Four days later, Jules was buried under more résumés than she knew what to do with. Human Resources’ software had supposedly weeded out the weakest ones and given Jules the cream of the crop. She wasn’t sure how creamy they were, but some pretty big names had made it to the top of the slush pile: the sons and daughters of society people, kids with big trust funds and bigger expectations in life. They were pursuing degrees in fashion design, art, philosophy—very rarely anything to do with publishing.

However, getting the right degree still didn’t mean you could do the job. The most important thing initially was to be the fastest draw in town in answering a phone and to possess self-esteem that could survive Du Jour dropping boulders on it every five minutes. That sort of experience didn’t show up on a résumé.

In the car one morning, watching Jules frantically scrolling through the applications, Vivian said, “Have you found any likely candidates?”

“Three so far.”

Vivian held out her hand. “Let me see.”

Jules handed over her tablet showing the résumé PDFs. Vivian took ten seconds to look at all three of them and tossed the device back into Jules’s lap. “No. Keep looking.”

The dismay was nearly impossible to hide. These had been her top picks. “Okay. Can you tell me what was wrong with these so I know what to avoid next time?”

Vivian leaned over and tapped on one image. “I hate her mother.” She tapped on the second. “Her mother hates me.” She tapped on the third. “A 3.87 grade point average.”

“She’s at Columbia,” Jules protested.

“Oh, that’s right.” Vivian’s voice turned syrupy. “I’d forgotten that Columbia is the only school in the country that doesn’t practice grade inflation. That 3.87 GPA is really a 3.5, and you know it.”

Jules scowled. “So what was my 4.0?”

“Don’t take this personally. By the time I hired you, you had qualifications that actually mattered.”

“Oh. Thanks?”

“They don’t have professional experience yet. All we’ve got to go on are academic records and extracurriculars. Don’t settle for less than the best. We can afford to be picky.”

At least that gave Jules one starting point: a pristine college transcript. But how the heck was she supposed to know about the other stuff? Vivian’s feuds and squabbles with the New York elite were notorious and ever changing.

Well, so were everyone else’s. Everybody who traveled in those circles swapped and dropped friends often, and they were all drama queens.

“Don’t let me down, Julia.”

Jules held back a sigh. No matter what, she dreaded disappointing Vivian more than almost anything. Making Vivian happy made her happy too.

She remembered more often than she cared to the sight of Vivian laughing on New Year’s Eve, relaxed and amused. She would give her right arm to see it again.