As the week went on, the idea of proving anything to Vivian began to seem laughable. Something was going on with her, and Jules didn’t like it.
She wasn’t looking well. Her pixie never had a hair out of place and her lipstick was always perfect, but there was a tired look in her eyes Jules had never seen before. An outsider might not be able to tell, but it seemed obvious to someone who was at Vivian’s beck and call 24/7.
Meanwhile, Jules wasn’t on top of the world either. The Cut had rejected her Jimmy Choo article, and she was too busy to think about her next effort. Back in college, she’d thought breaking through would be easier. She’d written a lot of local pieces and even landed a guest column in The Philadelphia Inquirer about the rise of student housing costs. Turned out investigative journalism wasn’t her forte, but she’d developed an unslakable thirst for writing nonfiction, gravitating toward pieces on fashion and its cultural significance.
Too bad nobody else seemed thirsty for what she had to offer. Next time, she told herself.
As crappy as she felt, Jules still wouldn’t trade her place for Vivian’s. In the middle of a long Thursday, she walked into Vivian’s office just in time to see her rub her hands over her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly miserable, in a Vivian-ish way.
Jules cleared her throat. Vivian started and looked up.
“Um,” Jules said, wondering why she’d even opened her mouth, “you’re good to go for the meeting with Mr. Tavio tomorrow.”
A sour twist of the lips let Jules know how Vivian felt about that. No wonder. It was obviously a half hour set aside for Mr. Tavio to posture, complain, and waste her time with another power move.
“Wonderful,” she said dryly.
“Uh, yes. Do…you want me to get you some coffee?”
Great. No, stupid. If Vivian wanted something, she’d ask for it. You never offered to do things. She didn’t want to hear your voice when she was trying to—
“Water,” Vivian said and looked back down at the photos on her desk as if Jules hadn’t spoken at all.
Jules made it to the mini-fridge by her desk in record time. When she arrived with the Perrier, Vivian didn’t look at her but reached up and took the bottle directly from her hand. Her fingers brushed against Jules’s.
They had never touched before. Jules fought not to snatch her hand back because she felt the shock all the way through her body, which must mean she hadn’t liked it, right? When you touched someone and felt it reverberate from head to toe, that didn’t mean you liked it.
That’d just be idiotic.
Instead of jumping backward, she managed to drop her hand to her side in a way that hopefully looked natural. “Is there anything else?”
Vivian looked up as she brought the bottle to her lips. A thoughtful crease appeared between her eyebrows as she regarded Jules. After a sip, she said, “Are you growing your hair out?”
Jules touched the ends of her dark wavy hair. It was nearly past her shoulders now. “I guess so. Just haven’t made it to the salon lately.”
“Get the ends trimmed,” Vivian ordered, “but it suits you longer. You seem to be using adequate products.”
It took Jules two stunned seconds to say, “Thank you.”
Vivian wasn’t finished. “Use the assets you have, Julia. Play them up. You haven’t made a bad beginning”—the gaze she swept up and down Jules’s body was entirely clinical, but it felt like lightning—“but you’d benefit from taking more risks. Try high-waisted pants.”
Jules looked down. She’d never had enough confidence in her hips to try those. Mainly because she had hips. That was a tough sell around Du Jour. “Really?”
“Mm. There’s a Katharine Hepburn biopic in the works. It’ll have award buzz next year. Get ahead of the trend and grab her look. You can pull it off.”
Jules was five foot six with curves and a tiny waist, and she was a big fan of flowy fabric. She’d never exactly thought of herself as a Hepburn type. “Well, I’ll…”
“Am I going to get a call from Christian Siriano before I die?” Vivian glared at her. “I’m starting to wonder.”
Jules opened her mouth to say, I’ll get right on it, but Vivian had already returned to work and was back to ignoring her.
Yeah. Something was definitely going on here.
* * *
The next five days at Du Jour were frenetically busy. The Mojave shoot had to be done right away, which meant spending exorbitant sums. Meanwhile, two of the models for the LA shoot had backed out and one had been fired. Agencies were offering dozens of potential replacements that had to be screened before the glossy eight-by-tens finally made it to Vivian’s desk. Insurance might or might not come through. Mark Tavio was making even more growling sounds about costs. Jules suspected Vivian might be forced to listen to him.
