The Agency (14 page)

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone.

“Fuck!” I said in an extremely loud voice.

Let me see if I have this right. Yes, Dorothy was a close friend of Tom Milton. Yes, she read a children’s book he wrote and sent him a note saying she was sure it would be published. No, she has no recollection of what the book was about. Yes, Dorothy wrote her own children’s book after Tom died that has since made her millions of dollars.

I don’t see any problem, do you?

Nothing that could implode the career of my principal client just as I’m getting ready to launch my own agency?

I was not looking forward to meeting David Milton.

Of course, every crisis has a silver lining. If I’m on a plane to New York tomorrow afternoon, I can’t very well have lunch with Cosima after Lowell’s funeral. Not that I plan to tell her why.

On the other hand, if Sally somehow heard rumors on the street about Dorothy’s legal problems before I did, then something tells me that Cosima already knows.

I packed a small bag in my apartment that night. Emma booked my flight on Virgin to JFK and arranged one night at the St. Regis. I had a few more days in which I could bill the
Bardwright Agency for my expenses, so I figured I would make the most of it.

My morbid curiosity made me take a copy of
The Bamboo Garden
off the bookshelf in my bedroom and turn to the acknowledgments page at the back. Dorothy writes nine-hundred-page novels and ten-page acknowledgments, so it took me a while to find the reference to Tom Milton sandwiched between mentions of every employee and volunteer at humane societies and animal shelters in the Northeast. I didn’t like what I read:

I have to give special thanks to the late Tom Milton, who worked by my side in the Ithaca library for years and whose passion for children’s literature and writing matched my own. I believe that I am here in no small part because of Tom’s inspiration.

I suppose it could have been worse. She could have thanked him for writing the first draft of her book.

I dropped a paperback of Dorothy’s novel in my purse, along with a copy of Oliver Howard’s
Singularity,
which I wanted to reread on the plane as I considered my strategy in the wake of the latest rejection from Felicia Castro. It was still too early to go to bed, and I didn’t think I would sleep much tonight. So I poured myself a glass of sauvignon blanc and sat by the window in my living room, watching the nighttime traffic of pedestrians and black cabs on the street. I left the television, radio, and stereo off. I didn’t bother turning on any lights. I was in one of those moods where I could stare into nothingness for hours, and I could drink a lot.

It wasn’t Dorothy’s problems that had me upset. Or even the agency. If I were honest with myself—and that’s a dangerous precedent to set—I would have admitted that the real dread in my heart was because of Darcy. When I got home, I had the idea that there would be a message on my machine. Or an e-mail. Or a text. Or some word from Emma that she had heard from him. Instead, there was nothing. Silence. It’s been three days. I told him I loved
him and scared him out of my life, and the last thing I wanted was to see his face at the funeral tomorrow and watch him avert his eyes. To see him with his arm around Cosima’s shoulders.

All along, I have told myself that my problem is that I listen too much to the hormones originating from that swollen pink bud between my legs, but that’s a lie. The problem is that I let myself fall in love. I show the world a tough face and wear a suit of armor, but I’m afraid that everyone will see through the mask and realize that I am a mess of insecurities. When you are neurotic, you believe that you are the only one in the world who feels that way and everyone else you meet is supremely confident and deft in handling life and love. Which is stupid, I know. We all wear our disguises, and behind them, none of us is a superhero.

The phone rang, interrupting my peace and quiet and all my wallowing.

When I picked it up, I thought I would hear Darcy’s voice at last, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what he would say to me. I was fairly sure it would be one of the many variations of good-bye. Best to make a clean break before he saw my face again.

However, it was not Darcy, and my heart sank to a new low, like a bear market on the LSE.

“I hope I’m not calling too late,” Oliver Howard said.

I tried not to sound disappointed. “Not at all, darling. I was just sitting in the dark.”

“That’s not like you, Tessie.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

I felt stupid saying something like that to Oliver. I heard the rattle in his throat, like off-key music from his tar-soaked lungs. I thought about what he had endured in his life. Walking in on the bloody corpse of his mother. Servicing twitch-eyed freaks with his mouth. Falling down with broken-off needles still sticking out of his arm. He had treaded water in a well so deep and black that I prayed I would never know even a glimmer of his despair. It made my own problems seem shallow, and it made me feel guilty for letting my self-pity leak into my voice.

“Never mind me,” I added quickly. “How are you, darling?”

“Life goes on.”

“How about
Duopoly
?”

He gave me a sour laugh. “Sometimes I hate it so much that I can’t be in the same room with the manuscript.”

“You felt that way about
Singularity,
and it’s brilliant. Every writer hates his book at some point.” I felt as if I were trivializing his struggle, but I have never known how to help Oliver wrestle his demons. They are beyond me.

“Well, what does it matter?” he asked. “If I ever get it done, I suppose I’ll have to find a vanity press to publish it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Malcolm said no, didn’t he? He gave up his option?”

I winced. Oliver was always a step ahead of me. “Yes, I’m afraid so. But don’t worry, darling, he’s a fool. You’re better off without him, because he doesn’t know what to do with your books. I already have queries out to several other houses. Someone will pick it up.”

I hope that I sounded more optimistic than I felt.

“Emma tells me you talked to Felicia Castro again,” Oliver said.

“Felicia isn’t my biggest fan.” Not that there’s a lot of competition for that slot these days.

“Well, I appreciate your going into the lion’s den on my behalf.”

“Tom’s not the only actor in the world,” I reminded him.

“For this project? I think he is.”

“No, we need to forget about Felicia. I’m taking Tom, Katie, and Suri off my Christmas card list. I’ll work with a coagent in Hollywood and get the rights sold somewhere else.”

“
Singularity
was written for Cruise.”

