“Let me finish,” Véronique said icily. “I checked your junket list, and indeed, there was a listing for a Gabriel Francoeur from the UPP. And according to your master billing list, he checked in and stayed all weekend. Well, I thought to myself, perhaps he did not like the music. So I called the Paris bureau chief for the UPP to find out.”
“You did?” Poppy asked quietly. All the blood had drained from her face. I slid even farther down in the chair, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I did,” Véronique confirmed. “And do you know what I found out?”
Poppy didn’t respond. She just sat there, staring. Véronique’s gaze flicked to me. I could feel my cheeks heating up. I tried to keep an innocent face.
“I found out,” Véronique continued, “that this reporter, this Gabriel Francoeur, did indeed like Guillaume’s music. He’s the one who has been giving us coverage so far. But his editor said that something happened at the junket that made this Mr. Francoeur return early, saying that he no longer felt he could cover Guillaume Riche impartially.”
“Oh, no,” I mumbled. Véronique looked sharply at me.
“Mais oui,” she said. “His editor didn’t understand at first, either, and he was distressed that he had spent all this money sending one of his top reporters to this junket and had even teased the forthcoming story on the wires, so that papers around the world had created space in their entertainment sections for it. So he pressed this Gabriel Francoeur for some sort of an answer.”
Poppy and I exchanged worried looks.
Véronique pressed on, glaring at us. “The only information Mr. Francoeur offered was that something had happened between himself and a publicist in the employ of KMG. He wouldn’t specify what actually occurred, but the incident was apparently so serious that it made him give up the music features beat for the time being. He has been voluntarily demoted to the international obituary department.”
Véronique paused again and studied us for a moment, first Poppy, and then me. I felt like I wanted to sink into the floor.
“Would either of you care to explain?” Véronique asked. “Since you are the only two publicists in the employ of KMG who were at the junket this weekend?”
Poppy opened her mouth, but Véronique rolled right over her, gathering steam as she went. “Because”—her voice was arctic—“you realize that whatever has happened here, you have damaged a relationship with one of the most influential media outlets in the world.”
“Véronique, it wasn’t really such a big deal,” Poppy said in a small voice.
Véronique’s smirk twisted into a frown, and she glared at Poppy. “You do not get to decide what is a big deal to KMG,” she said. “That is for me to decide. You are just the hired help.”
Poppy was stunned into silence. I glanced at her, and my heart sank to see Poppy—so rarely at a loss for words—looking stricken. I had to do something.
“Véronique?” I said quietly. She turned and focused her flashing eyes on me. “It’s not Poppy’s fault. It’s mine. And for the record, I don’t think there’s any way in the world that you could possibly accuse Poppy of failing. She got an enormous amount of media coverage for Guillaume. Far more than most record launches. She really did a phenomenal job. The junket was a huge success even if the UPP didn’t carry the story.”
“I did not invest so much of my company’s money to have it undone by some personal problem between a publicist-”—she paused to glare at Poppy—“and a journalist.”
“It was my fault, Véronique,” I said. Véronique turned her gaze back to me. I braced myself and continued, “I was the publicist who screwed things up. It was me, not Poppy.”
“Don’t do this,” Poppy muttered. But I shook my head at her.
Véronique stared at me. “Go on,” she said, her voice hushed, her expression unforgiving.
I took a deep breath. “I behaved in an unprofessional manner with Gabe Francoeur,” I said. “There was an incident involving him and Guillaume, and I handled it all wrong. It’s one hundred percent my fault, not Poppy’s.”
Véronique was silent for a long moment. “I see,” she said finally.
Poppy and I exchanged looks.
Véronique looked down at her lap and sat there motionless for a moment, as if meditating. When she looked up, her focus was on me. “I trust I will have your resignation letter by the end of today,” she said softly.
Beside me, I heard Poppy gasp. “Véronique, I don’t really think that’s necessary!” she exclaimed.
“As for you,” Véronique said, turning to Poppy, “you will have one more chance with KMG because of the work you have done so far. But I will trust that in the future, you won’t hire any more publicists who will risk our reputation. This is unforgivable.”
“But—” Poppy began.
“Either Emma goes or you both go,” Véronique interrupted.
“It’s fine, Poppy,” I said softly. Poppy opened her mouth to say something else, but I spoke first, turning to Véronique. “You’ll have my resignation by the end of the day. I’m sorry.”
In a daze, I stood up and strode quickly to the door before anyone could see me cry.
Chapter Eighteen