She was forced to do a lot of things, most of them involving moving around a lot. Meetings, lunches, attorneys, and late nights all meant that Vivian didn’t have a single quiet moment, and therefore, neither did Jules. Vivian practically kept her in her back pocket. They often didn’t leave the Koening Building until one in the morning, only to stagger back inside at eight. And Vivian, who usually operated as well on two hours of sleep as she would on ten, looked to be on the verge of collapse.
Everyone was worried. Jules caught herself exchanging nervous looks with Simon more than once as they watched Vivian struggle to remember a name or an appointment. Jules tried to be more vigilant than ever, doing her best to anticipate Vivian’s every need. This wasn’t any easier than usual, and she was afraid she was going to give herself an ulcer.
By the end of the week, it was obvious—to Jules, at least—that Vivian wasn’t just stressed out or unhappy. Something was really, really wrong.
It was half-past midnight on Sunday, and she’d canceled her brief appearance at Marc Jacobs’s party that evening in favor of working. So of course Jules was working on a Sunday night as well, sitting at her desk within sight of Vivian so she could leap into action at a second’s notice.
Vivian seemed even less happy than her. More than once, Jules caught her staring off into space and appearing unaware of her own surroundings. Was she losing it? No wonder, with the way her life was falling down, and she wasn’t giving herself a moment of peace and quiet.
I’m not like you. She watched Vivian glance out the windows for what seemed like the thousandth time. Nope, not me. Definitely not.
Even Simon wasn’t here at this hour. Jules and Vivian were the only ones in the office, and Jules had nothing to do. She couldn’t call anyone, and Vivian was fully updated on everything. To be fair, she wasn’t just killing time—she was inundated with emails, with copy, with decisions she had to make. The LA shoot was in a week, and everyone was panicking. But Vivian didn’t actually need Jules for anything except, apparently, silent company.
Jules had a copy of This is Not Fashion hidden in her desk drawer, though, and with a little luck, she could hide it in her lap and read it without Vivian noticing. King Adz’s history of streetwear was something she’d been meaning to get to for a while. The pictures of cityscapes grabbed her imagination, especially those in Europe and Asia. There was something about the way towers and skyscrapers coexisted with older, even ancient, buildings. Might that not be reflected in style as well? Clothes and accessories that seemed to clash at first but combined to tell a unique story about the wearer?
It wasn’t too different from what Vivian had said about fashion being completion, not compromise. There might be an article in there somewhere. Jules had just started making notes when Vivian called out, her voice hoarse (though she hadn’t been talking to anyone), “Water!”
She sighed silently, tucked the book back inside the drawer, and hurried to fetch a bottle of Perrier from the mini-fridge. When she headed into Vivian’s office, she froze inside the doorway.
Vivian was staring off into space, as white as chalk. She was biting the knuckle of her right index finger, her eyes wide. She looked petrified. Jules’s stomach twisted at the sight of it.
She cleared her throat.
Vivian jumped at the sound and stared as if she’d forgotten Jules was in the office.
Jules set the glass on Vivian’s desk, trying not to let her hand shake. Vivian looked at the glass as if she’d never seen anything like it before.
“Here you go,” Jules said brightly.
Vivian looked up at her with even less comprehension than she had at the glass.
It took every ounce of self-control not to ask, Are you okay? You never asked Vivian Carlisle stupid questions that had obvious answers. Clearly, all was not okay.
Then Vivian spoke. “I…” she said and dragged one shaking hand across her forehead. “Thank you.”
Thank you? She never thanked people for doing the basics of their jobs. Jules’s hands started to get cold from nerves. What the hell was going on here?
Vivian took a careful sip. Then she set the glass back down, swallowed hard, and hid her face in her hands, breathing deeply.
“Vivian!” Jules gasped, but Vivian held up one hand for silence. Jules realized that she was trying not to be sick.
How long had this been going on? For that matter, had Vivian even eaten dinner tonight? Jules realized that she hadn’t been dispatched to get any food that evening and that Vivian had canceled her lunch, which meant she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. If she’d had breakfast.
Vivian lowered her hands, taking another deep breath. “Well,” she said.
“Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No, not yet.”
The “not yet” made Jules’s heart start racing in panic.
Vivian rubbed her hands over her face. “God. I haven’t even had a moment to myself in…I haven’t been able to…”
Jules waited. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, she blurted out, “Is there something I can do?”
Vivian glanced at her.
“I mean, get you something to eat, or…?”
Tapping her fingers on her desk, Vivian stared off into space again. The haunted look was back in her eyes.
Jules’s insides started to squirm like snakes.
