I Heart Paris (34 page)

At eight on the dot, the lift doors pinged open and she strode in, coffee in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, a look of annoyance on her unlined fifty-something face.

‘Angela,’ she said, walking right by me, her steel-grey bob bouncing as she went.

I followed, trying to fight the urge to vom, and sat down in the chair opposite her desk.

‘Shoot.’ Mary set everything down on her desk and shook off her hoodie to reveal a cute black cashmere tank top. She had unfeasibly toned arms for a woman of her age. Or you know, for a woman.

‘It’s hard to know where to start,’ I admitted. ‘But to keep it brief, Cici screwed me over. Really badly. She cancelled my BlackBerry, she set me up with an assistant from French
Belle
who was trying to stop me from getting my article done, she sent over a list of rubbish places to visit, and then she tried to convince the assistant to convince me not to come back to New York at all.’

‘Right.’ Mary sipped her coffee and looked at me over the top of her glasses.

‘I don’t know what else to say, Mary.’

‘And I don’t know what you want me to do. Is the piece done?’

‘Not yet, but it will be,’ I said. ‘No thanks to Cici.’

‘As far as
Belle
will be concerned, whether or not you get the piece in really isn’t anything to do with Cici,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t work for
Belle
, she wasn’t assigned to you by
Belle
, anything she did with, for or to you is on your head.’

‘You believe me, don’t you?’ I was feeling sicker by the second. ‘About what she did?’

‘I do.’ Mary nodded. ‘Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can do.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Not a lot you can do about what?’

‘Not a lot I can do about the fact that Cici forwarded some email you sent cursing her out on to her grandfather,’ she said, flicking her computer monitor into action. ‘You want to read your own rather colourful words?’

What. The. Fuck?

‘But I didn’t send an email to Cici?’ I said, leaning across the desk. I didn’t send an email to Cici. Did I? I was sure that was something I’d remember, jet lag and France’s vast quantity of booze aside.

But there it was, a forward from Cici to ‘Grandpa Bob’, her sob story all in caps, labelling me a bully and a tyrant, claiming she hadn’t said anything before because she was trying to be my friend. And then a much shorter email from Bob to Mary, the gist of which was ‘get rid of her’. At the bottom of the page was the email supposedly from me. And, I had to admit, it was littered with lots of very colourful words, all aimed at Cici.

‘I didn’t send this to her,’ I said, recognizing some of what was written on the screen. ‘I sent this to you. But not this, it’s been changed.’

‘You sent me an email bitching Cici out?’ Mary asked, sliding her glasses on to the top of her head. ‘To my work email address? Are you serious?’

‘Um, yes?’

‘Angela, who is my assistant?’

‘Cici?’

‘And so who has access to all of my emails?’

‘Cici?’ Shit.

‘And who, it would seem, really, really does not like you?’

‘Cici?’ Double shit.

Mary rested her hands on the desk in front of her. ‘To say that Bob is no longer your biggest fan would be something of an understatement.’

‘Am I fired?’ I whispered, definitely about to be sick.

She nodded. ‘It’s safe to say that you will no longer be writing a blog for TheLook.com.’

Triple shit, shit, shitty shit shit.

‘But they still need your
Belle
piece, it’s too late to fill the pages with anything else,’ she went on. ‘And who knows, if that’s really good, after the heat has died down, I might be able to rehire you. You certainly bring in a lot of traffic and that brings in advertisers. But right now, you’re too hot for anyone at Spencer Media to touch you.’

‘What about my visa?’ The room was spinning fast and it had nothing to do with my jet lag. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

‘You’re not completely fucked,’ Mary clarified. ‘You’re still a contributing editor for
The Look
in the UK. Your visa isn’t going to be revoked immediately. I spoke to one of our lawyers and she seems to think that you can stay for a couple of months before anyone from Immigration makes enquiries. Even if they did, you could appeal that you’re technically still an employee of Spencer Media. But if they make a check and they don’t agree with what could be a costly appeal, you could be deported. The lawyer suggested you head back to the UK and apply for a new media visa that’s not tied to an employer as soon as you can.’

‘How long will that take?’ A new visa? Go back to London? Was she serious? I’d just bloody come from London.

‘I’m not the US Embassy, I have no idea.’ She shrugged. ‘But if you need a reference, I will be more than happy to give you one. Look, I’m sorry, this is a really shitty situation.’

