Mimeomia

18 | craquelure

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CRAQUELURE

( — a network of fine cracks in the paint or varnish of a painting. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          "I'M GUESSING LUNCH WITH MAMA TATE DIDN'T GO AS PLANNED," Ginny states, when Michaela pushes open the door to their office with her hip, as her hands are busy carrying cardboard cups full of steaming hot coffee—exactly what she needs after the fiasco that was her lunch hour. Michaela scowls, setting a cup on Ginny's desk and another on Lennox before making her way towards her seat. "Yikes. What happened?"

          "Lincoln drama," Michaela replies, falling to her chair after setting the cup on her desk to prevent it from spilling. Ginny wrinkles her nose, tapping her pen against her planner. Sighing, Michaela finally looks at Lennox, who slouches on his chair, his long legs stretched in front of him. "There's also . . . what are they calling you two . . ."

          "Jennox," Ginny retorts, before Lennox can open his mouth, and Michaela quirks an eyebrow at the dreamy look plastered on her face. "It's all over social media and people are dying for more information. It even beats Kylie's pregnancy from last September."

          "I'm really happy about being compared to a pregnancy, so thanks for that," Lennox mutters, calmly sipping his coffee, and Michaela is glad they're shifting the focus away from her problems. Her phone is full of unanswered texts and missed calls, from both her parents, Roya, and Lincoln, but she turns it off and decides to ignore the device for the time being. "Besides, I don't know why people care."

          "I'm sure it has nothing to do with how famous Jillian is," Ginny continues, even though their lunch hour has already ended, and they should be getting back to work instead of gossiping, but the latter is all they ever do in this office, especially now that they're all talking to each other like regular people. "And plus, everyone knows you were there because you had a VIP invitation thanks to Mich"—Ginny gestures towards her—"and there's that photo of the two of you Mich posted to her Instagram on the night of the UD party, a few hours before you two . . . got it on. Jillian is also Mich's BFF . . . I can go on."

          Michaela sinks into her seat, flipping through the pages of the Vogue magazine she bought on her way back to the headquarters to avoid taking part in the conversation. Perhaps showing up at the office with it on her hand wasn't a good idea, and she received several accusatory glances on her way up, but, after the conversation she had with Yvonne and all its consequences, she couldn't let herself be bothered by what her coworkers were saying about her.

          She hates the petty drama and the competition unraveling within these four walls. When they publish something, they put on a smile and pretend they all love each other, that they're only here because they genuinely love their jobs, and everyone works perfectly as a team.

          Everyone knows that's a blatant lie. At the end of the day, all they care about is to be the best and present the best story possible to Old Howie while surviving the wrath of Blair. At the end of the day, they're only looking out for themselves and, deep down, Michaela can't really blame them for wanting to protect themselves and their work.

          ". . . she's leaving in, like, two weeks," Lennox says, setting his empty cup of coffee aside, while Michaela isn't even halfway through hers. Instead, she has been busy biting down on the plastic lid, staining it with red lipstick. "Even with all those things weighing in on the scale, I still don't understand why everyone is making such a big deal out of this when it's something that could have happened to anyone at that show. Like . . . you and Roya, for example. You two were pretty cozy whenever she wasn't stealing strawberries."