the Door Open button and said, “I believe this is your stop. Goodbye.”
Jules stood alone in the hallway that led to the Du Jour offices, dizzy and with a ringing in her ears. She might be about to pass out. Or maybe she was just having a terrible dream, imagining the whole thing.
But no. She hadn’t imagined that: not the cold, hard purpose in Mark Tavio’s eyes as he made Jules the first casualty in his war with Vivian Carlisle. Because that’s what it was. After months of tension, he was taking aim at last. And Jules had been the first one caught in the crossfire.
What the hell was she going to do?
At some point, she made it to her desk—oh, but it wasn’t hers anymore, was it?—and sat down, staring at nothing.
Suddenly, Allie’s voice trilled out, “Oh, Jules! Happy birthday!”
Jules’s head jerked around to see Allie hurrying forward, still in her coat and with her face flushed from the cold. She balanced a tray of La Colombe in one hand with a small bouquet of flowers in the other. A bouncy yellow balloon was tied to the slender green vase.
“Happy birthday,” Allie repeated, setting the gift down on Jules’s desk with an air of triumph. “I picked these up on the way. Do you like them? Whoops—let me just put Vivian’s coffee out before I spill it—” She looked around, frowning. “Isn’t she here yet?”
“Her car broke down,” Jules heard herself say. “She won’t be here until eight thirty or something.”
Allie pouted. “I didn’t have to rush this morning, then. I guess it was good to get the exercise.”
“Yeah.” Jules’s entire body felt like it had been shot full of lidocaine: immobile and numb. She stared at the flowers. “Um. These are pretty.”
Allie beamed. “Let me just find somewhere to put this coffee. Do you want Vivian’s? I’ll have to run out and get her another one anyway.”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay,” Allie said, and added, “you look a little pale. You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“Um.”
Right then, Simon appeared. He grinned at Jules. “Good morning, birthday girl. How’s the day treating you so far?”
Jules gasped, hid her face in her hands, and started to cry.
There was shocked silence for one moment, and then Allie asked, distraught, “Jules, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jules said, and then the sheer absurdity of saying that made her give a sharp, painful, hysterical little laugh. She hiccupped.
Simon offered her a tissue, grimacing.
She dashed it over her eyes and saw little mascara smudges coming away.
“Mark Tavio just fuh-fired me,” she choked out. Jules had to be out of Koening forever by tonight, so what was the point in concealing the truth?
Allie gasped, “What?”
“H-he fired me—just now, in the elevator. I—”
And then Simon’s hand, warm and firm, was on her shoulder. “Get up. We’re going to my office. Allie, watch the phones and keep quiet.”
“Okay,” Allie whispered.
Jules obeyed the arm tugging her elbow. She covered her nose with another tissue and followed Simon down the hall, glad that not everybody had arrived at work yet.
He got them both into his office and shut the door, then eased Jules onto a high-legged stool. “Don’t fall off. Now tell me what happened.”
She related it all, every detail she could remember.
Simon’s face went through a series of changes: first it was incredulous, then it darkened with anger, and finally it smoothed out in resignation. “It’s been coming for a while. I didn’t know it would come like this, though. And on your birthday. Christ, I’m sorry, Jules.”
“Not your fault,” she mumbled, staring down at her hands, limp and useless in her lap.
“No. But I think I can help.” And now there was something else in his voice: the unidentifiable tone Jules had heard a few times before but never understood.
She looked back up at him, trying to blink her tears away.
Simon seated himself on another stool facing Jules. “I was going to tell you this over drinks this evening, but why don’t we bump it up a few hours, hm?”
“Bump it up?” A cold weight sat in her chest, but Simon’s familiar presence steadied her as if she’d put a hand on a solid surface before falling.
“Remember when I asked you about your birthday back in London?”
Jules sniffled as she nodded.
“And I said you should make the most of new opportunities?”
Another nod.
“Bet you thought it was a weird question, didn’t you?”
She nodded for a third time. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
“Well, call me a sentimental fool, but I knew it was in March, and I figured the timing would work out. I didn’t know it would work out this well, though.”
