Southern Charm by Tinsley Mortimer Read Free Book Online

own RSVP list for one of RVPR’s most important launch events, which was both exciting and terrifying at the same time. Oh, and did I mention the event was happening that night? Gulp.
    â€œOh gosh,” I said, jumping up from my desk. I could practically feel Ruth taking another breath in order to project my name through the loft. “Coming!” I shouted. “Coming, Ruth! So sorry!”
    I scampered through the loft in my patent-leather Mary Jane Louboutins, already sad and scuffed from the constant back-and-forth. I could only take tiny steps in my black Theory pencil skirt, and my starchy white blouse was tucked in so tightly I could barely turn my upper body. The only hint of color in my outfit was a large Kenneth Jay Lane statement necklace made up of a cluster of red and orange brooches. Emily had declared that this was the perfect New York career girl outfit, but I thought I looked more like a cater waitress with great taste in costume jewelry.
    â€œMinty, Jesus, you’ve got to get your ass here faster. My office is like twenty feet away.”
    Ruth liked to exaggerate. Spencer had actually measured the distance between Ruth’s office and her assistant’s desk, and it was closer to three hundred feet, or one hundred yards. So my constant back-and-forth was nicknamed the “hundred-yard dash,” which was funny to everyone in the office but me.
    According to office lore, Ruth purposely positioned her assistant’s desk on the opposite side of the loft so everyone could watch whatever poor soul it happened to be that year (or, sometimes, that month )running back and forth, desperately trying to please her. “We’ve got less than four fucking hours to get our shit together on this Hermès launch and I haven’t had a guest-list update from you since”—she paused, looking at her watch—“since something like almost a half hour ago.”
    She also liked to stress.
    â€œSo sorry, Ruth,” I said. “I was just going through several new additions and I was just about to—”
    â€œSave it,” she said. “I don’t need to know why you’re not getting me the information I need. I just need to know the information.”
    â€œOkay . . . ?” I said, staring back at her blankly.
    She stared back at me blankly in return.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œUm . . .” I pursed my lips together. Shit. What did she want from me? “Oh!” I exclaimed, my hands covering my mouth. “One minute!”
    I scampered back across the loft to retrieve the updated list. As I perched over my computer and pulled up the Excel sheet, my mind raced. I tried to skim through my e-mails. I knew there were several changes I still had to make, but there was no time! I could sense Ruth’s mouth opening and beginning to form the word . . .
    â€œMintyyyyyy!”
    â€œComing!” I yelled.
    Spencer looked up at me and frowned as I tiny-step sprinted back down the hallway.
    â€œWhere is it?” Ruth growled.
    I handed over the guest list. I knew very little about what was going on that evening. I knew that we were throwing a party for a new Hermès scarf at the boutique uptown. I knew that this scarf featured some sort of drawing commissioned by an up-and-coming designer and that the collaboration was supposed to be very “cutting-edge” for the brand and would help get a lot of “buzz.” Ruth used the word “buzz” a lot, as if getting buzz was the most important thing in the world. When I mentioned this to Spencer, he said, “Minty, for a publicist, getting buzz is the most important thing in the world.” And then he shook his head and walked away.
    According to Ruth, this “buzz” would then turn into press, which meant articles in magazines and newspapers, mentions on TV shows, write-ups on the most important blogs, tweets, and such. This, in a nutshell, was Ruth’s job. This was the