The Agency (5 page)

That’s true.

“Yes, Guy has always nurtured the fantasy of being an author himself,” I said. “It killed him when he couldn’t even publish a bit of genre fluff. I think on some level he hates Dorothy and those pandas.”

“Don’t you?” Oliver asked, smiling.

“Oh, Dorothy is a bit of odd, but she’s all right. Look, you never know where lightning is going to strike. I learned that long ago. Quality has nothing to do with success or failure.
Singularity
should have been at the top of the bestseller list—you know that.”

“Perhaps I should sign up to be James Patterson’s next coauthor,” he said.

I gagged.

“Anyway, what are you going to do?” he asked me. “Are you going to whisk off to Brighton with Guy for a weekend of corpulent passion?”

“Of course not.”

“Or slip him some of your commission money under the table?”

“Oh, please. You know I would never do that. It’s wrong.”

“It’s a little late to be fretting over your ethics, Tessie.”

“What do you mean?”

Oliver shrugged. “Well, you’ve already crossed to the dark side, haven’t you? You’re trying to hide Dorothy’s deal so you can steal it away from the evil witch Cosima.”

I was defensive. “Dorothy is my client. I’ve put in all the work on her deals and not seen a penny from the millions in royalties the agency has made on her. I’ll be damned if Cosima takes it all away from me again.”

Oliver waved his empty whiskey glass at the waitress and ignored my frown. He lit up again. We were seated at an outside patio table in a French restaurant near Westminster. The MPs all went here. Half a dozen backbenchers waved to me, because they knew my father. Everyone here lived under the cone of silence. You made sure you didn’t listen to the conversations around you, and whenever someone from the
Sun
called for a reservation, the tables were always full.

Oliver’s cigarette made me want to smoke again. I quit years
ago, but you never really quit, do you? You’re just one fag away from inviting Satan inside your house again. With the stress I felt now, I had a good job not ripping the cigarette out of Oliver’s hand and taking a long drag.

“I’m not saying I blame you,” he said. “Cosima is the scariest bitch I’ve ever met. She oozes all that treacle at you while she’s sharpening the scissors to cut off your balls. I’m sure her first order of business will be to ask why you haven’t dropped a loser client like me who’s wasting your time and not paying the bills.”

I didn’t say anything. Oliver was dead right.

“So believe me, Tessie,” he continued, “I’ll be the first to cheer when you tell Cosima to shove the Bardwright Agency up her arse and go out on your own. More power to you. But you know—and I know—there’s only one right thing to do in this situation.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“Close the deal with Guy, and then walk away.”

I stared at him. “Walk away?”

“Leave it with Bardwright. Forget about it.”

I put down my glass of wine. I thought for a moment I might have stepped over into Oliver’s
Singularity
universe. When I looked around, however, I was still in London, and there were no mutant reptiles lurking in doorways, sporting forked tongues and Scarlett Johansson’s breasts.

“That’s the scotch talking, Oliver,” I said. “I am not walking away from one and a half million pounds. Are you totally bonkers?”

“It’s not yours.”

“The hell it’s not. My client, my deal, my negotiations.”

“Except you have an employment contract with the agency that says otherwise. Right?”

“Fuck the contract.”

Oliver shook his head. “I know you, Tessie. You are better than them. You won’t sell your soul. Even for a million pounds. You don’t have it in you.”

“I’m not sure you know me at all. Don’t you understand? That deal gives me the cash I need to launch the agency. Without that, what the hell do I have?”

Oliver shrugged. “True enough. I know that you’re not going to pay your bills with the commissions you get on my lavish royalties.”

“I’m sorry. You know what I mean.”

“I do, but think about it, Tessie. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I think you just described it.”

“Okay, so you give up more cash than I’m ever likely to see in my lifetime. That’s a huge hit. I’m not denying it. But look at the big picture. You still have Dorothy. You’ve got the TV and movie rights to sell. Cosima may have three books, but you’ll have everything else that goes along with those fucking pandas. That’s enough to get a line of credit from a bank if you need it, right? What’s more, you’ll have played it the way you always play it. With integrity, class, and an arse as hard as titanium.”

