Southern Charm by Tinsley Mortimer Read Free Book Online Page A

job of RVPR as a whole. Because buzz turning into press often turned into sales, and the bottom line for any company was, well, the bottom line . Ruth was very proud that our efforts contributed to the bottom line.
    I only kind of grasped all of this, but the pace at RVPR was fast, and I had a feeling that if I didn’t “get it,” there would be no one holding my hand to make sure I was okay. So I opted for an approach I’d learned as an eager-to-please child: “Be cute and quick about it.” In other words, you may not feel comfortable or prepared or even willing, but always put your best game face on and forge ahead or you’ll be left in the dust.
    â€œAll right,” Ruth said, “let’s get going. The car is here, yes?”
    The car . . . the car.
    â€œOh! God. Ruth!” I felt like my stomach was turning three somersaults. “I totally forgot. Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I stood there. Like an idiot.
    â€œJesus Christ,” Ruth said, stomping over to her coatrack and grabbing one of the most gorgeous camel Max Mara cashmere coats I had ever seen. She threw it over her shoulders like it was a raggedy old sweater and motioned for me to start moving toward the door. “We’ll grab a cab. Get your things and make sure you have a clipboard.” She turned to face the office as I scurried toward my desk. “People!” she bellowed over the tops of the cubicles. “This is Hermès . I need your A-game. And I needed it yesterday.”
    She turned dramatically and stomped toward the elevator. I met her there, out of breath and overwhelmed but smiling. The elevator door opened and we were off.

    T he Hermès store on Sixty-second and Madison Avenue smelled like money. There is no other way to describe it. I guess if I were forcedto break it down, I would say it smelled like a combination of leather, heavy brass hardware, and money. But mainly money.
    Walking in behind Ruth, who kept her sunglasses on indoors much longer than necessary, I felt cool and important by association. The salespeople rushed toward her and took her coat. One of them nodded in her direction and then scurried to the back of the store. No more than two seconds later, he emerged with a chic-looking woman who spoke in a French accent. He introduced her to Ruth as Virginie.
    â€œZee caterers ahr heeeere,” Virginie explained.
    Ruth nodded and flicked her finger in my direction with each bit of information. I stood to the side and jotted down notes.
    â€œWe are missing zee fleurs ahnd zee linens I dunno they are somewhere en route I am told,” Virginie continued, speaking so quickly that there were literally no breaths, no punctuation marks, between her thoughts. “All in all vee are not een such bad shape but vee are cutting eet close madame.”
    â€œI see,” Ruth responded, her exterior calm and collected. She glanced around the imposing space, filled to the brim with every single luxurious item you could possibly imagine: waitlisted Birkin bags, silk scarves so gorgeous they begged to be matted and framed, Collier de Chien bracelets stacked one upon another, nearly jumping onto my wrist and begging, Take me home!
    â€œWhy is the bar in the back corner, Virginie?”
    â€œNo clue,” Virginie said, waving her hand around. “You say better in zee front?”
    Ruth frowned. “Let’s put it over here.” She pointed at an area to the right of the stairs. “That way it’s away from the chaos of the scarf display but still central. The point is to keep the traffic flowing. You don’t want three hundred and fifty people beelining for the back of the store and ignoring Kevin’s work,” she said. “Still, you don’t want them so close when they take their first sip of rosé Moët that they’re spilling it all over his gorgeous designs.”
    There were so many details when it came to planning an event, all