I Heart Paris. Lindsey Kelk

she’s only my assistant because of who her grandfather is. She’s been trying to get on the writing staff since she finished college, but even Bob knows she can’t write for shit.’

      ‘Oh. Wow. That’s awful.’

      ‘Don’t start feeling sorry for her Angela, she’s a bitch. And she’d get rid of you without a second thought if she thought she could take your job.’

      ‘Fair enough,’ I said, packing away any blossoming Cici-sympathy. ‘But then why would she recommend me for more projects?’

      ‘I keep waiting for her to lose interest and embrace her trust fund like her sister, but that girl just will not give up,’ Mary nodded towards Bob as he strode back towards the table. ‘I’d be impressed at her tenacity if she were working for anyone else, but me. And don’t be a fool. She didn’t, it was her cousin.’

      Bob took his seat opposite me as our starters arrived. The food looked delicious, but I really wasn’t very hungry any more.

      ‘Apologies ladies, I’ve asked my secretary to stop my calls for the next couple of hours, so I’m all yours,’ he said with another beaming smile.

      ‘What a relief,’ Mary replied, spearing a scallop.

      I looked nervously from one to the other, Bob’s benevolent grin clashing with Mary’s openly pissed off expression, and reached for the wine. Sod it.

      ‘Let me,’ Mary said, snatching the bottle from my hand and splashing a mouthful of wine in the bottom of my glass.

      This wasn’t going to be awkward at all.

      ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, Angela, but you have a great fan in one of my granddaughters,’ Bob finally got around to business over coffee. After Mary had refused dessert on behalf of both of us. Bugger.

      I blew on my cappuccino and smiled nervously. It was still far too hot for coffee, but this really didn’t feel like a Diet Coke kind of situation. ‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ I lied, hopefully convincingly.

      ‘Oh yes. And Mary speaks very, very highly of your writing.’

      ‘She does?’ No need to fake surprise this time. ‘You do?’

      ‘I do,’ Mary replied, grudgingly. ‘Your blog is very good.’

      ‘And the piece you did for Icon, I read that one, Angela. Very good. You have a fun style, very personable.’ Bob set down his coffee cup. ‘I understand from Mary that you’re only with us on a part-time basis at the moment. On a freelance arrangement?’

      ‘Well, I don’t work in the office,’ I explained, trying to read Mary’s face,, which she was hiding behind her poker straight bob. ‘But my work permit is tied to my writing the blog for The Look, so…’

      ‘We own her ass, Bob, so just get to where you’re going,’ Mary interrupted. ‘You’re taking her off me, is that right?’

      ‘Not at all,’ he shook his head and covered one of her hands with his. ‘You know I’d never tread on your toes. Although I do think it would be in Angela’s interests to spread her wings a little. Get a broader experience of Spencer Media. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Angela?’

      I bit my lip and nodded. I was worried that if I actually made a noise, Mary might throw her espresso in my face. And there might not be a lot of coffee in that cup, but it looked really hot.

      ‘Fantastic, maybe you could come in and meet the Belle team next week,’ Bob suggested. ‘Maybe think of a couple of ideas to bring to the meeting. I know Emilia is very keen to meet you.’

      Mary and I choked on our coffees in tandem. Emilia Kitt, editor of Belle magazine, Spencer Media’s fashion monthly, was notoriously not keen on meeting anyone. As in anyone. I had been in for a meeting with Mary a few weeks ago and saw Angelina Jolie waiting in the lobby. And she was still waiting when I left. For Emilia.

      ‘This is probably a really stupid thing to say, but I’m actually going to be in Paris next week,’ I said, not sure whether or not I was making a huge mistake. ‘From Monday. For a week.’

      ‘You are? Since when?’ Mary asked.

      ‘I only found out yesterday.’ I turned to give her my best ‘help me out’ face. Bob’s expression really hadn’t changed all through lunch so I had no idea what he was thinking. ‘It’s my boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday.’

      No one looked particularly impressed.

      ‘He’s in a band and they’ve been asked to play a festival in Paris.’

      Still not impressed. And now Bob was looking at me as if I were a groupie.

      ‘And I thought it would be really good for the blog. Didn’t the visitor numbers go up when I was in LA?’

      ‘Yes, but you were plastered all over the gossip pages when you were in LA,’ Mary reminded me, unnecessarily. ‘Are you planning on making an international spectacle of yourself in Paris?’

      ‘Wasn’t planning on it the first time, so who can say?’ I defended myself pathetically.

      ‘I think this all sounds great,’ Bob said, finally breaking the stony silence that had built up between me and Mary. ‘Emilia is planning a European issue in a couple of months. Perhaps you could put together an insider’s guide to Paris for Belle? Off the beaten track, show us all the underground hotspots?’

      ‘I could do that,’ I agreed slowly.

      ‘Then you’ll come in and meet the Belle team tomorrow.’ Bob suddenly got up from the table. ‘I’ll have Emilia’s assistant call you later today, Angela.’

      Mary stood up just as suddenly and, not knowing what else to do, I followed suit and accepted Bob’s overly dramatic air kisses.

      ‘Lovely to meet you, Angela, and Mary, always a pleasure.’ He smiled and walked over towards a long black town car that had just pulled up beside the restaurant. Mary sank back down into her chair and emptied her wine glass.

      ‘Cheap bastard didn’t even pick up the bill.’ Mary shook her head and pulled a huge wallet out of her even bigger bag. ‘Well, I hope you’re happy, Angela Clark.’

      ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ I asked, trying to work out what had just happened. And whether or not Mary was sleeping with Bob. Because she most definitely had been at some point.

      ‘Writing for Belle magazine is not going to be the same as writing a blog for me.’ She called over a waiter and passed him a black American Express card. ‘You’re going to need to know exactly what you’re doing.’

      ‘But I can do this, the travel guide to Paris,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fine. Won’t it?’

      ‘You know I like you, Angela,’ Mary said, putting her elaborate signature on to the credit card slip. ‘But if you fuck this one up, there’s no way I can help you. The girls on Belle are not the girls on The Look or Icon.’

      ‘But they want me to do this, don’t they?’ This did not sound promising. ‘I mean, it was their idea?’

      ‘It was Bob’s idea,’ Mary corrected me. ‘Worse, it was Bob’s granddaughter’s idea. Just, before you go in to the office, know that the girls on Belle make Cici look like a labradoodle. Each and every one of them has destroyed the career of someone else, or slept with at least three different married men to be there.’

      ‘They sound nice.’

      ‘Then I’m underselling what a pack of bitches they are.’ Mary tucked her wallet back into her bag. ‘They’re not going to love that you’re waltzing through the door with a Paris assignment without ever having so much as broken a nail at Fashion Week. Not that any of them have actually ever broken a nail in their lives. Unless it was to scratch