I laughed. “You smoothie.”

“Besides, it’s a moot point if Guy spills the beans, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So there you go.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Oliver,” I told him. “I really do. I just don’t have the moral fiber to ignore a seven-figure payout that is rightfully mine.”

“Just tell me you haven’t changed your mind about shagging Monsieur Droste-Chambers.”

“No. I think Guy is bluffing. When it comes right down to it, I think he’d rather deal with me than Cosima. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Just remember what I said. You may think it’s the end of the world if you lose this deal, but it’s not. Believe me, I’ve been close enough to the end of the world to see it from where I was, and it has nothing to do with million-pound deals. The only thing that matters is whether you are true to yourself.”

Damn him. I work so hard to keep a suit of armor around me, and Oliver has this annoying habit of knowing how to prick me so I bleed. I swirled the wine in my glass and didn’t say anything. I felt guilty, because he was doing his best to help me, and all I could
seem to do for him was pony up a deal worth eight hundred stinking euros from the Czech Republic.

He read my mind. “I suppose you haven’t heard anything about
Duopoly
in the UK? Or did they say no and you’re sparing my feelings?”

“There’s no word yet, but I’m not giving up,” I assured him. “If your current publisher won’t bite, then we’ll shop it elsewhere. Don’t worry. We’ll do a deal. Keep writing.”

I tried to sound optimistic. He could see through me.

“I’m not concerned,” he said. “Now that we have the Czechs on board for
Singularity,
the Poles can’t be far behind, right? Soon I’ll be up to my balls in kolaches and pierogi. In fact, maybe I should skip writing in English altogether and switch to something in Cyrillic. I like languages that have lots of accent marks. We’re missing something in English without them.”

That was the cynical Oliver. “It’s going to happen, darling,” I said. “Trust me.”

I hoped I wouldn’t have to eat my words.

“What about Tom Cruise?” he asked. “Any chance of him signing onto a movie deal? If it would help, I’ll become a Scientologist.”

“I’ve been in touch with Felicia Castro. She’s the way in to Tom.”

“And?”

“We’re still talking.”

Oliver blew a cloud of smoke at me. “Don’t treat me like a child, Tessie.”

“All right, Felicia called me a cunt and said I had a better chance of bearing Tom’s love child than getting the book in his hands.”

“In other words, I’m fucked.”

“No, I’ll find a way around her.”

Oliver nodded. If he doubted me, he was kind enough not to show it. I knew that I was his only hope. No other agent would touch him, not with the dismal track record of
Singularity
.

The waitress brought the check, which I paid. Oliver had ordered a steak and chips and hoovered up the whole thing. I wondered how often he had a decent meal.

“Here,” I said, sliding a small envelope across the table.

“What the hell is this?”

“Call it an advance on my commission.” I had put one hundred pounds inside the envelope.

Oliver pushed it away. “Forget it.”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking noble, darling.”

He shook his head. “You’re sweet, Tessie. Really, you are. But, like I told you, once you compromise your principles, you lose yourself. I can’t do that.”

“This is not a compromise. This is a loan.”

“It’s welfare.”

“Oh, fine, you stubborn arse.” I took the envelope back.

We both stood up. As I leaned forward, Oliver had a good look at the girls spilling forward in my blouse. Oliver looked at them with detached interest. He was gay.

“Are those for Darcy?” he asked me without a smile.

I nodded.

“You still haven’t told me who he is,” he said.

I haven’t told anyone except Emma.

“Believe me, Oliver, you don’t want to know.”

I took a cab from Westminster to Piccadilly and had the driver let me out in front of the Athenaeum. I tried to put all thoughts of Guy, Dorothy, and Cosima out of my head, so that I could focus on the night ahead. Darcy and I don’t see each other often. One night of horny passion every few weeks was the most I could hope for. Even so, I was falling for him. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough.

