After ten minutes or so, she narrowed it down to an absurdly expensive clinic that offered what it called VIP treatment, where for a price you could get the whole office to yourself during your appointment. No other patients in the practice: just you, your doctor, and a nurse. Vivian would want that. Jules jotted down the number, made sure to close the browser, and hurried out of the receiving area with her cell phone. No need to be overheard.

The clinic receptionist was pleasant, soft-voiced, and helpful. Jules found herself almost wanting to burst into tears as she spoke to her, which was just ridiculous because it wasn’t her problem, wasn’t her embryo or her marriage, or anything other than her job. Her distress was so evident that Jules had to reassure the woman a few times that, no, the appointment wasn’t for her but for her boss.

“Okay,” the woman said, her voice still soothing and patient. “And you wanted the VIP arrangement?”

Jules’s heart was going quadruple time. “Yeah. That’s great. Thanks.”

“We’ve got her in the schedule. Let me stress: please be on time.”

“We will. Um, she will. Whichever.” Would Vivian want Jules along for this too? Jules tried to imagine sitting next to her in the waiting room. Her brain went blank. How would she…how did you even…

“One more thing: no children are allowed in the clinic. For obvious reasons.”

“Right,” Jules said, shaking herself back into reality. “Not a problem.”

“We’ll see her at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks. Bye.” Jules disconnected. Tomorrow at eight. She should cancel Vivian’s pedicure with Nanette.

Pedicure? What the hell was Jules thinking? She had to cancel everything. Vivian couldn’t possibly go into the office after that. She’d stay out for a couple of days, depending on what the doctor told her.

Did other personal assistants schedule their boss’s abortions? She’d never heard anyone talking about it during any fashion weeks.

The pregnancy care sheets Dr. Latchley had given her were resting safely in her laptop bag. Out of nowhere, she got a lump in her throat and had to fight back tears.

Not. Your. Problem. She told herself that for the thousandth time.

She left Du Jour at one thirty to go to Givenchy with Lucia, who was in charge of acquiring next season’s accessories for the website’s splash page. More than once, Simon had reminisced ruefully about the days when they’d only had to worry about changing things up once a month for a paper magazine. Now content had to evolve constantly. It provided the variety readers craved, but it also meant the Du Jour team was always on its toes.