‘But Virginie, from French
Belle
, she said she would call you?’ I said desperately. ‘She was the assistant who was helping me, she said she would explain everything.’

‘And she did,’ Mary took another look at her computer screen, ‘but one rambling voicemail from a junior assistant at French
Belle
isn’t going to mean much to Robert Spencer when he has a sobbing granddaughter on his hands and an email from some random employee, calling his pride and joy a, and let me quote this directly, “crazy fucking psycho bitch who needs to be put down like a rabid dog”.’

‘I did not say that in the original email,’ I protested. ‘I said she was a bloody crazy psycho bitch who needed to be put down like a dog. Not a rabid dog. And no eff word.’

‘I’m touched that you thought to hold back on the f-bomb for me,’ Mary said, ‘but really, you’re going to have to give me some time. Wait until Bob has calmed down, let me talk to him. I like to think I have a little influence there.’

Ha. I was right, they’d definitely been doing it. Ew.

‘Maybe I can even send a few freelance things your way if you can write under a pseudonym.’ She shrugged. The conversation, as far as she was concerned, was clearly over.

‘What if Immigration do check up on me?’ I asked, not really needing her to tell me the answer. ‘What if Cici sends them after me?’

‘Cross that bridge when you come to it,’ Mary suggested. ‘And leave Cici to me. She’s got what she wanted, she’ll leave you alone now.’

‘You think she will?’

‘Leave her to me,’ Mary repeated.

‘OK, well, I suppose I should leave my BlackBerry and stuff,’ I said, digging around in my handbag, trying not to cry in front of Mary. I knew it wouldn’t help my case with her. I had to hold it together.

‘I know this sucks, but leave it with me.’ She waited for me to stand up and then leaned in for an awkward hug. ‘I’m not saying I’ll be able to save the day, but I’ll try. I’m not losing a good writer because that snotnosed little bitch cried to Grandpa.’

‘You think I’m a good writer?’ I sniffed over her shoulder.

‘Get out, Clark.’ Mary pushed me away with something that almost looked a little bit like a smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

I stumbled out of Mary’s office, not knowing when or if I’d ever be back there, and took a moment to try and compose myself. You never knew who you would bump into in
The Look
offices. Of course, on this occasion, I was only ever going to bump into the one person I really didn’t want to see.

‘Oh, hey, Angela!’ Cici sailed through the double doors and sank into the chair behind her desk. ‘Would you like me to call security to escort you off the premises, or can you drag your tragic ass out all by yourself?’

There was a time and a place to be the bigger person in life and, as I turned to face Cici, who was sipping a giant vat of iced coffee through a hot pink straw, I knew that this wasn’t it.

‘A friend of mine always says that people like you will get what’s coming to them,’ I said, simply shrugging my shoulders. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know?’ she said, the straw still in her mouth and a confused look on her face.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I sat down on the edge of her desk, enjoying watching her squirm. Which was difficult in skintight Herve Leger. An interesting choice for the office.

‘Yeah?’ Cici finally put down the coffee. Maybe Virginie had told her how handy I was with my fists and she wanted to be prepared.

‘Why do you think you went so out of your way to mess things up for me?’ I asked, dropping my hands between my knees. I wasn’t going to hit anyone in this country. Hello, lawsuit? ‘I mean you really went to a lot of trouble.’

‘I don’t know.’ She tipped her head to one side, her long ponytail of strawberry blonde extensions following shortly afterwards. Really, someone should tell her that Lindsay Lohan was not a role model. ‘I don’t like you?’

‘That’s funny because I don’t like you that much either.’ I rapped my fingers against her desk. ‘I wonder why that is?’

‘Because I’m younger and hotter and cooler?’ she asked. And the worst part was, she actually seemed to mean it.

‘Maybe,’ I nodded, ‘maybe. Hey, isn’t it weird how you can be hot and cool at the same time? That’s weird, isn’t it?’

‘I guess,’ Cici said, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. Which was quite possible.

‘One of those weird little semantic things I suppose,’ I said, hopping up from the desk and making her jump. ‘Or like iced coffee. I don’t get it, I suppose because we don’t have it in England. Do they make it hot to start with and then put ice in it or is it always cold?’

‘I don’t know, freak.’ Cici turned up her nose and reached for her Starbucks cup. But I was faster.

