The whole Admin team was currently mourning her in an impromptu gathering in Reception. CEO Phil Duvall was making one of his rare visits to Marketplace Tower, and when he sent out an office-wide blast that he’d be receiving in Reception, everyone felt entitled to abandon their work and flock around him like he was laying on hands or something. Barrett stayed in his office, door closed, and watched the proceedings on CCTV.

By all rights Duvall’s office should have been here in the Admin headquarters. Not only because he was CEO but because the accounting office was here, and Duvall was also the fucking CFO. But he preferred to maintain his office with the Creatives on Seventh Avenue and another one in Tours so he could liaise with Madame. He liked to dress like the Creatives, one day in a turtleneck and beret, another in a dashiki and gladiator sandals. Today, for his visit to the hinterlands, he wore a tweed jacket and a pair of voluminous plus fours, as if golfing in the twenties or shooting pheasants in Derbyshire.

Barrett watched the Ma Belle screen as Duvall swanned around the employees, doling out two-grip handshakes and pressing forehead to forehead as if he could ease their grief with the power of his touch. Now and then he pasted on a brave smile and posed for selfies. Introducing himself to everyone as Phillippe, when Barrett knew for a fact that the name on his birth certificate was Philip. He even sported a little French mustache with waxed tips, like he was some kind of maître d’. Most of the Admin employees recognized him for the phony he was, but they treated him like visiting royalty. He was their only living conduit to Madame de Martineau. She might preside over the board meetings by telephone (audio only; no video hookup—Vanity, thy name is former supermodel), but she otherwise saw no one, spoke to no one, except Duvall. He was her official gatekeeper. No one—including Barrett, much to his resentment—could speak to Madame directly. Everything had to be funneled through Duvall.

Rumor had it that they’d once been lovers—a rumor Duvall did nothing to dispel. If true, it made him the only man in history to sleep his way to the top. At least the only straight man. At any rate, it worked. He started out as an accountant for Madame’s fledging design firm. A decade ago, she made him CFO, and five years later she named him as her successor. Today he held the titles of president, CEO, and CFO, though they were titles in name and comp packages only. Everyone in Admin knew it was Barrett who was doing all the heavy lifting in this operation.

The video feed on his Ma Belle screen showed Duvall heading this way. Barrett must be the last whistle stop on the papal tour.

“Mr. Duvall’s here,” Marcia announced through the speaker as the office door swung in.

“Barry!” Duvall cried with a big shit-eating smile on his plump chinless face.