“Simon…” Jules’s voice wobbled.
He looked contrite. “Now’s not the time for mysteries, is it? Let me make it simple: I’m offering you a new job.”
She just stared at him.
He grinned and then stifled it as if realizing it wasn’t quite appropriate. “That’s what I was going to tell you tonight. A new job. Consider it a birthday gift to you from me, the newly liberated Simon Carvalho.”
“Newly liberated?” Jules managed, shaking her head.
“I’m quitting,” he said as casually as if this weren’t the most shocking thing he’d ever said to her. “I’m leaving Du Jour. It’s over, done, hey presto, fini. I’m gone. And I want you to come with me.”
“What?” Jules rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
He sighed. “I wish we were at a bar. This sort of thing always goes over better when you have a drink in your hand. But here it is: for months, I’ve been in talks with Georg Schumann at Delton Wright.”
Jules nodded. She’d met Georg at Christmas. And Helga. Couldn’t forget Helga, his heinous hausfrau.
“As it happens, Georg has multiple interests beyond publishing. We got to talking at a party last year, and next thing you know we’re swapping emails about my big idea.”
“Your what? You have ideas?”
He glared.
“Sorry,” Jules said quickly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant…you’ve never mentioned any…”
“I couldn’t. Not until everything was finalized. But it’s happening, Jules. I’m starting a new venture that doesn’t depend on Vivian Carlisle for its lifeblood, something that’s going to let me call the shots and create something of my own.”
“Create what?” Jules thought of Monique Leung, someone else who’d offered her a job recently. Maybe it was a new trend. “Are you starting your own fashion line?”
“Oh no. God knows there’s enough of that out there. I don’t want to make my own fashion, I want to shape fashion, change the landscape somehow. I want to…” Simon waved his hand vaguely. He began to pace the office. “Look, we all know about websites for discount designer stuff, right?”
“Sure,” she said, more and more confused. “I use them.”
“Everyone does. They’re not good enough. That experience could be more.” Simon looked at her, his hazel eyes sharp. “Vivian’s trying to update the industry for the youth market. So am I. And they want the latest thing, but they’re buried under student debt and grateful for entry-level jobs.”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s not like Sex and the City, where everybody shoves all their stuff into an implausibly huge closet forever. They rotate and consign. Don’t you?”
“Well, sure. There are online consignment shops too.”
“Yeah, designer dumps where people buy and sell anything with a prestige label. You might as well be rifling through a clearance bin. And so many brick-and-mortar shops are just depressing. You might find what you want, but there’s never this sense that you’re having an experience, that you’re being catered to or valued. You’re embarrassed to tell people where you got that Salvatore Ferragamo bag.”
That was fair enough. All of Jules’s fellow assistants and other colleagues down the ladder did everything they could to save money on clothes and accessories. It was an open, dirty secret, where everyone swapped whispered tips on which secondhand store was having the biggest sale. Nobody liked to admit they couldn’t afford new things.
“The youth market deserves better,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to them.”
Jules leaned forward. Simon’s voice was rising with excitement, and he had a shine in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a long time. “What are you going to do?”
“Start my own site. It’s called Adrian & Jo.”
“Adrian and…Jo?”
He shrugged. “Thank market research. Generation Z likes names—it makes a business sound like a person, somebody real they can trust. This tested well. The site’s going to be a fully curated luxury experience where customers can buy designer goods at a discount, new or secondhand, and be able to tell their friends where they got it with a sense of pride, not shame.”
“Curated? Like a museum?”
“Exactly. Would you be embarrassed to tell people that you got a Monet from the Louvre instead of right from his easel? Of course not.”
“No, but Monet’s been dead for—”
He glared.
“I get the metaphor,” she conceded.
Simon held up his hands. “Picture a consumer saying this: ‘Adrian & Jo is doing exhibits on Givenchy, Jason Wu, and Miu Miu this month. They’re showcasing how each designer focused on autumnal influences last season, and when you log on you get to talk to a curator.’”