‘It does feel cold through the plastic,’ I said, shaking it up to watch the ice swirl around. ‘How does it feel to you?’

‘Huh?’ Cici was far too slow to avoid the shower of iced latte that rained down all over her extensions. All over her dress. All over her, ouch, suede boots. ‘You bitch!’

‘I’m a bit too impatient to wait for karma sometimes,’ I said, dropping the cup into the bin at the side of her desk. ‘Or maybe that was karma. I’m not sure.’

‘Shame about all your shit getting blown up,’ Cici shouted as I turned to walk away. ‘I heard that it burned up extra quick because your case was full of manmade fibres.’

‘That’s the best comeback you have?’ I shouted, still walking away. ‘Really, I’ve seen
Ugly Betty
, I expected better.’

‘I guess I’m not as good at insults as I am at talking to airport security people,’ she shot back. ‘And not nearly as good as I am at getting you fired.’

I pressed the button for the lift just as the penny dropped. My suitcase had been blown up because of Cici? Looking at the finger reaching out for the lift button, I saw that my hand was shaking. Trying to screw me over at work was one thing, but destroying all those clothes? My beautiful blue handbag? My perfect-fitting Top Shop jeans that they didn’t make any more? My irreplaceable Louboutins? This was serious. This was shoeicide.

‘Are you kidding me?’ I asked, turning around slowly and facing off against her like John Wayne. Or Sharon Stone in that cowboy movie she did with Russell Crowe and Leonardo DiCaprio. I figured that was a more flattering comparison.

The lift pinged open behind me to reveal half the staff of
The Look
. And they looked mighty confused.

‘What are you going to do?’ Cici asked, throwing her arms open wide. ‘Your sorry ass is out of here. You can’t prove anything. My grandfather won’t believe a word you say.’

Before I could react, Mary’s office door slammed against the wall making everyone jump.

‘No,, but he’ll believe me,’ Mary said behind her. ‘Cici, get in my office. Angela, I’ll speak to you later.’

Cici’s face flared red. She crossed her arms tightly over her soaking dress and spun on her ruined heels, marching into Mary’s office.

‘Mary,’ I wailed, pressing my hands to my heart. ‘She blew up my shoes. My
shoes
.’

‘And she’ll be replacing them,’ Mary replied, with all the certainty of a headmistress. ‘Angela, go.’

I pushed through all the gawkers and jabbed the lobby button, holding tightly to the metal rail that ran around the inside of the lift. My poor, poor shoes. No longer just innocent casualties of airtight security, but senseless victims of a vindictive tit. I had to mourn them all over again.

Alex was waiting for me outside the building, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that was far too heavy for the already sweaty sunshine. Paris had been hot, but New York was just humid. Ick.

‘What happened?’ he asked, ready to grab me as I barrelled into his arms. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Cici blew my suitcase up,’ I yelled into his chest. ‘I mean, she arranged to have it blown up. It wasn’t an accident.’

‘Really?’ He whistled. ‘Wow, you really must have pissed her off in a previous life.’

‘I know,’ I said, letting him squeeze me tightly. ‘My shoes!’

‘It’s going to be OK, we’ll get you new shoes.’ Alex kissed the top of my head. ‘So your job is OK?’

‘Oh, that.’ I screwed up my face. ‘Not really. I’ve sort of been fired.’

‘What?’ He held me at arms’ length and stared at me. ‘You got fired? And you’re complaining about your shoes?’

‘I know,’ I sighed, closing my eyes. ‘But I just can’t think about it now. If I do my head will explode, and I am so tired. Please, can we just go home?’

‘Fine.’ He wrapped an arm around my sweaty shoulder and we started off down 42nd Street. ‘But I can’t believe you’re not freaking out.’

‘Oh my God, I’m freaking out.’ I sat on the edge of my sofa, rocking backwards and forwards, before standing up and pacing over to the window. I tapped my fingers against the glass, shaking my head. ‘I got fired, Alex. Fired. I’ve never been fired. And oh my God, I’m going to lose my visa, I’m going to have to go back to London. I mean, what am I going to do? I’m not qualified to do anything else. I’ll have to be like a bin man or something. No, they’ll never let me on the bins. I’ll have to be a postman. Oh my God, I’m going to have to be a postman.’

Alex folded his arms, staring at me from across the room. ‘Are you done?’