“New York’s not squeaky clean,” Jules snapped before she could stop herself. Dammit. But what did Vivian expect when she went around insulting people’s hometowns? True, Jules had been ready to get out of there when she did. Still, there was a difference between criticizing Philly when you were from Philly and criticizing it because you lived in the oh-so-superior New York City.

To Jules’s surprised relief, instead of chastising her for sass, Vivian only said, “No, it’s not.” She turned to look back out the window. Jules thanked her lucky stars for her narrow escape, but then Vivian abruptly spoke again.

“I grew up in Ohio,” she said. “Outside of Toledo.”

Jules sat silently, shocked.

“I guess that’s even worse,” Vivian added with a derisive little chuckle.

“Do…do you ever go back?” Jules asked.

“No.” The reply came with such finality that the subject was clearly closed. Still, it was more than Jules had ever expected to get out of her. About anything.

In fact, it was more than anybody got. Vivian had a Wikipedia page. Jules had scoured it before applying to work at Du Jour. There hadn’t been anything about her childhood or family, and she never gave interviews that included personal information. But she was telling Jules?

Okay, she told herself as her palms sweated. It’s okay, it’s not weird, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut. Like she knows you will.

So Vivian Carlisle, high-and-mighty queen of New York City, had started out as an Ohio girl. The greatest tastemaker in fashion had risen from Middle America. Judging from the look of it, she was overcompensating like hell too. If you thought about it for a little bit, it was funny; if you thought about it for longer, it was sad; if you thought about it for too long, your head hurt, so Jules stopped thinking right away.

She ventured, “Well, I’ve never been to London.” There. Conversational gambit attempted.

“You will,” Vivian said, still looking out her window.

Jules managed a smile. That had been a pretty nice response, actually. “Yeah. Someday.”

“I mean, you will,” Vivian said, and Jules could imagine her rolling her eyes. “For London Fashion Week.”

“Oh.” Jules’s cheeks flamed. “Right. Of course.” Dummy. How could she have forgotten?

Then she did some quick mental math. London’s spring fashion week was at the end of February this year. The Du Jour hotel accommodations were already booked, as was the Charles Street townhouse, and there wasn’t much else Jules could do until they were closer to the actual trip.

The end of February. Vivian would be more than four months along. Would she be showing by then? What the heck was she going to wear? Did Alaïa even make a maternity line?