by Lee Winter
It was ridiculous, this no-talking thing, because her boss was sitting right there. Within easy earshot. Instead, Elena gave Maddie a wall of silence.
Her wardrobe critique, both mocking and cool, remained in Maddie’s ears for the rest of the day.
Emulate a professional whose look you actually like? Fine.
The following day Maddie sauntered into work wearing her own version of an H.G. Wells vest. Plus chunky boots. She’d given the fob watch a miss, because she wasn’t that derivative, but her message was clear.
All morning she waited for a reaction. No new work decrees pinged from Elena, who had been in and out of the office without a word or look, so Maddie was bored. She adjusted the photo of her family on the desk, along with one of her goofing around with Simon. She spun around on her chair a few times when no one was looking. Rummaged around her desk. Dug up something called The PA’s Unofficial Handbook with a note on the front to read this VERY carefully. A few folded papers were wedged inside. They contained a list of names of some sort. Weird. And where did she know the name Frank Harkness from, anyway? She noticed some notes in the margin. She started in dismay when she realised what the list meant. Just then, the outer door banged open.
Elena came striding in, so Maddie thrust the handbook and its hidden list back in her drawer to study later. She sat up straighter, hoping she wasn’t looking too eager, as she waited for a comment on her outfit. How would Elena take her clear imitation? She waited. And waited.
Elena passed her, glanced at her, and didn’t say a word.
Three hours later, Elena stopped at her desk and studied her new look properly. Finally, she nodded. “Where are my budget reports from the Kensington Group? I should have had them on my desk an hour ago.”
And that was that.
* * *
Over the next few months, little changed. Maddie fetched cups of tea, made calls, took notes at meetings, picked up samples, memorised the unofficial handbook and its sobering details, and traded witticisms with Perry. She even picked up a little about how fashion worked. It was entirely unintentional, but she couldn’t unknow it now.
Maddie had tried to work on her second vow, but she spent so much effort being the consummate PA that she’d had no time to write anything beyond scribbled memos and food orders. Some nights, she sat at home, staring at the wall, trying to write but too exhausted to tap out anything beyond her name. She told herself she was looking for a new job, a real job, even though she had made no effort to do so.
She didn’t even have the creative outlet of her Aliens of New York blog anymore. Jason, the single dad who’d loved it, had taken over for her. That seemed fair, since he was actually in New York. But it meant Maddie often stared at the walls, robbed of words, wondering what had happened to her writing dreams.
Her thoughts drifted to where they usually did. She tried very hard to forget the woman she’d once known. It helped in some ways that Elena was direct, cool, boss-like, and shared nothing. Well, almost nothing. Because no one was an empty void. And Maddie always noticed the small, subtle things most people missed. As hard as she tried not to see, she saw them. It made keeping her last vow more taxing than ever. Maddie didn’t like to dwell on what it meant. It shouldn’t be this hard to ignore a boss who had gutted her old paper and fired everyone. It shouldn’t be this hard to pretend she wasn’t human.
But the struggle was getting worse. For instance, she tried hard not to notice whenever she heard a low, deep laugh from a certain corner office.
She also knew she definitely shouldn’t notice whenever Elena wore her H.G. outfit. Maddie shouldn’t be mesmerised by the way the black pants stretched across the woman’s tight, shapely ass, the pull of the vest at her waist and breasts, the crisp, white shirt that was always opened three buttons, revealing a hint of cleavage, not to mention the jaunty boots and the swing in her hips as she moved.
Noticing things like this wasn’t an isolated incident. But it didn’t mean a thing. How could it? Because Maddie was the consummate professional, and her boss barely even acknowledged her existence.
* * *
Simon dropped by on the weekend, looking about as smitten as a man could get. Caroline had seemingly moved from “playing it by ear” to “can’t take my eyes off her”.
“I wonder when it changed?” He looked puzzled. “How did Caro go from regular girl to most fascinating girl in human history in five minutes? How does that even work?”
