The article went on to talk about Guillaume’s tour plans and to quote several record execs talking about how wonderful “City of Light” was and how eager the world was to hear the whole CD. It concluded with a mention that the upcoming press junket would be Guillaume’s official launch to the music world.
I sat in stunned silence for a moment after reading the article. I couldn’t believe it. Not only had Gabe not blasted Guillaume (despite the few early mentions of his antics), but he had actually sounded positive about the singer and his music. How could that be after the debacle yesterday?
I reread the piece. It was wonderful, but I was puzzled about something. Where had Gabe gotten the information about Guillaume’s past in Brittany? Sure, it wasn’t a secret where Guillaume was from; a few profiles in the past had mentioned it. But how had Gabe known about Guillaume’s parents? Or about his proficiency on so many instruments at such a young age? Or about his thirty days in jail at the age of seventeen? None of that had ever been printed, and I knew that Guillaume’s parents, sister, and half brother had never agreed to an interview before; Poppy had said they were an extremely private family.
Had Guillaume told Gabe about his background during our interview yesterday, while he was speaking in rapid French? I didn’t think there had been enough time for a conversation like that, but perhaps I’d just missed it.
In any case, there was no point in worrying, was there? Gabe had gone easy on Guillaume. We were out of the woods. I breathed a giant sigh of relief.
Poppy took me to lunch that day to thank me for somehow preventing whatever damage Gabe had intended to do, and when we got back to the office, there was an enormous bouquet of white lilies—my favorite flower—sitting in a vase in front of the door.
“I wonder who these are from?” Poppy asked, beaming as she picked them up and unlocked the door. Inside, she set them down on the corner of her desk and opened the attached envelope. “You know what? I bet they’re from Paul, the guy I went out with on Saturday. He seemed like quite the romantic!”
Still smiling, she pulled out the card and scanned it quickly. She blinked a few times, and her smile faltered for a second.
“My mistake, Emma,” she said, handing the envelope over to me. “The flowers are for you.”
Surprised, I took the card from her.
To Emma: Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman, it read.
There was no signature. I could feel my cheeks burning.
“So?” Poppy asked eagerly. “Who are they from?”
She picked up the vase from her desk and carried it over to mine. I stared at the flowers in confusion for a moment.
“I have no idea,” I said. But even as I spoke, I realized that I was harboring a small hope that they were from Gabe, perhaps to thank me for the interview. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Reporters didn’t send publicists flowers. And reporters like Gabe probably made it a general rule never to do anything nice at all, except when they were trying to get something out of you.
“Oh, come on,” Poppy said, smiling at me. “You must have some idea.”
“Really, I don’t,” I said. “I don’t think many people even know I work here.” I certainly hadn’t given my work address to any of the random dates I’d had. As far as I knew, Gabe, Guillaume, the KMG staff, Poppy, and my family were the only people who knew where to find me.
“Ooh, a mystery man!” Poppy squealed. “See? The whole French-kissing thing is working already!”
My phone rang a few times that afternoon, and each time I picked it up, I half expected to hear Gabe’s voice on the other end, admitting to sending me flowers and apologizing for the blowup during the Guillaume interview. Maybe he’d even ask me out—not that I would necessarily say yes. But he never phoned; the calls were all junket-related questions about catering, room accommodations, and journalists’ flight information.
I was still confused when the phone on my desk jingled again at five that evening. I dove for it.
“Hello?”
“Emma? It’s Brett.”
My heart stopped for a second. It had been two weeks since I’d heard his voice. The familiar depth of it sent a jolt through me. My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Emma?” he asked tentatively after a moment. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said shakily. “How did you get my work number?”
“Your sister,” he responded promptly. I made a face. I wished Jeannie would just mind her own business. But then again, she never had; why would I expect her to start now?
“Oh,” I managed.
“So,” Brett began slowly, “did you get the flowers?”
I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. “Those were from you?” I asked.
“Of course, Emma.” Brett sounded surprised. “Who else would send you flowers?” He paused, and a thought seemed to occur to him. “Wait, you’re not dating someone over there, are you?”
“So what if I am?” I responded stubbornly.
He was silent for a moment. “I’m sure you’re just being facetious, Emma,” Brett said dismissively. “And I guess I deserve that, don’t I?”
Why was he so sure that I couldn’t be serious? I felt insulted.