Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Happy New Year.” Vivienne ushered Emmy into the lofty office space.
Emmy walked across the trendy cement floors, past the warehouse-style windows overlooking the city, and sat in the velvet-padded chair across from Vivienne.
“How was your New Year’s?” Vivienne asked, distracted by something on her computer.
“It was nice,” Emmy lied.
She hadn’t gone anywhere. Charlie hadn’t called her back since she’d thanked him for the dress.
Although she’d told him not to worry about it, she’d still hoped he would.
She was actually surprised he hadn’t gotten back in touch, given that he’d gone through the trouble of buying her the dress and having it delivered.
But the mixed signals made her realize how difficult any kind of long-distance relationship would be.
It was her luck that the one guy with promise was right out of her reach, like everything else in her life.
So she’d called Madison to tell her the sob story about how she had nothing to do and then spent New Year’s Eve in her apartment with a bowl of vanilla ice cream and a movie. She’d only been able to stay awake for the first thirty minutes of the film before dozing off and eventually going to bed.
“How was the party?” she asked, leaning forward in an attempt to divert Vivienne’s attention from the computer screen.
The woman’s long nails were moving a mile a minute on her keyboard.
“Hm? Oh, it was fabulous as always. You should’ve come. The place was so happening, the DJ continued for an hour after we’d paid him to stop. It was an absolute blast.”
Emmy smiled for Vivienne’s benefit. She clasped her hands in her lap and focused on the gray sky out the window, as Vivienne typed away.
“So sorry. There’s a fire drill with the Banks’ account. Give me just a second more.”
Emmy had only scheduled a thirty-minute conversation, and she was already down to twenty minutes. Was that enough time to prove herself worthy of a promotion?
Vivienne finally pulled her gaze from the screen. “Tell me: What brings you into my office today?”
Emmy swallowed and cleared her throat. She purposely hadn’t rehearsed so she’d sound more authentic.
Practicing would only make her nervous, and she wanted to be as calm as possible since she was asking for more responsibility.
But now she was mentally scrambling to get her points into a concise list, given the time crunch.
“First, I wanted to thank you so much for offering me the opportunity to work at The Moreau Agency. You were so, so kind to give me a chance.”
“Are you quitting?” Vivienne blurted.
Emmy couldn’t tell if the rise in her tone at the end of her question was anticipation, or if her inquiry was out of curiosity. What she didn’t see was worry. Did Vivienne want her to quit? The thought of it blindsided her and she scrambled to regain her train of thought.
“Uh, the opposite actually. I was hoping to be more involved with upcoming client campaigns.”
Vivienne’s computer pinged, and she turned back to the screen.
“I have a lot of ideas,” Emmy continued, “and I think I could offer a new perspective. Even something as simple as the Parody Music line—I saw you closed that one. I could send you some of my concepts.”
“I’m so sorry. Give me one more second.”
Emmy gritted her teeth. Charlie’s voice echoed in her mind: You’re better than sushi pickup.
Four years Emmy had been working at The Moreau Agency, and she had almost nothing in her portfolio.
Vivienne hadn’t given her a single chance to show off her talent, and now, when she was trying to ask outright, Vivienne was distracted.
Emmy had gotten the woman’s lunch and dinner orders for the last time.
Her boss was clearly hoping she’d quit. Well, she’d had enough.
Emmy stood up.
“I’ll make this easy on both of us,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear with a trembling finger. “I am quitting. I’m giving my two weeks.”
Vivienne finally looked up. What was that look in her eyes? Sadness? Disappointment? It still wasn’t what Emmy had expected to see.
Then, Vivienne smiled gently, which was weirder than the first expression. “What are you going to do after you leave The Moreau Agency?”
Emmy lifted her chin. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll start my own company.” It was the first thing she’d thought of as she had no idea she’d have to answer that question. She braced for the scoff that never came.
“I hope you do,” Vivienne said.
Unbelievable. Vivienne didn’t try to convince her to stay or, at the very least, ask to see Emmy’s ideas. She’d basically said goodbye without even having the decency to say it properly.
Fighting back the lump in her throat, Emmy turned to leave Vivienne’s office, wondering what she’d just done.
“Emmy?”
She blinked away tears and faced Vivienne.
Vivienne’s jaw clenched, her expression heavy with thoughts. “Before you leave, could you head up the Media Landscape and Opportunities briefing this week?”
Emmy stared at her. “Sure.”
Vivienne had never asked Emmy to head up the briefing.
In all the account status meetings, the brainstorming sessions, the team check-ins, the reporting reviews—never had she asked Emmy to lead a single one.
While Emmy wanted to be overjoyed that Vivienne finally asked, it had taken her quitting to prompt it.
She probably wanted Emmy to do it so when everyone asked why she’d quit, Vivienne could claim she had no idea.