Maddie didn’t have an answer but spent the next two hours patiently feeding him pizza and beer while he listed the woman’s many virtues, some considerably more shallow than others. His puzzled comment stuck with her, though. When had it changed for her?
After three sleepless nights in a row, Maddie decided she blamed the red dress. Garnet dress. The one that had stopped time when Elena tried it on for Perry in her New York office. That had been the moment. Ground zero. Ever since then, she had been hyperaware of everything about Elena. The way she ran her fingers through her hair when she was tired, the way she tapped a pen against her lips. Maddie had dismissed it as a simple attraction at the time. Chemistry. Her boss was stunning; Maddie had eyes. So what? It meant nothing.
But now she was aware of her and aware of her own awareness. Elena was all she could think about. She worked close to the woman, all day, every day. With the barest movement of her head, she could look right at her. So, she took advantage of this, often. Far too often. Maddie had finally come to an unfortunate conclusion—she wanted her boss.
The worst part was that it wasn’t just chemistry. Try as she might, she couldn’t crush the kernel inside her that cared for Elena. She wanted her to be happy. She wanted to connect with her again the way they used to. Wanted to see her throw back her head in laughter. Or in ecstasy. That thought thrilled her. It was a fantasy that sent shivers through Maddie. God, how she wanted her in every way imaginable.
It was insane, feeling this way, even knowing what Elena really was like. Driven and focused, she only cared about her business. And, at the moment, business meant her baby, Style Sydney. A fashion magazine that careless executives had somehow allowed to dive in circulation.
The first meeting with Style Sydney’s management team after Elena touched down was seared in Maddie’s brain. Elena had laid down the law with a pointed, furious speech about how the glossy mag had drifted from its passionate, core base of fashion readers into more mainstream topics that the now fired editor-in-chief had more interest in. But as pretty as luxury cars and Sydney Harbour real estate could be, and despite the expensive, $50,000, full-page ads they brought in, the topics had led their audience to abandon them for a more fashion-focused magazine.
This, apparently, was the reason for most of Elena’s wrath. Because the nearest rival the readers were bailing to was CQ, the same magazine Elena had left under a mysterious cloud.
So far, all Maddie had found out about that, while getting to know Perry, was that Elena had been groomed to be editor of CQ. Instead, Emmanuelle Lecoq had won the top role and become the most famous name in fashion-editing circles.
And now, in Sydney at least, the magazine that Elena had set up to crush CQ was losing readers to it by the thousands. The war drums were being pounded. Elena was in battle mode. And in spite of every feeble, internal protest, Maddie found it a thrilling sight. Her boss could stride in and own a room like no one else.
Australian Fashion Week was coming up, and Elena had demanded a splash so big that the world, not just Sydney, would notice that her pet publication was a premium fashion magazine.
“Madeleine,” Elena called softly.
“Yes, Elena?” She dashed into the office, with a notebook and pen poised.
“She’s coming. It’s confirmed.” Elena’s eyes were bright, and she was almost vibrating with energy.
“Oh-kay.”
“Véronique Duchamp,” Elena said, sounding impatient, “has confirmed as the headline designer, opening for Australian Fashion Week. So this
is it.” She rapped a fingernail on her desk. “We need her. This is the answer to our sales slide. Style Sydney needs an exclusive interview with her.”
“Okay.” That didn’t sound so hard. She could call Lucy in Editorial and tell her to…
“Madeleine!”
She stopped scribbling and looked up.
Elena shook her head as though she were dim-witted. “Véronique is a prickly designer who has granted no one an interview in thirty years. Thirty. Years. And yet her fashion has been world leading for almost all that time.”
Maddie frowned. This was far more than a little problem to solve.
“Such an interview would be a game changer for us.” Elena tapped her chin with her index finger. “We need to get her attention. We need to stand out from the rivals. CQ will also be trying every trick in the book to get their own exclusive. They’ve been desperate for an interview for decades. That must not happen.” She grimaced. “Lecoq will be coming for Australian Fashion Week this year, now that Véronique’s confirmed she’ll be here.”