“A what?”
He grinned. “That’s what we’re calling chat support. You know when you go to a shopping site and you get those want some help? text boxes? That, but more upmarket. You create an account, log in, and you can get matched with a dedicated fashion professional who walks you through creating outfits you’ve never thought of before and that nobody else is going to have. Someone who curates your experience.”
“‘Dedicated fashion professional’ means…”
“Interns, obviously. It won’t be rocket science.” He looked at Jules. “Where would you rather shop? That or the clearance bin?”
“Of course I’d rather—”
“I know. I can change the game, Jules. Do you know how many high-end designers burn excess inventory every year rather than let the ‘wrong’ clientele have it at a discount? They’ll want to show up on this site—they won’t take it for granted that people will buy whatever crap that shows up just because it has a label. They’ll want to be on the front page, the top designers list, all that. We’ll have a VIP mailing list for special clients who want early access to new items. And that’s another thing: we don’t call them customers. They’re clients.”
“I get the picture. How do I fit into it? I don’t have a background in web design or business.”
He pooh-poohed that with a shrug. “The whole point of entry-level is that you’d go up from there.”
She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. This was way too much to take in after the way her day had started. Think. “It’s really exciting, Simon, but you’re a creative director, not—”
He shook his head. “I’ve been Vivian’s right-hand man for more years than I care to count. I’ve seen every aspect of this industry. Trust me on this one: I can pull off a start-up.”
“But Vivian…” Jules whispered, imagining her face when she got the news. He’d been her go-to guy forever, and for him to waltz out the door on the same day Jules was fired…
“If I wait for Vivian to give me the go-ahead, I’ll be stuck here forever. I’m ready to move on. She’s not the only one with vision.” He took a deep breath. “I won’t lie to you. This is a huge undertaking, and it’s risky. Bringing people together, mixing new blood with established talent, trying to figure out what sells as fast as possible. But Georg wants it. And he’s making sure that Vincent Wright wants it too.”
Vincent Wright. The CEO from the Boxing Day luncheon who was into Broadway musicals. This had to be a dream.
“We’ve got more venture capital from Delton Wright, full backing.” He leaned forward. “I want you to be a part of it too. I’ve seen your work ethic; I’ve seen how fast you learn. As soon as I knew it was going to come together, I thought of you.”
That sounded more polite than plausible, but he did appear sincere. “Thanks.”
“I can’t promise you the moon or stars. Not yet. But I need an assistant too. Someone who knows what she’s doing, who knows the ropes beyond getting coffee and running menial errands—someone who can help me get this thing off the ground.” His face was alight with enthusiasm. “I mean it. Inside a year or two, you can move up into anything you want, probably. Want to be in acquisitions? Head into management? Get into public relations? This is the time to do it.”
I want to write, she wanted to say. Then her snide inner voice reminded her: Don’t quit your day job. “I—”
“I know it’s a lot to take in, especially after what Mark just pulled. But, Jules—now you’ve got no reason to say no. It’s like destiny, if I believed in destiny. Fate. Karma. Kismet!”
“I guess so. Simon, I really should talk to Vivian first.”
He sat back with a heavy sigh. “How did I know you’d say that?”
“I have to,” she protested. “Mr. Tavio fired me. I have to talk to her about that at least.”
“I know,” he said. “And I know you feel like you owe her something too. You don’t. She owes you. She owes you big time for everything you’ve done for her. And it’s time for her to pay you back.”
“It’s not like that!” Why was her stomach cramping up?
“Of course it is,” he said. “It always is. Besides”—he regarded Jules seriously—“this isn’t the last move Mark will make, Jules. He’s out for her blood, and he’s the chairman of the company. He will beat her eventually.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes. Believe me, I don’t like it either. I care about Vivian too.”
It didn’t sound like it. Jules gave him a dubious look.
“I do,” he said firmly. “She’s remarkable. An icon. But she’s also taken everything I’ve had to give for years. It’s finally time for me to look out for myself—you should do the same.”
