I felt a surge of relief. “You’re right,” I said.
“And frankly, sweetie, Brett never sounded like much of a winner, either,” she continued. “He always was a bit of a spoiled mummy’s boy. Good riddance! Now you can focus on your work!”
“Not exactly,” I mumbled. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “I was fired.”
“What?” Poppy’s voice rose an octave. “Fired?”
“Well, laid off,” I said. “But it’s basically the same thing.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Poppy said. She paused. “Listen, Emma. We’re going to figure things out for you, yeah? I promise. I have an idea. Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay, luv?”
I felt momentarily buoyed by her enthusiasm, but there was a part of me that didn’t want to let her off the phone. After all, she seemed to be the only sane, supportive person in my life at the moment.
She called back the next day, as promised.
“Look, Emma, I think I have the solution to all your problems,” she said cheerfully.
“Okay . . .” I blew my nose, wiped my tears, and put the cap back on the carton of Blue Bell mint chocolate chip ice cream I’d been eating. I was grateful no one was there to see me consuming my fourth pint of ice cream that day. I felt a bit sick all of a sudden.
“I talked to Véronique, my liaison at KMG, and I have some good news for you,” she went on, obviously oblivious to my ice-cream stomach pangs. “I haven’t told you yet, but KMG hired me specifically to do British and American press for the English-language launch of Guillaume Riche’s first album.”
“Guillaume Riche?” I repeated, surprised. Guillaume Riche was, of course, the big French TV star who was best known for his high-profile romances, including reported flings with some of the top actresses at the US box office and a yearlong romance with British supermodel Dionne DeVrie, which had ended last year in a dramatic breakup that had been splashed across the cover of celebrity rags everywhere. I’d just read last week in People magazine that he was launching an English-language recording career, but I’d had no idea Poppy was involved. “Poppy, that’s great!”
“Yes, well, it seems his personal publicist has quit, which leaves me solely responsible for him through the launch of his album,” she went on quickly.
“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. I felt a swell of pride for my friend, who was obviously doing quite well for herself. Unlike me.
“Right, but our big press event in London is just five weeks away, and I could really use some help,” she said. She paused and took a deep breath. “I persuaded Véronique that with your experience and connections, you’d be the perfect temporary addition to my team, and she has approved some extra money in the budget for it. So how about it, Emma? Can you come over for a month or so and help me with Guillaume’s launch?”
“Come to Paris?” I repeated. I dropped my ice-cream spoon, and it clattered loudly to the ground.
“Yes!” Poppy said gleefully. “It will be such fun! Just a little something to get you through while you look for another job. And I can help you get over Brett!”
It sounded tempting. But there was a gaping hole in her logic. “Poppy, I don’t even speak French,” I reminded her.
“Oh, pish posh,” she replied. “It’s no matter. I’ll translate for you. And besides, you’re working on Guillaume’s English launch. I’ll have you dealing mostly with British, Irish, American, and Australian journalists. It should be a piece of cake for you!”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Emma, listen to me.” Poppy was suddenly all business. “You’ve lost your fiancé. You’ve lost your friends. You’ve lost your job. Do you really have anything else to lose by coming over here for a bit?”
I thought about it for a moment. When she put it that way . . . “I guess you’re right,” I mumbled.
“And let me tell you, Emma, there’s no place better to get over a wanker like Brett than in Paris,” she added.
And so, a week and a half later, there I was, on a jet bound for a city I’d only spent a week in a decade ago to work with an old friend I hadn’t seen in ages.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to me to ask a single additional thing about Guillaume Riche or why his personal publicist had quit so close to his album launch. If I had, chances are I never would have boarded that plane.
Chapter Two