“Oh.” Maddie wrote furiously, a little surprised Elena had even said the woman’s name. She usually avoided it. “How do you propose we…?”
“Flowers. She loves them. Send so many that even Véronique can’t ignore them. Something expensive—send them to her home in Paris. Martine will know the address.” She waved her hand. “Make it happen.”
Maddie scurried off, musing over the odd look in Elena’s eyes. Funnily enough, it constituted the happiest she had ever seen her boss. Her killer instinct was being stoked. It was…irritatingly attractive.
After returning to her desk, Maddie emailed Martine for Véronique’s address and then called up the site of the French floral boutique that Bartell Corp had an account with. A soft ping announced Martine’s reply. Maddie opened the incoming email and copied out the address. She flicked back to her online cart and pasted in the address, as she remembered how thrilled Elena looked. Post-orgasmic even. The thought made her swallow.
She caught herself. This was so bad. Maddie was crushing on her boss. A boss who treated her like every other PA she’d ever had. To Elena, Maddie was clearly just a pair of arms for fetching tea or proofs. Sighing, she stabbed, over and over, the nine button on the Nombre nécessaire box on her flower order.
Despite how pathetic she felt about her secret desires, Maddie hadn’t been able to tear her eyes off her boss. Since Elena had fired Style Sydney’s editor-in-chief, Jana Macy, she was now filling in, doing Macy’s job herself on top of everything else. It was fascinating to watch her shift in focus to fashion—as well as trying to save something, rather than shutting it down. Perry was right. Elena was born for fashion. The corporate raiding and empire building was just a numbers game she liked to win. But here, in the cut and thrust of a style magazine, actually running it, hands on, Elena Bartell came alive.
There seemed to be nothing Elena didn’t know about the process. From the designers to the layouts, she was across all of it, and the staff at Style Sydney knew it. They snapped to attention when she lifted the bar with her incisive demands. There was no faking her expertise. Among her Style staff she was a goddess.
When they gushed about her, her ideas, her genius, Maddie would say nothing. What did she know about fashion? She spent a lot of time nodding. Every now and then, Elena would enter the room and catch her glazed expression while the staff was discussing “peplum inspiration” or “material viscosity”. Elena’s look always contained equal parts of amusement and mockery.
It was hard to let go of that nagging voice telling Maddie that maybe all of this was Elena toying with her, and she was playing a long game Maddie hadn’t yet figured out. And yet, just when her distrust had reached its peak of paranoia, she found two emails while cleaning out and sorting Elena’s secondary email account.
Dear Ms/Mr E.B., Your donation of $10,000 is making a difference. Campaign: Ramel Brooks Lawyer Fund. Thank you.
The next email, issued less than two minutes later, announced that the Ramel Brooks Lawyer Fund had reached, and exceeded, its target amount. It was dated the day Elena had fired Maddie. She stared at the email for a good five minutes. Gratitude washed over her. Her boss had transformed the young man’s life. Any quality lawyer could crush the prosecution’s feeble case, so Ramel would be off to college as planned. He’d even have plenty of money left over for textbooks.
Yet no one would ever know who did this.
That donation wasn’t a unique event, either. Maddie had so far stumbled across paperwork for anonymous donations to a women’s shelter, a Polish inner-city community centre and its youth basketball team, and a receipt for bail money to free a group of transgender activists in North Carolina who’d been arrested protesting prohibitive bathroom laws.
If that wasn’t unexpected enough, there was the incident last week. On Maddie’s birthday, a cupcake was sitting on her desk when she arrived at work. Red velvet. No card. No note. Just that. It looked eerily familiar. She sniffed it. Oh. No wonder. She smiled and made a call.
“Hi, Mum, I just wanted to thank—”
“Darling! Happy birthday! I was just going to call to check you’re still coming over tonight. Simon will be here and your brother, too. I’ll be cooking that Moroccan dish you love. And my famous sponge for your cake. Yes?”
“Definitely.” Maddie was drooling all over her desk. “I mean if I get out of work on time.”
“Pssh, don’t worry about that. You will.”
