Brooke had an Identi-Kit chum, Bonnie Bacall, who “worked” on Freddie & Frannie, another in-house brand. They were BFFs (best friends forever) and both girls were actually very sweet, and if sometimes they were hurtful or cruel, it wasn’t because they meant to be. Not like Lauryn.

“Okay, people,” Lauryn called. “Now that Anna has finished her conversations, could you all possibly spare me a few moments of your time for a Candy Grrrl briefing.” (Said sarcastically.)

All day long, everyone was looking at me—but never directly. When I met girls from other brands in the corridors or the washrooms, they gave me slanting, sidelong glances, and as soon as I left I knew they were whispering about me. Like it was all my fault. Or contagious. I tried defusing things by smiling at them, but then they looked away quickly, a little horrified.

Luckily, because this was New York, no one really gave a shite. For a short while I’d be an object of curiosity, then they’d lose interest.

Midmorning, Franklin took me into Ariella’s inner sanctum so I could thank her for keeping my job open. One entire wall was filled with photos of her with famous people.

In her “trademark” powder-blue power suit, she acknowledged my gratitude by nodding slowly, her eyes half closed. There was nothing more disconcerting than Ariella in her Capo di Tutti Capi mode.

“Maybe sometime you can do something for me.” Either she had a permanent sore throat or she deliberately put on a hoarse Don Corleone–style mumble. “I need a favor, I can count on you?”

I work very hard for you, I wanted to say. Before all this happened, I got more coverage than any of your other publicists and I intend that that will be the case again. You didn’t pay me for one second while I was away and it’s not like I took off on a whim.

“Of course, Ariella.”

“And get a haircut.”

She nodded at Franklin in his immaculate suit: the signal to take me away.

Out in the hallway, Franklin circled a manicured thumb between his eyebrows, where his frown lines would be, if they weren’t being Botoxed into submission every six weeks. “Jesus, God,” he sighed. “Is it just me or does she seem a little…psychotic to you?”

“No more than usual. But I might not be the best judge right now.”

He did his sympathetic face. “I know, baby cakes. So how ya doing?”

“Okay.” There was no point in saying any more. He had zero interest in anyone else’s problems. But he was totally up-front about it, which meant I didn’t mind. “How’ve you been? How’s Henk?”

“Bleeding me dry and breaking my heart. Got a joke for you. What’s the difference between your dick and your bonus?”

“Henk will blow your bonus?”

“Got it.”

“You get a bonus?”

“Er…” He patted me on the shoulder and pulled the shutters down on his face. “You’ll be okay, kiddo.”

I’d have to be.

Just because Franklin was hilariously funny and willing to talk about his personal life didn’t make him my friend. He was my boss. In fact, he was my boss’s boss. (Lauryn reported to him.)

“And you heard Ariella. Get a haircut. Go see someone at Perry K.”

Just what I needed: ridiculous high-maintenance hair when barely one of my hands was operational.

At lunchtime I tried to get my nails done, but when I took off the bandages and revealed them to the manicurist she went green and said they were far too short for acrylic ones to be fitted. When I returned with the bad news Lauryn behaved as if I was lying.

“The girl told me to come back in a month,” I protested weakly. “I’ll get them done then.”

“What-ev-er. Eye Eye Captain—I want your thoughts on the campaign by weekend.”

When Lauryn said she wanted “my thoughts,” she actually meant that she wanted a fully realized campaign, complete with press releases, spreadsheets, budgeting, and a signed contract from Scarlett Johansson saying she was so thrilled to be the new face of Candy Grrrl that she’d do it for free.

“I’ll see what I can do.” I dashed to my desk and started speed-reading through the Eye Eye Captain data.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that I checked my e-mails. Unlike my home e-mail, my work stuff had been opened and answered. I scrolled back through them, doing a crash course in catch-up. A lot were from beauty editors asking for products which the greedy cows would probably never give coverage to, or from people I’d been putting campaigns together with, or from George (Mr. Candy Grrrl) with fool ideas of his own. Then my heart nearly jumped out of my mouth: this was what I’d been waiting for. In bold black type—meaning it was new and unread—was an e-mail from Aidan.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Tonight

Just tried to call, but you’re on the line. Wanted to catch you before I left. See you tonight. Nothing to report, just wanted to tell you that I love you and will love you forever and ever, no matter what happens.

A xxxxxxxx

I read it again. What did it mean? He was coming to see me tonight? Then I noticed the date: the sixteenth of February, and today was the twentieth of April. This wasn’t new; all the adrenaline racing through my poor hopeful body pulled up in a big halt and went home in disgust. I was a dope and I could only blame the drugs. This must have arrived after I’d left to meet him that evening nine weeks ago. And because it was obviously personal, the temp hadn’t opened it and had left it for me to read.

19

The first time I met the Maddoxes

What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Aidan had asked.

“Dunno.” Hadn’t given it much thought.

“Want to come to Boston and spend it with my family?”

“Um, okay, thanks. If you’re sure.”

A low-key response, but I knew that this was a big deal. Not as big as I’d realized, though. When I told people at work, they freaked.

“How long have you guys been exclusive?”

“Since Friday.”

“Last Friday? You mean the Friday that was five days ago? But this is way too soon.”

In the unwritten New York dating rules, I was jumping the gun by at least seven weeks. It was forbidden—indeed, up until now, it had been thought technically impossible—to move directly from a declaration of exclusivity to meeting his family. It was most unorthodox. Highly irregular. No good would come of it, they all prophesied, shaking their heads despondently.