The Agency (25 page)

“So I should hold off killing myself until your agency is well established?” he asked.

“That would be more convenient,” I agreed.

“Well, anything for you, Tessie.”

“Thank you.” We both laughed, and I added, “You know, you can talk to me about why. It doesn’t matter if I’m stupid and I don’t get it.”

“The ‘why’ isn’t really important. The only thing that matters is whether you do it or you don’t do it.”

“Don’t do it,” I said.

“I told you, the danger has passed for tonight. I wish I could tell you it would never come again, but chances are, it will.”

“If it does, don’t be alone. Call me.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Okay, but call me anyway.”

He kissed my forehead. “Poor Tessie, such a little girl lost. I like it better when you’re hard as nails.”

“I show you my vulnerable side, and this is what I get?”

“Give me your kick-arse side instead. That’s what I need. The don’t-fuck-with-me-I’m-Tess-Drake side.”

“Shut up, you bastard.”

“Ah, that’s better.”

I got off my knees. It’s not a place I like to be unless I’m, well, you know. And I don’t mean praying. “So tell me about
Duopoly,
” I said. “Are you blocked? Is that the problem?”

“Yes, I’m blocked, but that’s not the problem.”

“Are you afraid it’s no good?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid you can’t finish it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid I can’t sell it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s fabulous, you
will
finish it, and I
will
sell it.”

“Suddenly you ooze self-confidence again,” Oliver said.

“Don’t fuck with me, I’m Tess Drake.”

Now we were being silly. Joking. Teasing. But at least neither one of us was looking to kill ourselves. Oliver stood up and hugged me with surprising tenderness. He pushed away eventually but held on to both my hands.

“Can I tell you something, Tessie? In all seriousness?”

“Of course.”

“I know you’re scared for me, and scared for you, but there’s something you have to remember. If the worst thing you ever face is losing everything and starting over, you will lead a charmed life.”

SLEEP
.

Sleep, sleep, sleep.

I arrived home at nearly three in the morning, thanks to a cabdriver who showed no qualms at the thought of picking me up in the slummy section of King’s Cross. He was a veteran of the Afghan theater. There is very little that scares men like that, thank God. He took me out of the mean streets and through the City and across the river, and I closed my eyes and missed most of the drive. It was only the bump as he stopped in front of my building that woke me up.

I tipped him well. He deserved it.

My flat is above the Putney Exchange in a security building, with a view toward the Thames. Easy access to shopping, buses, Tube, etc. Parks nearby. 24/7 lobby guard. Arriving home in the middle of the night isn’t an unusual experience for me, so I like the idea of a locked door and a beefy man with a truncheon in the lobby. It is always the same man, an Indian named Samur
with a round face and arms the size of tree trunks. Samur moves as slowly as syrup, but he is unfailingly polite and helpful, and his cousin owns the best vindaloo house south of the river. I think I amuse Samur—a frantic woman coming and going at all hours, always on my mobile.

Not tonight, however. Tonight every footstep felt like lead, and the elevators, which were only ten yards away, taunted me from a distance. I wanted nothing other than to unlock my door, strip off my clothes, fall face-first into my pillow, and remain motionless for ten hours.

Samur waved at me. I nodded a greeting and looked at him through slitted eyes.

“Ms. Drake!”

“Hmm?”

“Ms. Drake! I have something for you!”

“Can I pick it up in the morning?”

“Oh, no, no, the man, he said to me, you must have it at once when you come into the building.”

The elevators were so close and yet so far. I shifted direction and shuffled to the guard’s desk. I expected an envelope. All my deliveries are envelopes. Contracts. Letters. Queries. Someone was sending me something to read and sign. I held out my hand for Samur to put the envelope in my palm.

He grinned at me—big grin, yellow teeth. He reached underneath his desk, squeezing his whole giant torso out of sight, and emerged with the largest rectangular box I had ever seen. It was wrapped in brown paper, and I could see my name neatly lettered on the outside.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“I do not know. But the man, he made me sign for it, and he said it is for you as soon as you return.”

“Who was the man? What did he look like?”

“Big man, very handsome.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you need me help you carry it?” Samur asked.

“Is it heavy?”

“Not so heavy but very big.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He maneuvered the box across the desk, and I took it in my arms. It wasn’t heavy, but it was like carrying a sandwich board in the wind. I shook it up and down out of curiosity. Whatever was inside didn’t move or give me any hints. I held it out and hunted for a return address, but there was nothing on the box but my name.

“You need help?” Samur asked.

“Thanks, no. Good night, Samur.”

“You sleep well, ma’am.”

“If I’m not awake in five or six days, come get me,” I said.

He grinned. I continued to amuse him. I navigated the remaining steps to the elevator and fitted myself and my box inside. I spent five floors leaning against the elevator wall, eyes closed, arms wrapped around my box, hypnotized by the hum of the motor. The doors opened, but I think I was asleep by then. They closed again. When they opened a second time, I peered around the edge of the box and discovered that I was back in the lobby. Samur looked across the tiled floor at me with the same grin he had given me when I left. I woke up and pushed the button again, and this time, I staggered out of the elevator on my floor and made it to my flat.

Inside, I had two choices. Open the box and go to bed. Go to bed and open the box. I chose the latter. I deposited the box on my kitchen table, took ninety seconds to brush my teeth and drain some of the liter of alcohol I had consumed, littered the bedroom floor with my damp clothes, and fell spread-eagled onto my blanket. It was heaven. I felt as if I had not seen my bed in weeks. I felt as if the next twelve hours were my birthday and Christmas rolled into one.

