Poppy put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Emma,” she said gently. “First of all, I don’t know that Gabe is necessarily going to do anything. But even if he does, it’s really Guillaume’s fault, not yours, right?”
I paused. “No,” I said after a moment. “I should have known better. I let my personal stuff get in the way. I made a big mistake with Guillaume. I should never have had a drink with him. That was really, really stupid. And then Gabe came in . . .” I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. I swallowed hard. “And now he hates Guillaume. He’s going to get bad press on the eve of his album release, and it’s going to be all my fault.”
“Okay, now you’re just being silly,” Poppy said firmly. I looked at her, surprised, as she continued. “You were trying to do the right thing. And I must say, it sounds a bit like Guillaume lured you into all of this, although I can’t imagine why. Guillaume obviously planned for Gabe to walk in on you. And Emma, if Guillaume is so intent on sabotaging himself, there’s not much you can do.”
I thought about it for a moment. It was very strange, come to think of it, that Guillaume had apparently called Gabe either before or just after I’d arrived and asked him to come up in thirty minutes. Why would he do such a thing? And why on earth would he lean in to kiss me if he was expecting a reporter whom he suspected I had a crush on? Was Guillaume trying to hurt me? The thought startled and unsettled me.
“Whether it’s all my fault or not,” I said finally, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Gabe totally rips him apart in print. And that’s going to come down on us. On your firm.” I felt like everything was on the line here, and I’d screwed it up irreversibly. “I’ve put everything in jeopardy, Poppy. I don’t think I deserve to be here anymore.”
I barely slept that night. I tossed and turned thinking about Gabe, worrying about what his next article would say, and worrying about what would happen to Poppy’s company.
After I woke up, I logged on to my computer and was tentatively relieved to find that Gabe hadn’t published an article about Guillaume in the past twenty-four hours. It was mildly comforting, but I feared that it was really just prolonging the inevitable. In a way, I would have preferred to have everything out on the table that day so that it could all end in a cataclysmic burst of shame instead of under a lingering cloud of tense regret, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The press breakfast that morning was in the grand ballroom on the second floor, a spacious, soaring room with domed ceilings and smooth ecru walls. As the reporters—conspicuously minus Gabe—settled into their seats and chattered happily away, a fleet of waiters filled their water glasses, brought them orange juice, coffee, and tea, and refilled their overflowing pastry baskets. Fifteen minutes after we’d begun, nearly everyone was accounted for.
After the meal, during which Guillaume continually shot me wide-eyed, guilty glances from his table near the stage, he performed “Charlotte, Je T’Aime,” a love song off his album, a cappella, to the delight of the press. Then, with his guitar, he did one final acoustic version of “City of Light,” which had the crowd on its feet, applauding wildly by the time it was over. I met Poppy’s eyes as Guillaume strummed his last chords. We both smiled. In the space of two days, our press plan—and the charm and talent of the crazy Guillaume—had won over a room full of a hundred journalists who were paid to be skeptical. We had somehow done the impossible.
Poppy and I said good-bye to all the reporters as they filtered out of the room. When we finally shut the doors behind us, I leaned back against the wall with a sigh.
“Well, that went perfectly!” Poppy said with a smile. She looked at me carefully. “Are you okay?”
I forced a smile. “I’m fine. You’re right. It was perfect.”
Just then, Guillaume slipped back into the ballroom. I looked quickly around for an escape route, but alas, he was entering through the only set of doors, and there was no conversation about rugby or cosmetics or cricket that I could join and feign interest in.
I could feel Poppy put a hand on the small of my back. “It’s going to be fine,” she said softly. I nodded, trying to summon some strength.
“Emma,” Guillaume said as he approached. He looked shamefaced. “Please, Emma, I’m so sorry.”
I could see Poppy glaring at him beside me. I averted my eyes. “It’s fine,” I mumbled. I dismissively waved my hand and hoped he would go away.
Beside me, Poppy took a step forward. “It is not fine!” she declared hotly, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at Guillaume. “Don’t you dare tell him it’s fine, Emma! He totally screwed you over!”
Guillaume looked uncomfortable. “In my defense, I was trying to screw with Gabe, not you.”
“What are you talking about?” Poppy demanded. “Are you trying to destroy your career before it even takes off?”