“I need you to go to the store for me,” Vivian said quietly after a moment.
Jules was trying to work out whether she meant Hermès, Blahnik, or Tiffany’s—and how to tell Vivian that all three were closed for the night—when she realized Vivian had paused.
“Okay,” Jules prompted after Vivian hadn’t spoken in nearly thirty seconds.
Vivian drummed her fingers against the desk again and appeared to finally come to a decision. “Bring me back a pregnancy test.”
The room seemed to dip and sway for a second.
Vivian darted her a quick, sharp look.
Operating purely on instinct, Jules nodded and said, “All right. Be right back.” Her voice contained only its usual helpful inflection. Then she was walking past her own desk, grabbing her purse as if in a dream, and standing in one of the gleaming elevators that would take her down to the lobby, from which she would walk to the streets, which would look the same as they always did, and…
Holy. Shit.
It made sense, even if Vivian was kind of…old for this at forty-two. The exhaustion, the nausea, the—whatever else. Jules didn’t know much about being pregnant, all things considered.
But she’d had a pregnancy scare herself in her senior year of high school. It had been the worst forty-eight hours of her life before her period had finally shown up. Was Vivian feeling anything like that? Surely not. She was a grown woman worth millions, not a scared kid afraid of missing college.
Who was the father? Was it Robert’s? It had to be Robert’s. Because wouldn’t Jules have noticed by now if Vivian was sneaking around? Vivian couldn’t possibly be very far along, and Robert had bolted so recently. Apparently he’d loved her and left her. Asshole.
The closest Duane Reade drugstore was half a block away. Jules frantically scanned the “family planning” aisle. There were several tests available, each one claiming to be the best on the market. Jules had a feeling that Vivian would be even less patient about this than she was about everything else, which meant Jules had to decide fast. So she grabbed two boxes: one promising 99.9% accuracy! and another proclaiming Doctor Recommended!
Christ. If Vivian was pregnant, if the kid was Robert’s, what would that mean for the divorce? Surely they’d halt it or at least delay it or—
It wasn’t her problem, she tried to tell herself, waving her pass at the night security guard when she passed back through Koening’s revolving door. Vivian’s private life wasn’t her problem, and she wasn’t going to concern herself with anything about it.
She kept telling herself this until she arrived back at Du Jour and saw Vivian whirl around from the window to face her. Trembling, Jules set the plastic bag down on the desk.
Vivian glanced at it, sat down, and began working on her laptop again without another word. Jules gulped and headed back to her desk. She’d never be able to concentrate on her book now, and she hoped Vivian would send her home soon. Surely she would because of course she’d want to go home herself and…
All of a sudden, there was a flurry of movement. She watched in speechless horror as Vivian stormed past Jules’s desk and into the private restroom, the pharmacy bag clutched in one white-knuckled hand.
Here? She was going to do it here? Now? With Jules right outside her office? Fuck. Oh fuck. Jules did not want to be here when Vivian came out of that restroom. Vivian probably wouldn’t want her to be either. Should Jules leave? Would that be the best thing to do, and tomorrow they could pretend like nothing had ever happened?
Even as she thought about it, Jules knew she wasn’t going anywhere. And so the minutes crawled by. She finally looked at her watch and realized Vivian had been in the restroom for twenty minutes.
What the hell was going on in there? Had she fallen and hit her head? Was she trying to drown herself in the sink?
Just as Jules was wondering if it would be a bad idea to check on her, the door opened and Vivian emerged. One look at her face told Jules everything, but before Vivian could meet her eyes, Jules bent down and pretended to study the surface of her desk.
Vivian returned to her own desk.
Jules didn’t look up.
“Julia.” Her voice was thick.
Jules headed on unsteady legs to the door of her office. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Tomorrow,” Vivian said, staring vacantly into the distance, “schedule an immediate appointment with my doctor. And contact my attorney as soon as his office opens. Eight o’clock. Sharp.”
“O-of course.”
“Call my driver.” Vivian rubbed her forehead again. “Let’s go home.”
Right. It was past time to call it a day. Jules helped Vivian put on her coat and walked her to the elevator, where she stood stock-still in the car, not speaking.
What the hell did you even say to someone at a time like this? Congratulations? Condolences? She didn’t even dare look at Vivian.
“I don’t believe this,” Vivian said.
Jules froze.
“I don’t,” Vivian repeated.