Maddie stared at her phone in confusion. Then she remembered her reason for calling. “Thanks for the cupcake. Red velvet—my fave! Looks as delicious as ever.”
“Don’t thank me, I just took the order.”
“What?”
“Of course we don’t normally take orders for a single cupcake, but when she said who it was for, well, you’re a special case. Your brother dropped it off on the way through. Chris had to go into the city anyway.”
“Um, she who?” Maddie felt baffled by the entire conversation. “Who ordered it?”
“Your boss, of course. Didn’t she say? She rang to find out your preferred cake and order it for your birthday.”
Maddie was definitely hearing things. “Elena? Elena Bartell ordered this? For me, personally? And she knows it’s my birthday? I never told her.”
“Oh yes. And she knew—wouldn’t it be in your file or something? Anyway, she obviously appreciates you, and she sounded lovely. We talked a little bit. Bonded over dogs, of all things. You know how I love rare breeds. She has a Cirneco dell’Etna, did you know that? I’d love to see it one day.”
“Dogs.”
“Anyway, I explained tonight’s plans for you, and she promised not to keep you. She said she’d make sure you’d be free. So, seven?”
“Free.”
“Maddie, focus, darling. Seven? I hate to rush, but I have the Fredericks luncheon to prep for.”
“Sure.” She’d felt light-headed. “Seven.”
“All right, then. Until tonight. Bye, honey.” Click.
Maddie looked at her phone, the cupcake, and then over at Elena. She scrambled shakily to her feet and walked to Elena’s desk until she was staring at the impassive face of her boss.
Elena didn’t look up. “Problem?”
“No. I just… I wanted to say…for the cupcake. Thanks!”
“Mm. Consider it payback.”
“Payback?”
“I did appreciate many of your evening offerings.” Elena glanced up, her gaze half-lidded. She nudged a pile of folders across her desk. “These need filing.”
Maddie returned to her desk, arms overflowing, trying to understand what had just happened. Had Elena actually made mention of their time together in New York? That was a first. She hadn’t been any closer to figuring out what it all meant when, at six on the dot, Elena called her in.
“Go home,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You’re chewing the lid of your pen too loudly, and it’s ruining my concentration. So go. No
w.”
Maddie hadn’t been using her pen.
Which was in her drawer.
And had no lid.
Such discoveries were both endearing and maddening. One moment Elena was a shark who shredded whole companies; the next she was the wry, smart, occasionally thoughtful woman Maddie had caught glimpses of in New York. Elena Bartell defied definition. She was impossible to pin down.
A blush warmed Maddie’s cheeks, as she imagined pinning the woman down in a very different way. She shook her head in annoyance and forced herself to focus on the work at hand. This, this…crush…would soon pass, and she could get on with life.
She hit Enter on her order for flowers and then winced at how high the total cost was. Oh well, Elena had wanted that Duchamp woman’s attention. She’d certainly get it for that price.
CHAPTER 11
The Truth Bet
Elena Bartell was not a woman who liked to be denied. Which was why when Véronique Duchamp not only rejected Elena’s floral tributes but denied her an interview on the grounds that journalists were all lowly cafards, Maddie slammed on her metaphoric hard hat.
“Cafards!” Elena hissed as she spun her chair away from the window and raked Maddie with a cold glare that lowered the temperature at least ten degrees. “She calls me a cockroach!”
“Well, to be fair, uh, Elena, she calls everyone that,” Maddie said in her most reasonable tone. “All of us. All journalists.”
“Us?” Elena eyed Maddie with deliberate care, voice silky.
Uh-oh. She was in a worse mood than Maddie had thought. “Yes.” She lifted her chin.
“Mm.” Elena spun her chair back to the window. “I tried to get an interview with that woman when I was a junior writer at CQ, and then off and on over the years since. This year, I thought, maybe, because there are succession talks. Her daughter may be taking over. Véronique will want to explain the changes and how they affect her dynasty. I sent a roomful of flowers on that ungrateful creature’s sixtieth birthday. Now this! Cafards!”