it's a thankless job

“Mel bell, honey! He has shit on me – even if he doesn’t have credit now, do you think that won’t earn him some? I’m the fucking face of this shit heap city!” 

Melody is a delicate, angelic little soul, which is something that defies Charity’s very nature and makes her, sometimes, intolerable to the demanding woman. She’s too sweet, too well assuming; now she’s trying to brush the threat of one of the fuckwits at the paper spreading gossip because she’d rather spare Charity’s feelings and wallet. Which, while agitating, is a trait Charity admires. But only in her assistant – likely because of her pretty face, though the other woman will be damned if that’s ever something she admits to. Still, she feels guilty almost as soon as she snaps, and pouting, she lays back in her recliner. 

“Sorry I snapped, darlin’. But shit – you’re too nice to me.”

She’s hardly phased as Charity begins to go off -- it’s happened before, and after years on the job, Melody’s grown used to it. She knows that her boss means well, even if Charity doesn’t always show it, exactly. Her expression hardly even budges as she sits across from the older woman, hands folded in her lap. 

“Exactly -- you are the face of this city. People already love you, no one if going to listen to a guy ramble his conspiracy theories in a think piece. You’ve earned that!”

So ... tonight isn’t technically a night of freedom. Charity is on the job, which means Melody is still at her beck and call, not that she’s complaining. Without her boss, Melody can’t imagine she would even be at this event, the least that she can do is help Charity out in turn. She’s on a bit of a pause, after fetching a drink for the older woman. Sometimes, the smallest things in life are the best, and sitting down and quietly sipping a glass of champagne, taking in the sight of the party, is one of them; “isn’t this amazing?” She asks the first person that sits next to her, “I’ve never been to anything like it.”

A huff, Charity rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. It was proving the be amateur hour down at the paper, and everyone seemed to pick her as the saving grace. Or better yet, the target of their frustration. “Can you believe the shit that little cunt at the paper is spewing about me?” she snapped at the one person she allowed to hear such language, her personal assistant. “It’s just damn lies – … all filthy gossip.” It wasn’t – well, most of it wasn’t. “You think I’m gonna need a PR person? Doin’ damage control?”

@melodybertrand | CLOSED STARTER