Jules finally turned to look at her, just in time to see Vivian close her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then Jules heard herself blurt out, like a total idiot, “You know, whatever I can do—of course I’ll…”
Vivian ignored her completely. “Wait until Mark Tavio finds out,” she muttered, then laughed bitterly. “Well. If our chairman thinks he can use this to get rid of me, he’ll get to know my lawyers on a personal level.”
Jules bit her lip.
“What?” Vivian demanded.
“Nothing.” Jules shook her head.
“Say it.”
Okay, then. Okay. “So…you’re going to keep it?”
Vivian was silent for so long that Jules wondered if she’d heard. Then, just before the elevator doors opened at main floor, she spoke, sounding bewildered. “I don’t know.”
They stepped into the lobby. Vivian headed for the exit, apparently without noticing that she’d just become irrevocably human to Jules at last.
Once they’d reached the car, Jules held the door open. “I’ll make all those calls as soon as I get here tomorrow,” she promised.
“Get in,” Vivian said without looking at her and slid in herself.
Jules stood, stunned, for a moment. Even as she walked around the car, she considered sprinting down the sidewalk. Vivian had decided that she must be silenced; she was going to have her driver take them down to the docks, kill Jules, and then dump her body in the river. Or worse, Vivian was going to think of something else for her to do before going to bed and trying to process the day.
But all Vivian did as Jules buckled her seat belt was lean back against the headrest, close her eyes, and say, “Take me home, and then drop Julia off at her apartment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said as he smoothly pulled into the street.
Jules was getting personal chauffeur service after the working day was done? That had never happened before.
She wasn’t about to question it. Just ride in silence; just let Vivian rest. She needed a break. She needed a lot of things, most of which Jules couldn’t give her, but Jules could manage a peaceful car ride.
When they’d gone four blocks, she dared to look at Vivian out of the corner of her eye. Then she blinked in astonishment. Vivian had slumped against the window. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing deeply. She’d fallen asleep.
Jules met Ben’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She blushed without knowing why. But Ben’s own eyes were wide, and she realized he was as astonished as she was. Almost five years of driving Vivian around and apparently he’d never seen her sleep in the car before.
When they got to Vivian’s Upper West Side home, she was still sound asleep, and Jules realized she had to wake her. She didn’t have the courage to touch her. You didn’t just touch Vivian.
She cleared her throat loudly and watched Vivian twitch into wakefulness, inhaling through her nose. Then Jules looked out her window so Vivian could pretend no one noticed her sleeping.
At the sound of Vivian unbuckling her seat belt, Jules turned her head and managed a weak smile. “Thanks for the ride.”
Vivian’s brow furrowed. Her hand fumbled a little as she finished unbuckling, and she blinked sleepily. It would have been cute if it had been anybody else; as it was, it was a little scary. Without a word, Jules undid her own seat belt, got out, and hurried around to open the door for her.
By the time Vivian was on her feet and on the sidewalk, she appeared a little revived, perhaps because of the cool air. She gave Jules a quick glance as if waiting for something. Jules had no idea what, but she blurted out before she could stop herself, “The tests could be wrong.”
Vivian narrowed her eyes.
Jules winced and hunched her shoulders. Yeah. Okay. Shut up.
Vivian turned and mounted the steps to her house without a word.
Still cringing, Jules got back into the car, but Ben didn’t drive away until they’d both seen Vivian get safely through the door.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he pulled away.
“She had a long day.”
“She’s had lots of them lately,” Ben said. “I’ve practically taken to sleeping in my uniform just so I can be ready to go whenever you call me.”
“At least you get to sleep,” Jules said snidely
Ben only chuckled. “True enough. Try and get some sleep tonight, okay? You look like you’re dead on your feet lately too.”
“What else is new?”
He chuckled again.
Jules had a hard time following Ben’s instructions. She should have been exhausted, but instead she shivered with nervous energy. She paced her apartment, looked restlessly out the window, and opened her laptop to see that The Cut was still open in her browser.
Maybe the third time would be the charm. There was a column called “I Think About This a Lot” that wasn’t for news or think pieces but open submissions from readers. The subjects ranged from movie scenes that had deeply affected them to confessions about their marriages.
“I think about my pregnant boss’s disaster of a life a lot,” Jules said to herself, trying out the title. Then she laughed, the sound a bit sharp and hysterical. That was catchy. She’d probably get published. Then murdered. Put six feet under by Vivian Carlisle.
The thought wasn’t helping her get to sleep, but it made her laugh again. She’d take what she could get.