My father keeps an apartment in Mayfair that he uses during the week. He’s usually there only to sleep and eat breakfast; otherwise, he is at the newspaper’s offices every other minute of his life. On the weekends, he takes the train west to his farm in Somerset, and I have a standing invitation to use the flat for whatever rendezvous I may need to satisfy my desires. My father knows me and knows I’m my mother’s daughter. That is where Darcy and I have been meeting for the past year.

All I wanted tonight was to freshen my makeup, dab on Jo Malone, open a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Rosé Brut, and allow myself to be ravished. Unfortunately, nothing is as easy as it seems.

As I walked from Piccadilly up Down Street toward the inner circle of Mayfair, I passed a small Italian bistro on my left. Candlelight. Trendy pizzas. Very romantic. I glanced idly through the window and couldn’t help but notice Guy Droste-Chambers sitting alone at a table on the far wall. Guy is difficult to miss. He was staring into a bell-shaped glass of red wine.

I felt a twinge of regret for this lonely, middle-aged man, despite the games he had tried to play with me. Then I saw a woman emerge from the ladies’ toilet and join him at the table. That was when I realized there was already another glass of red wine at the place setting opposite Guy. He wasn’t alone.

I saw who it was.

My heart left my chest and went running for the Tube. My breath was stolen away. The woman with Guy was the last person on earth I wanted to see with him.

No, not even Cosima.

Her name was Saleema Azah. She was a literary agent in New York. Once upon a time, going all the way back to college, she was my best friend. Now she was a self-declared enemy. We had done battle over clients for the last five years. She was my alter ego. My evil twin.

I moved on quickly along the sidewalk before they noticed me outside, but my mind was spinning.

For all I know, it was an innocent dinner, and it had nothing to do with me. Saleema had clients in the UK. No doubt Guy was the editor for some of her authors. But you know what they say about being paranoid: That doesn’t mean they’re not after you.

I suddenly heard Oliver’s voice in my head.

What’s the worst that can happen?

MY NEMESIS
.

I first met Saleema in New York when I was doing a term abroad at NYU, studying English and film. I had a hankering for saag paneer on a Tuesday night and found a restaurant called Bengal Star in the East Village. Saleema was there, too, and I recognized her from a class we were both taking on the films of Scorsese. We sat together, shared nan and pilau rice, and struck up a friendship. My favorite was
Taxi Driver
. Hers was
Goodfellas
.

Saleema is DDG—drop dead gorgeous. She has jet-black hair, wavy and full, that hangs halfway down her body. A tiny frame, never more than a hundred pounds. Thick eyebrows and huge brown eyes. A skin tone like cappuccino. After twenty years, she still seems ageless.

Back then, she wanted to be an actress, and I was majoring in wine and marijuana. We both took the long way around to our careers. She made it into a couple of indie films, largely based on her willingness to flash her nipples and supple arse for the camera,
while I played around with journalism and publishing. Her acting career peaked with a role as a murderous computer programmer in an episode of
Law & Order
. It’s still not easy to make it as a minority woman in acting, and she decided to quit rather than eke out a modest living playing bit parts. Saleema was already in New York, and she had an English degree and a PalmPilot full of contacts in the movie and TV biz. With that background, and looks to die for, she had the makings of a great agent.

I made my way down the same path by coincidence, and so we found ourselves a few years after we first met in similar jobs on opposite sides of the Atlantic. Still friends. I made trips to New York a couple of times a year, and Saleema made an annual spring pilgrimage to the London Book Fair. We always got together for dinner. I stayed at her place. She stayed at mine. We were both good at our jobs, and we both had a solid roster of clients. She’s been with the Robinson Foote Agency for nine years, and she complains about it as much as I complain about Bardwright. In a different universe, we might have opened our own transatlantic agency in the wake of Lowell’s death, because we were as close as two attractive women can be.