Except for one problem.

I was wide-awake.

My eyes popped open. It works that way sometimes. You’re dead on your feet, and then you’re on the rocket end of a quadruple espresso. I tossed and turned. I scrunched the pillow over my
head. I imagined I was flying with Peter Pan over the streets of London. Nothing worked. I was up.

I knew why, too. It was that damn box. Knowing it was there, unopened. If I ever hoped to sleep, I needed to know what was inside.

I got out of bed and wandered back into the kitchen and flipped on the light. I hadn’t even been in the dark long enough for my eyes to squint. I was naked, and the curtains were open, so theoretically there was a pervert insomniac with a telescope somewhere getting a view. Don’t get too aroused. I wasn’t at my best. Rain, sleep deprivation, alcohol, tears, and stress had worked a curse on my waning beauty. I was having a bad hair day. Bad makeup day. Bags under my eyes. Blanket wrinkles on my breasts. My legs needed a shave.

I grabbed a cleaver from a butcher block near my refrigerator and tore into the brown paper wrapping with the enthusiasm of a serial killer. Inside was, obviously, the box itself, surrounded by more wrapping paper, a ribbon, a pink bow, and a card. There are card-first, gift-second people, but I am not among them. I put the card and its mauve envelope aside and sliced and diced the ribbon and made short work of the metallic silver paper.

Finally, I reached the box itself, which was black. There was a name engraved in small type, as if the name on its own were enough to get my attention. Which it was. Julien Macdonald. If you are a woman in London, the name Julien Macdonald is enough to make your legs go weak and make your husband clutch his wallet. Julien is one of the catwalk glitterati, the kind of designer that A-listers turn to for nights in Cannes and LA. I probably don’t make enough money to afford the box, let alone whatever is in it.

I whisked off the lid like I was rubbing a magic lantern. My mouth fell open. I screamed loud enough for Samur to hear me five floors down. I stared into the box and wasn’t even sure I dared to touch the fur, which nestled inside on a bed of tissue paper, all white and mink, layered and deep. My eyes caressed fold after delicious fold. I was suddenly hungry for caviar, champagne, white truffles, single malts—anything that was decadent and expensive.
I put my fingertips near it, then pulled them back. When I couldn’t resist for another second, I buried my hands in it up to my elbows, and, oh dear Lord, it was the softest, richest, most supple, most lavish, most revoltingly beautiful thing I had ever put my fingers on. I lifted it up by the collar, and it was almost as tall as I was. It was a thing of royalty.

If I wasn’t already naked, I would have taken off my clothes. Because this is not a coat you put on to touch anything but bare skin. I didn’t even know if I had the courage to slip my arms inside. I rubbed it over myself like a cat rolling on catnip. I inhaled it. I stroked its sleeves. Then I spread it open and eased it over my shoulders, enveloped my arms in its soft tunnels, and closed the forest of fur around my torso. I became an entirely different person. Strangers crowded at the velvet rope to see me. Flashbulbs popped in my face.

Arriving now in the Julien Macdonald mink is London superagent Tess Drake.

She is a stunner, isn’t she, Judy?

Yes, she is, Richard. In that coat you have to wonder why she sells film rights when she should be starring in films herself.

Is that Tom Cruise walking her down the red carpet, Judy?

I believe it is, Richard. And who can blame him when Tess has a coat like that?

Although what’s with the skanky hair, Judy?

You’re right, Richard, she’s having a bad hair day.

And the bags under her eyes?

Yes, a bad makeup day, too. And you can see where the coat ends that her legs need a shave.

Okay, it didn’t take long for reality to set in, even in the midst of my fantasy. After pretending to be a princess for about ten seconds or so, I put the coat back in the box, dug expensive mink lint out of my navel, and reached for the card in the mauve envelope. Honestly, my mind wasn’t working at all. The only person I could think of with the money to send me something like this was my father, and he would be more likely to send me a signed first edition of Wedgy Benn’s diaries.

I recognized the handwriting inside, though, and the emotions I had spent the last several days trying to erase from my mind all came flooding back. I read what he had written and knew that I had begun to climb out of my cave into the sunlight again.

I SLEPT UNTIL NOON
on Saturday, the sleep of the angels, or at least of the angels who have an unbelievable fur coat.

I took a long, hot shower, washing away the grime and restoring my hair to its full rainbow-streaked beauty. I pulled on sweatpants and a roomy T-shirt. My head ached from the wine, but I took three aspirins to combat the hangover, and then I ate cold Chinese takeaway for lunch. I called Oliver to make sure he was still alive—he was—and then I checked in with Emma, who sounded as if she had just crawled out of bed with Jane to answer the phone. She told me she would deliver the box of papers from Dorothy’s old agent to my flat later in the day. She also asked if I had received her text—I hadn’t—and told me to check it right away. I heard a giggle in her voice.

When I checked my BlackBerry, I understood why. There was a message from Emma to go along with my Julien Macdonald:

DARCY CALLED! SUNDAY AT HILTON PARK LANE, 10 P.M.!

I felt a flush of anticipation, knowing my life was back on track. It was tinged with a little bit of guilt that I had fallen into bed with Evan after Lowell’s funeral, but a date with Darcy would make me forget all about that. Now if only I had something to wear, ha-ha.