The Agency (32 page)

I wondered if we could pull it off. It sounds like the smoothest, easiest option when you’re in the moment. But tomorrow has a way of making you miss what you thought you had.

Was I disappointed? Right then and there, no. It sounds selfish, but I had other things on my mind. Having Darcy in my life, the way we had been a few days ago, was just fine. I didn’t have it in me to love any more than that right now, and obviously, neither did he.

I guess you can turn the clock back for the cost of a fur coat.

“Are you naked under it?” he asked, teasing me. The old Darcy.

“Give me five seconds,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

Like a magician, I turned my back and extracted myself from my dress, leaving behind the heels and pearls. I twirled. Played the coquette and gave him a peek. He liked what he saw. His hands snaked inside.

Soon the coat was extraneous, a soft, expensive pile at our feet.

As we entwined on the sofa, I realized I was lying to myself. I loved him. It hurt my soul how much I loved him. But I didn’t say it this time. Not when we were sated. Not when we finished the bottle of wine. Not when we made love again in the hotel bed. Not when we spooned in the aftermath and began drifting to sleep. I wanted to say it, because I wanted to see if he would say it back. But I didn’t ruin the moment. You don’t have to talk to me about making the same mistake twice. I kept my mouth shut.

That was okay. We had time. Time to work our way back to where we had already been. Time for me to dive past the craziness of the past few weeks and of the weeks to come. Time to see where our hearts would lead us, although for me, I already knew.

Something felt different inside me for the first time in a very, very long time. I was serene. Confident. Happy. I stared through bleary eyes at the clock by the bedside and saw that it was a minute past midnight. My life had changed. No more worries about Lowell. No more worries about David Milton. Nothing but the future.

There are days when your world comes together like the pieces in a puzzle, your sins vanish, your opportunities flourish, your enemies drop away, and you put the bad things in your life behind yourself as if you were turning the page in a book.

There are days like that.

Unfortunately, as I was about to discover, this was not one of those days.

MY TÊTE-À-TIT WITH JANE PARMENTER
landed the two of us on the home page of TMZ .com by morning. They chose a particularly unflattering photo of yours truly, with my furry white arm groping Jane’s breast and my mouth wide open as if I meant to bend over and suckle on her discreetly pixilated nipple. The headline read, “Brit Film Gala Reveals ‘Breast of Show’.”

Nice.

It was bad enough that Jane’s errant dress strap had made me the butt of bad jokes in Hollywood, but the rest of the media world was laughing, too. When I surfed over to the
Bookseller
Web site, there I was again. Openmouthed, fondling. Ditto for
Hello!
and the
Telegraph.
Rebekah Wade of the
Sun
left me a voice mail in such snorting hysterics that she probably needed oxygen.

Needless to say, word of my encounter raced throughout the industry with all the speed and prickly discomfort of an STD. When I arrived at the office, Emma smothered a giggle as she said, “Good morning.” Several people applauded my arrival. My colleagues,
displaying their usual tact and sensitivity, had enlarged the TMZ photo and taped a five-by-three-foot poster to my door. My mouth was the size of a grapefruit. Jane’s breasts looked like basketballs. I smiled through gritted teeth, left the poster where it was, and went inside and closed my door.

Emma followed me. Her face was deadpan. “Do I have to worry about you moving in on my girlfriend?”

“Do I look like I find this funny?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. Really. I was concerned when Jane didn’t come back to my place after the party, but then I saw why this morning. What on earth happened?”

“Watch for yourself. The whole thing is on YouTube.”

“Oh, I know. I saw it. They were running video on the BBC this morning.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said.

Emma winced. “Um, no.”

I felt an urge to shoot someone.

Emma sat down and leaned across my desk. She whispered even though the door was closed. “Is today the day? Are you doing it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s brilliant!”

“Well, the timing could be a whole lot better, thanks to last night’s little traffic accident with Jane’s D cup.”

I could see the news reports on my press release now. Tess Drake, last seen feeling up a starlet’s naked boob at the BFI party, announced today that she was accepting clients for her new entertainment agency.

“Oh, no, it’s perfect!” Emma assured me. “Everyone will know who you are.”

“The Breast-Dressed Girl in London?” I suggested sourly. That was the photo caption on the
OK!
magazine Web site.

Emma lectured me with a wag of her index finger. “Tess, you know as well as I do that bad publicity is just as helpful as good publicity. Maybe more. Who cares how many boob jokes they make as long as people remember you?”

I groaned, but I knew that she was right. I had given the same
counsel over the years to clients sued for trashing hotel rooms, clients arrested with transvestite hookers, and clients caught in amateur videos of their Caribbean sex romps. Being infamous is the same as being famous in today’s gossip-hungry world. Even so, it’s a lot easier to give the advice than it is to get it.

“How do you feel?” Emma asked. “About launching the agency, I mean.”

“Like I could throw up,” I said honestly.

I didn’t really care about the tabloid trash, which was just a bit of fluff that would be pushed aside by the next celebrity scoop. By the end of the day, Amy Winehouse would be back in rehab, or Angelina Jolie would have adopted nine more children. If anything, worrying about my debut as a lesbian porn star kept my mind off what I was about to do. In fifteen minutes, I would march into Cosima’s office and say sayonara to the Bardwright Agency. Au revoir to ten years of my life. I had been test-driving snappy ways to drop the bomb on the bus ride across the city. Hasta la vista, baby. Good-bye and good luck. Feel free to kiss my arse as I go.

Beneath the bravado, though, I was a jittery wreck. You can dream about the joys of being free, but it’s not so easy when you’re ten thousand feet up and the ground below looks really small. I wanted it to be over. Say the word, pack my bags, and start my new life. Let Cosima tell me what a terrible mistake I was making and then go ahead and make it anyway.

