Chapter Five
Merci,” Poppy said quickly as the cab screeched to a halt in front of KMG’s office building, which was just a few blocks from her own office in the sixth. She thrust a handful of bills and coins at the driver and piled quickly out of the cab. I scrambled after her, trying to compose myself. I was afraid I was failing miserably. I was exhausted, confused, and utterly disheveled. I was fairly confident this was not the best way to make a good first impression on Véronique, who, according to Poppy, was currently waiting to brief us inside.
As I hurried a pace behind Poppy toward the building, the enormous brick-colored front door flew open, and in the entryway a slender, dark-haired woman in inky black skinny jeans, a crisp white blouse, and a pile of pearls stood framed there, her arms crossed over her chest.
She said something in rapid French, her voice low-pitched and confident, then, glancing at me, she seemed to realize that she needed to translate.
“You are late!” she exclaimed, her French accent thick as strong espresso and her words coming in sharp staccato. “Where is Marie?” She glanced at Poppy and then back at me. “And who are you?”
“Um, I’m Emma,” I replied nervously. I took a step forward and extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She looked at my hand but didn’t shake it. I stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, then lowered my arm back to my side. I wondered what I had done to offend her in under ten words. Poppy patted me on the shoulder.
“Emma, this is Véronique, our boss,” she said smoothly. “Véronique, this is Emma, the new publicist I’ve mentioned to you.”
“Well,” Véronique muttered, looking at me with what appeared to be suspicion. She looked back at Poppy. “Marie is not responding to my calls,” she said crisply.
“Marie quit last month, remember?” Poppy said wearily. She glanced at me. “Marie was my business partner,” she said softly. “The one I mentioned to you. You’re sort of, er, replacing her.” I suddenly realized that there must be more to Marie’s departure than Poppy had initially led me to believe.
“Quoi?” Véronique said sharply. “Well. This is monstrueux. This means that you and the new girl must take care of this on your own!”
“What exactly is happening, Véronique?” Poppy interrupted.
She heaved a weight-of-the-world sigh and rolled her eyes. “Come with me,” she said.
The moment Véronique turned her back to walk back into the building, Poppy shot me a look of concern and shrugged. Guillaume, she mouthed. I shook my head, not understanding yet what the handsome rock star could have done in the middle of the night to leave Véronique so panicked. After all, Guillaume was practically a saint, wasn’t he?
We followed Véronique down a long corridor into a big open-floor-plan office that looked out of place in such an old building. I’d expected ornate, tiny rooms that had belonged to businessmen centuries earlier. Instead the room felt oddly reminiscent of the Boy Bandz offices back home.
Fluorescent lighting, just as unflattering here as it was stateside, poured over a dozen desktops, which were separated by cubicle walls into work spaces almost too small to turn around in. The desks were white and modern looking, and the swivel chairs looked like they had come straight out of Ikea—not at all the ornate antique desks and chairs I had anticipated. The walls were decorated with twenty-by-thirty framed posters of the bands on the KMG label. I glanced at each of them, familiarizing myself with the names. Le Renaissance. Amélie Deneuve. Jean-Michel Colin. Jacques Cash. TechnoPub. République de Musique.
“Where’s Guillaume Riche’s poster?” I whispered to Poppy as we hurried to keep up with Véronique.
“He’s not up there yet,” Poppy explained. “His album cover won’t be final for another week. Then we’ll add him to the wall. Believe me, it will be quite the distraction. He’s shirtless on the cover.”
I raised an eyebrow. That sounded like nice workplace scenery.
We followed Véronique into her office, where Poppy and I sank nervously into side-by-side chairs without taking our eyes off her. She was standing before us with clenched fists, looking as if steam might begin shooting from her ears at any moment.
“This is a disaster,” she said, staring first at Poppy, then at me. “Your Guillaume is at it again. You must take care of him! What are we paying you for?”
Poppy sighed, and I looked at her in confusion. I was feeling more and more out of the loop by the moment. Just then a phone rang in the outer room, and Véronique made a face.
“Don’t move,” she said, fixing us with a glare, as if we might be tempted to climb out a window in her absence. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She hurried out of the office. I turned to Poppy.
“What exactly is going on?” I demanded.
Poppy averted her eyes. “Oh, yes, Guillaume Riche,” she said with forced casualness. “There may have been a few things I forgot to mention about him.”