“I know that, but I never thought Matt Damon could pull off Jason Bourne, and look how that turned out.”

“Maybe I’d have better luck if I were dead, like Ludlum.”

I get nervous when Oliver talks like that.

“Are you staying healthy, darling?” I asked him.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, as if I had walked into a room marked Private and felt everyone staring at me.

“You mean am I looking for an alley where I can get a hit? Is that what you want to know, Tessie?”

If Oliver wanted cocaine or heroin, it would take him thirty seconds to arrange a buy. The scary thing is that I know the next binge will kill him. It will be suicide. There is no middle ground, just the word “self-control” standing between him and the morgue.

“I know you wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I just want to make sure you’re eating something. Keeping the alcohol to a minimum. Swearing off the death sticks.”

“I love it that you think I have any willpower at all.”

“Don’t take it personally. I’m just protecting my nest egg.”

Oliver laughed until he coughed. “Pretend to be hard all you want, Tessie, but I know you’re a soft touch. You don’t have to worry, though, it will be our secret.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to tell me why you’re sitting in the dark?” he asked.

“I won’t bother you with my problems.”

“Darcy?”

“Yes, he’s the tip of the iceberg, but there’s plenty more ice under the water, darling. And I’m the
Titanic
sailing cheerily on with the band playing—you know the drill.”

“ ‘The Unsinkable Tess Drake.’ ”

“That’s me.”

“What about Guy and Dorothy and the rest of your messy life?”

“Still messy.”

“Are you going to Lowell’s funeral tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like some company? We could sit together and vent our sorrow.”

“You’re going, too?” I asked.

“I thought I’d pay my respects.”

“That’s kind of you, but you really don’t have to do that.”

“Lowell was decent to me, at least to my face,” Oliver said. “Besides, I find funerals strangely cathartic.”

“Shall we meet at the church?”

“Sure.”

A funeral date with a gay guy, I said aloud when Oliver hung up.

Believe it or not, this is an improvement in my social life.

LEAVE IT TO LOWELL
to book his funeral in advance at St. Bart’s the Great, an historic church in the City that dates all the way back to the days of William the Conqueror. Lowell arranged for the church to be used as a set in several films, which makes for a nice boost to the priory’s annual budget, so the rector owed him a place for his last good-bye. I like old churches, with all their stone-work and Middle Ages austerity. I wouldn’t have wanted to be around back then, but you have to admire the balls of those turn-of-the-first-century priests, who could extort alms from starving peasants in order to build temples of excess in the midst of absolute squalor.

Oliver, with his fists in his baggy black pants, shook his head as he contemplated the statuary. “Artists spent their whole lives carving these stones,” he mused. “I wonder if it’s worth complete and wretched misery while you’re alive to know that your work will survive this long.”

“No,” I told him.

“Oh, I don’t know. No one will be reading
Singularity
in a thousand years.”

“Trust me, it’s better if you get the fame and money while you’re around to enjoy it,” I said.

Oliver and I were among the first to arrive, because a funeral is like a sporting event where you want to get there early to get the best seats. It’s a see-and-be-seen kind of thing. We draped our raincoats over a pew facing the nave and then made our way toward the altar, where Lowell was waiting for us. The funeral was open casket. Mahogany frame, antique brass trim, bone white velvet.

Lowell was looking better than I’d seen him in some time. A little pasty, maybe, but dying makes you look trim. The tobacco smell was gone. His wild gray hair was combed and coiffed. He wore a Savile Row suit, black and very chic. If you think you might have to answer a few questions before they let you through the pearly gates, you want to look good for the interview.

He wore a red Hermès tie with diagonal yellow stripes. It was knotted firmly around his neck. His shirt had a high collar.

“You don’t suppose that’s the tie, do you?” I murmured.

“Tess,” Oliver chided me.

“Sorry.”

I was being sacrilegious, because funerals scare me. Dead people scare me, because they don’t look dead. Lowell could easily have opened his eyes, given me a wink, and asked me to climb on board for one last ride. I didn’t completely rule out the idea that he had staged his entire death just to scare the shit out of me at his funeral. That would have been just like Lowell.

But, no, he was gone. Peaceful and gone. As we all shall be. He would not bicker with me anymore over deals. He would not grope my arse at the Christmas party. He would not wave a manuscript in my face and shout, “This is bloody crap, Tess! Crap! Bilge-water!” He would not extol the virtues of the Cornish coast. He was done with his body, and it would do nothing but take up space underground.

I was surprised when Oliver looked at me and said, “You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not.”

Except when I touched my cheek, it was wet. I wiped the tears away. I’ve always believed that we cry at funerals for ourselves, like babies who are left alone.

“Scatter my ashes in the Thames when I go, will you?” I asked.

“Ditto,” Oliver said.

I patted the side of the casket with tentative fingers, and then we went back and took our seats and watched the parade. Everyone was there. The whole industry, like a Who’s Who of publishing, entertainment, and media. Good for Lowell. Lots of deals would be done right here in the church, and he’d love that. We shall miss him, the poor old sod, and did you happen to take a glance at that debut I sent you last week? I think I shall weep, but before I do, let’s say one hundred thousand quid, not seventy-five, okay?

Really, I can’t think of a better tribute to Lowell.

You see people you haven’t seen in years at funerals. The trouble is you can’t exactly get up, smile, hug, tell a joke, admire their clothes. Darling, how
are
you? You look fabulous! You have to be somber and occasionally flick your eyebrows up like a secret message. I nodded at Tina Brown and made a phone gesture with my hand—call me. I got a wink from Richard Madeley. A head shake from Alexandra at
Vogue,
who had seen me in the same black silk top once before. That’s a funeral fashion don’t.