“How was last night with Darcy?” Emma asked. “Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“God, you must have felt so sexy in that coat!”

“I didn’t wear it long,” I admitted.

Emma giggled. “Was it fabulous?”

“Fabulous but strange,” I said.

“Strange? How so?”

“Strange like it’s not just a game anymore. It’s real between us.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

Darcy was gone again when I woke up. No note. It didn’t bother
me, because I knew the score. I could love him and sleep with him, as long as I didn’t expect anything more. That had been our arrangement from the start. So why did some part of me scream that I was a whore in a fur coat? I loved the man and wanted to say so again and again. I wanted to hear him say it back. I wanted to marry him.

God almighty, did I really just think that? What’s wrong with me today?

I heard fingernails tapping on my door. Marty Goodacre, Cosima’s faithful basset hound, poked his head inside. His brown teeth grinned at me. Coffee sloshed over the top of a mug clutched in his nervous hand.

“Lovely photo, Tess,” he chirped.

“Fuck off, Marty. What do you want?”

“It’s time for your one-on-one with Cosima,” he reminded me cheerily. “She’s expecting you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Well, don’t be late—it’s a busy day. I’ve been ringing up reporters all morning for a press conference at noon.”

“Press conference? About what?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy!” Marty sang in a high-pitched voice.

I remembered Guy telling me about rumors of an earthquake at Bardwright, and I didn’t like that the ground was already shaking and I still had no idea what was going on. It also worried me that Marty seemed insufferably pleased with himself. The tittering that normally followed each of his sentences was louder than usual.

“Did Cosima sign a new film rights deal with Sony?” I asked. “Is that what you’re announcing? I saw her talking up the suits on Saturday night.”

“Film deal? Oh, no, it’s bigger than that, much bigger.” Titter, titter.

“Just keep the reporters away from me, okay? I’m in a pissy mood.”

“How is that different from your mood on any other day?” he asked.

“Good-bye, Marty.”

“Remember, Cosima needs to see you right away.”

“Instantaneously,” I said.

“Honk, honk!” he cried, squeezing the photo of Jane’s breast like it was the rubber bulb on a bicycle horn. He shut the door.

“What an arsehole,” Emma murmured with a shiver.

I didn’t care about Marty, but I did want to know what this press conference was about.

“What’s the big secret?” I asked Emma. “Have you heard any buzz around the office?”

“Not a word. Cosima must be keeping this on a short lead.”

I frowned. It made me think Cosima knew what was coming—me quitting, taking Dorothy with me, going for a big splash in the press. She had obviously ginned up some announcement of her own to steal the news from me. I wondered what it was, but it didn’t really matter. She could have the headlines today. Tomorrow would be my story.

“My insides are water,” I said, standing up. “How bad is it to leak shit on the floor when you’re resigning?”

“You are too funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

I wasn’t, either. I wondered if I had time to hit the loo before I made the march to the corner office.

“This is your moment, Tess. Really it is. I’m so excited for you.”

Emma leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as I steadied myself with both palms on the top of my desk. I breathed in and out until I was calm but dizzy. Emma held the door open for me, and I squared my shoulders and headed for the hallway, wobbling on my heels. I skipped the loo and squeezed my arse cheeks closed. This wasn’t going to take long. How many words does it really take to say I quit?

I walked gingerly, not wanting to fall on my face. Remnants of my morning eggs and toast burped into my mouth, and I swallowed them back down. I could feel my deodorant dissolving into sticky white balls. My nose began to run. I was a portrait of self-confidence.

I wondered how Cosima would react to my big farewell. Maybe she would offer to double my salary. Maybe she would break down and cry and beg me to stay.

Or maybe not.

Her door was closed. From where I stood, I could see Marty, who watched me with a smirk from inside his office. I ignored him. He was number two on the list of things I wouldn’t miss around here. Number one was behind the door.

I knocked and heard Cosima’s voice, cool and aristocratic. “Come in, Tess.”

I went inside and closed the door behind me. Cosima’s desk was stretched diagonally across the corner of the office with two windows behind her overlooking the National Gallery. She sat with her head down, red pen in hand as she pretended to edit a contract. I shuffled my feet and studied the photographs all over the walls. Cosima with Ian Rankin. Cosima with Gordon Brown. Cosima with Jamie Oliver. Cosima with Keira Knightley. Cosima’s expression was identical in every photo, as if she were molded out of Madame Tussaud’s wax. Maybe that was what they used in plastic surgery these days.

“Have a seat,” Cosima said, not looking up. Her reading glasses were balanced on the pointed tip of her nose. Her hair looked particularly black today, as if she had spent the weekend having the dye freshened at her salon. She twirled the pen in her hands, and I saw the painted nails of a new manicure, too.

The desk surface was so smooth I could see myself coming closer. She had objets d’art on the desk and on the window ledge. Romanian crystal. Asian jade. Native American wood carvings. I clung to the back of one of the guest chairs and decided to stand.

“I want you to know this isn’t personal,” I told her. “This is about me, not you.”

Cosima ignored me as if I hadn’t said anything. I chose my next words carefully, because I wanted to get them exactly right. I’d been dreaming about this moment for a long time.

I’ve decided to start my own agency. I’m resigning.

I’m giving you my notice.

I’m going out on my own.

I quit, you bitch.

As it turned out, none of those was quite appropriate for what happened next.

Cosima put down her pen and took off her glasses. She closed the manila folder in front of her and pushed it neatly aside. When she leaned forward, her fingers formed a little church steeple.

“How ironic,” she said. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”