“I—”
“Mark firing you is like sending up a great big firecracker, and everybody will know what it means. Just picture rats fleeing a sinking ship. That’s what it’s going to be like around here.”
“No,” Jules repeated, wondering if she was going to cry again. All the denials in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Simon was only speaking the truth.
Mark Tavio had somehow found a crack in Vivian’s defenses. She was under fire, and nobody would want to weather it with her. Except for Jules, who’d already been thrown off the battlefield without being given the choice.
“Keisha’s coming too.” He interrupted Jules’s train of thought.
“K-Keisha?”
“I sounded her out not too long after I lured her from Elle. I’ve always liked her. I’m getting together a good team, her and other people from all over the business. Come on, Jules. You owe me.” He pointed his index finger at her nose. “For Salon. There’s no reason not to pay me back now.”
“I know. I-it’s just a lot to, to—”
“To take in. Look. I don’t want to kick you while you’re down. This was supposed to be an exciting opportunity, not something you feel forced into because you don’t have a job anymore.” He grimaced.
“Simon, I appreciate it,” she said at once. She had to make that clear. “I really do.”
“Think about it and answer me soon. Within the next day or two. I need to know.”
Jules relaxed. A day or two. That would give her time to talk to Vivian. Time to think. “I promise.”
His eyes twinkled. “I hope you say yes. You and me, kid. Let’s get the band back together and blow this popsicle stand.”
She managed a weak smile. “Well—”
The door to Simon’s office slammed open with such force that both of them jumped.
Jules, her nerves run ragged, cried out. And she felt no calmer when she saw Vivian Carlisle barreling into the room still wearing her coat and clutching her bag, her face tight and glowing with a fury Jules had never seen before.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jules saw Simon cringe.
Vivian didn’t even seem to notice him. Her gaze was so fierce that Jules wondered if it might not actually bore all the way through her head and into the wall behind.
“You’re, um, early,” Jules said uselessly. “I guess the rental car—”
Breathing quickly, Vivian said, “Allie just told me, though I’m sure she’s mistaken, that you said Mark Tavio fired you this morning. There was something about an elevator.”
Jules swallowed, shivered, and nodded.
Vivian took a deep breath and held her shoulders up straight, quivering as though she might explode on the spot.
“Vivian,” Jules whispered with no idea of what she’d say next. She wrung her hands.
“Don’t worry.” Her usually imperious voice sounded strangled.
Jules felt a tug deep in her gut, deep in her heart, and suddenly wanted more than anything to run to Vivian and wrap her arms around her, though who would be comforting whom?
“Don’t worry,” Vivian repeated. “I’ll take care of it. He can’t do this. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Simon said.
Jules whipped her head around. “Simon,” she gasped because, oh no—
Vivian shook herself as if she’d just noticed Simon. “What are you talking about?”
“Simon!” Jules repeated, on the verge of panicking.
“It’s okay,” he said, never breaking eye contact with Vivian. “Jules, will you please leave? I need to talk to Vivian alone.”
“Simon, wait. Let me talk to her first—”
“Vivian,” Simon said, “I insist. Trust me.”
“Vivian—” Jules began.
“Julia, please leave,” Vivian said.
Jules froze.
Now Vivian was looking at Simon with that same deadly focus, as if she’d already figured out what he was going to say. Maybe she had.
“We’ll talk in a few minutes,” she finished.
And…that was that. There was no arguing with Vivian when she used that tone of voice. Jules slunk out of Simon’s office, feeling as pathetic and inconsequential than she had on her first day as an intern. No, more pathetic. At least she’d had a job then.
“Jules?” Allie whispered when Jules returned to their desks. The phone rang, and she jumped to answer it. “Vivian Carlisle’s office…”
Allie was going to be the only one doing this after today, Jules realized as she sat heavily in her chair. Allie Lake, holding down the fort as an intern. Would Mr. Tavio even let Vivian hire a real assistant again? Would he degrade Vivian as much as possible in the name of cutting costs before moving in for the kill?