She’d probably say that she was building Emmy’s upward trajectory in the company just as Emmy had decided to leave.
“Thanks.”
Vivienne went back to her emails and Emmy walked out of the office feeling utterly deflated.
When she got to her apartment, she dropped her things at her feet, locked all the latches on the door, and then fell onto the sofa, burying her face in the pillow as a sob rose.
Now what was she supposed to do? It was true that she was qualified in PR, and she needed to do more with her life, but thanks to her rash thinking, she’d lost the only job she had.
On the cold walk home, she ran through the conversation with Vivienne. What if Vivienne really had been planning to ask her to do more in the company? What if Emmy had blown it?
How was she going to pay rent next month? She’d graduated from college with all these big dreams of getting a great job, moving to the city, and spending her weekends sipping cocktails and soaking in the New York nightlife. Four years later, she was no better off than when she’d started.
She rolled onto her back. A tear slid down her temple. She wished she could talk to her mom.
Anne Brewer was always the one Emmy went to. Her mother would sit on the sofa and pat the cushion beside her, but Emmy would lay down and put her head on her mom’s lap. Her mom would gently brush her hair out of her face—even as a teenager, as if she were still five years old.
“Tell me what happened,” her mom said one afternoon when Emmy, age thirteen, came home from school.
“Adrienne and Beth used to eat lunch with me every day, but today, they sat outside together, and I couldn’t find them.
They didn’t even bother to find me. And they’re going to the movies tonight without me.
When I asked if something was wrong, they brushed me off with ‘Oh, we just figured you were busy.’”
That moment had hit a nerve because it made her feel invisible.
“It makes sense that you feel left out,” her mother said. “That would hurt anyone’s feelings.” She wiped a tear from Emmy’s cheek. “What do you say we do something fun and relaxing together—just you and me—to take your mind off it?”
Emmy sat up. “Want to design a new dress with me?”
Her mom’s eyes widened with her smile. “Absolutely.”
Would Emmy have been in a different place in life if her mother were alive now?
Emmy wasn’t doing a good job of learning to live life on her own terms. She was painfully aware that she was about to find out how resourceful she could be, however, when she didn’t have enough money for groceries.
The difference was that her mother had an unattainable personality trait that made her successful, which Emmy wasn’t so sure she possessed.
Whether she had her mother’s talent or not, she needed to start job hunting. And soon. She got up, wiped her tears, and pulled out her computer. Then, she got a pad of paper and a pen and began searching job sites, looking for positions.
She jotted down a few possibilities and then opened a new document to build her resumé.
She stared at the empty document.
Mom, what would you do?
Her heating hummed in the silence. Nothing came to her. If only her mom could guide her.
Frustrated, she avoided the task by doing something else.
With her mind still on her mom, Emmy decided to search for Mitchell Augustine again.
She typed in his name, along with the search term “designer,” to see if she could find the same person from her last query.
Sure enough, he popped up, along with a slew of articles.
She clicked one of them that touted an exclusive about his childhood and scanned the article.
Apparently, he was filthy rich growing up.
His great-great-grandfather was an early investor in the Spindletop oil discovery in Texas.
He took the money he’d earned and invested it in cattle ranching.
His grandsons got into real estate, partnering in luxury real estate ventures that led to personal relationships with investors.
It was Mitchell Augustine’s relationship with designers across the globe that lit a fire and began his career in design.
So if he was a designer, why would he hire Emmy’s mother to design a dress for his wife? Oh! It was a wedding dress. He couldn’t see the bride. Did that mean her mom had designed a dress for the wife of an uber-wealthy man? Her mother had serious chops if another designer chose her for the task.
Emmy read on.
Today, the Augustines owned a compound of sprawling estates along the coast of Rhode Island, where a young Mitchell had attended elite private schools and excelled at equestrian sports.
He was the black sheep of his family, abandoning his heritage in business for the arts, something his father greatly disapproved of originally.
Emmy clicked another link.
His work profile came up. Then, she noticed he had a personal website.
She clicked it and bit her lip, her gaze landing on the “Contact” link at the top of the page.
Her fingertip hovered over the mouse and, in a moment of spontaneity, she clicked it.
A form popped up on her screen. Should she reach out to him? What would she ask him?
She filled in her name and email address, and then typed the following message as it came to her:
Hello Mr. Augustine,
I’m the daughter of Anne Fairchild. I found your name on one of her illustrations, and I wanted to reach out to see if you knew her well. I’d love to hear back from you.
All the best,
Emmy Brewer
Just then, her phone pinged with a text, startling her. Her heart skipped when she saw it was Charlie.
How did the chat with your boss go?
Emmy set the phone onto the table, folded her arms, and dropped her forehead onto them. What in the world would she say?