44. Theatrics

Twelve days until the Gala. 

Twelve days to memorize all the potential guests, whether they’d RSVP-ed or not, and to make sure Lark memorizes them, too. Just in case. 

Twelve days doesn’t feel like nearly enough when I’m also coordinating all the planning for the event. 

“No,” I snap into the receiver. “That is not acceptable. How many times has Runway commissioned you for flowers? And how many times have we told you specifically no freesias?”

I tap my fingers impatiently on my desk as the associate on the other end babbles excuses. 

“No freesias,” I cut her off, impatience winning out. “If I have to tell you again, I’ll be recommending that Miranda get her flower arrangements elsewhere.”

The associate is still sputtering as I hang up. 

I take a precious second to rub my temples against an oncoming headache. Paris might be Miranda’s most important week of the year, but I’ll be lucky if this Gala doesn’t kill me first. 

“Floundering under the pressure? I can’t say I expected anything else.”

The British accent, dripping with its trademark condescension, has me lifting my head. I don’t bother to try and hide my smile. 

“Hey, Em. Long time no see.”

The redhead rolls her eyes, stepping in from the doorway. 

“Yes, well,” she clips. “Some of us are dreadfully busy. No time for idle chatter.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my desk, and my chin on my clasped hands. My smile morphs into a smirk. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’ve missed these games of ours. 

“Then I’m sure you have a very important reason for stopping by. If you want to see Miranda, I’m afraid you’ll have to schedule something.” 

Emily sneaks a quick glance toward Miranda’s office, the doors open wide. We can hear Miranda’s quick, decisive typing from here. 

“No, no,” she says. “No need to bother her on my account. If you must know, I came to see how the new you is settling in.” She turns to pierce Lark with a haughty stare. “Nearly two months and she hasn’t been sacked. That’s almost impressive. I suppose you’ve been holding her hand?” 

Lark, not at all intimidated, jumps up and scurries around her desk to stand in front of Emily. She throws her hand out, the gesture big enough to be seen from the last row of the Majestic Theatre. 

“Oh Andy’s been amazing! A great mentor, the best! She’s teaching me loads, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be as good as she is. It’s like she can read Miranda’s mind! I’m Lark, by the way. It’s so good to meet you!” 

Emily stares at Lark, slackjawed. She holds out her own hand, as if possessed, and Lark shakes it enthusiastically. The scene is like something out of a cartoon. Then again, it usually is when Lark is involved. 

“Yes. Well.” Emily manages to extract her hand from the death grip, and turns her back to her, facing me instead. “Speaking of surviving against all odds, your year is almost up, isn’t it? Which publication have you picked? Please don’t tell me it’s something boring, like the New Yorker. That would be just like you, wouldn’t it?”

Miranda’s typing slows in the other room, though it’s barely noticeable compared to Lark’s gasp of horror. 

“Andy! You’re leaving?!” she shrieks

“Shh!” Emily and I shush her at the same time. Our eyes lock, and we share a rare, barely there smile. 

Really, she isn’t so bad. 

I roll my eyes at both of them. 

“No, Lark, I’m not leaving. And no, Emily, I don’t have a publication ready. I told you months ago: I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Why would you say she’s leaving?” Lark has a hand pressed to her heart. “I think I had a mini heart attack! Is that as bad as a regular heart attack? Do I need to go to the hospital?”

I roll my eyes at Lark’s antics. “It’s just something they say. Survive a year here, and you can have your pick of the publishing world.”

“Oh it’s real enough,” Emily insists. “Rare, obviously, but it does happen.” 

“Sure, but not everyone leaves. You’ve been here over two years, so it’s not like I’m some kind of unicorn.”

Emily smirks at me. “Yes, but I’ve always been here for the fashion. I don’t care what makeover Nigel gave you, you made it bloody clear that this is just a stepping stone to ‘real’ writing for you. Honestly, maybe you would’ve been better off at Auto Universe. You’d definitely fit in better–”

“Emily.”

Emily moves instantly, all reflex and muscle memory. Lark takes a step toward the office, but stops, whipping her gaze to mine for an answer. 

I hold up a finger, signaling for her to wait. This is bound to be entertaining. 

“Yes, Miranda?” 

I strain to hear Miranda’s response. 

“Are you missing your old position? I suppose you’re bored in your new role.”

“N-no, Miranda, not at all–”

“That’s the only reason I can see for why you’re loitering outside my office, and sprinting in here when I didn’t call for you.”

“I’m sorry? But you said–”

“Emily,” Miranda calls again. 

This time, I gesture for Lark to go in there. There’s a weighted pause when she does. 

“Oh,” is all Emily whispers. 

“Three assistants might be an indulgence, especially with how efficiently things are run now, but if you’re really not satisfied in the Art Department, I’m sure we can arrange something. Though I’m not sure you’d keep up so well now.”

I wish I could see the look on Emily’s face as she stands there. Dumbstruck, no doubt. 

“That’s all.”

Emily hurries past me, and I have to hide my grin behind my tablet. 

“Andrea, get me Patrick.”

I dial the number from memory. 

“Yes, Miranda.”