She grabbed her purse and headed for the ladies’ room, where she did her best to fix her ruined makeup. When she returned, she was just in time to hear the click of Allie’s phone going back into the receiver.
“Jules?”
She sighed as she headed over to Allie’s desk. Her shoes, fringed ankle boots today, pinched her toes. She usually didn’t notice things like that anymore. “All right, Allie. Mr. Tavio says I have to be out of here by the end of the business day, and I can’t come back.”
Allie’s eyes widened with horror. “But what about two weeks’ notice?”
“That doesn’t apply when you’re firing people.” Jules pushed her hair out of her face, which was when she realized that her hands were trembling. She tried to stop them—she couldn’t quite.
“Oh no,” Allie gasped. “Then…then—”
“So you have to do all this yourself,” Jules confirmed. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know if he’ll let Vivian hire another assistant right away.”
Allie went pale.
“Listen, I’ll do my best.” Jules swallowed. “If you can handle the phones, I’ll throw together a couple of lists for you before I leave. Stuff you need to know, like phone numbers, the people you should always try to speak to, and Vivian’s favorite restaurants and florists—”
“Jules…”
“Oh, and that big surprise thing she’s planning, the one where we’re hiring—where she’s hiring Hélène Darroze. I still don’t know what’s up with that, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I’ll give you all that info too.” No way would Allie be able to keep up with a big project like that on her own.
“Jules.”
“And-and even when I’m gone, you can call me if you have questions, you can—”
“Jules!” To Jules’s surprise, Allie slipped one arm around her shoulders in a half hug. She didn’t look panicky, not right now: the opposite, in fact, like she was the one trying to calm Jules down. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out. We’ll manage.” She patted Jules’s shoulder.
No, you won’t, Jules wanted to say. Nobody can do what I do. I’m indispensable.
But she wasn’t. Nobody was.
Perhaps even Allie figured out what she was thinking because she added quickly, “But I will call you, if you don’t mind. I’m sure I’ll need to. There’s still so much I don’t know yet.”
“Right.” Jules had to restrain herself from rubbing her eyes because she’d just reapplied all her mascara and she wasn’t about to do it again.
Allie lowered her voice. “What’ll you do now?”
“I don’t know.” She thought about Simon’s job offer along with Vivian’s furious insistence that Jules could stay on somehow, even when she had to know that wouldn’t work. “Not yet.”
“Julia.”
Allie immediately jerked her hand from Jules’s shoulders.
Vivian was heading toward them. Her face was pale but calm, and Jules couldn’t read any particular emotion in her eyes anymore.
“Go home,” she told Jules, her voice flat.
Jules stared at her. “What?”
“I said go home.” Vivian slipped out of her coat and handed it to Allie, who scrambled over to the closet to put it away. Vivian took the opportunity to murmur, “It’s for the best, before word spreads. I’ll tell Allie to keep her mouth shut, and I’ll call you as soon as I can. I have to speak with Simon some more anyway.”
“Oh,” Jules whispered. “Okay.”
For just a moment, regret and anger flared in Vivian’s eyes again. She looked as if she were about to speak. Then Allie clattered back to her desk, and the moment was lost.
Vivian jerked her head toward the door. “Go on.”
Jules looked at all the stuff on her desk. “I have to pack this up first.” Her shoulders slumped at the thought.
“I’ll do it,” Allie said quickly. “I’ll make sure it gets to you. Don’t worry.”
That meant Jules would be lucky if her things didn’t end up in Antarctica, but she couldn’t even bring herself to care about that. She managed a smile for Allie as she headed to the closet to fetch her own coat and bag, maybe—probably—for the last time. “Thanks, Allie. I’ll make that list from home. Feel free to give me a call.”
Allie’s chin wobbled. She needed not to start crying in front of Vivian, who looked about five seconds away from taking out her rage on the nearest available object.
Luckily, Allie managed a weak little wave, and Jules headed for the elevators, glad when she didn’t run into anybody who seemed to know what had happened.
Home. She was heading straight home, eating something indulgent, and opening a bottle of wine. Why not? It was her birthday. Might as well celebrate.