The Agency (37 page)

I didn’t have to wait long. Two minutes later, my phone rang. Hello, Dad, it’s your failure of a daughter here. When I checked the caller ID, however, I didn’t recognize the number. I made a mental note of the newspapers that hadn’t checked in yet to dance on the grave of Tess Drake and wondered which one was calling now.

“Drake Media Agency,” I answered the phone, like I was sitting in my corner office. “This is Tess Drake.”

“Wow, the lady herself. You’re a tough person to reach.”

I didn’t have a clue who this man was.

“Sorry,” I said. “Busy day.”

“Sure, okay. So how are you?”

“I’m having the most miserable day of my godforsaken life, and I’m sitting here in the pouring rain like an idiot,” I said.

Okay, no, I didn’t say that.

“I’m just great,” I said, because that’s what you say when people ask.

“Fantastic. Terrific. Listen, you were right.”

“Of course, I was,” I said.

He laughed. It was a breezy, attractive, familiar laugh. “Cool. I like you, Tess. I like your attitude. So what’s it going to take?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the film rights. What are you looking for? Normally, I’d have Felicia get the conversation started, but it sounds like the two of you aren’t exactly the best of friends. That’s okay. I love her, but the woman can be a chore sometimes. So I thought I’d call you myself.”

“Felicia?”

“Felicia Castro. My agent.”

I had a little stroke.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

He laughed again. “It’s Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Right. Remember, we met in New York?”

“Tom.”

“You got it.”

“Tom, could you hang on for just one second?”

“Sure.”

I squeezed the phone against my palm so there was no chance of anyone on the other end hearing anything at all, and then I shouted loud enough that I’m pretty sure they could hear me in Piccadilly Circus.
“Holy shit!”

I came back on the line, cool and calm. “So, Tom, you read
Singularity
.”

“I did. It blew my mind.”

“I knew it would. I was worried that Felicia snatched the book away from you.”

“She did, but that just made me more curious. So do you have a number in mind for the film rights?”

“I do,” I said.

I was thinking about five hundred thousand dollars, but you always let the other guy go first.

“Well, I was thinking an even million,” Tom said. “How does that sound?”

“Pounds or dollars?”

“Let’s say pounds.”

“Let’s say one point five million,” I told him.

He laughed again. “That guy in New York was right about you. You’ve got balls.”

“One point five million pounds is a bargain, Tom. You’ll never regret it.”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll make it work. I want to meet this Oliver Howard, you know.”

“I think that can be arranged,” I said.

“Can you be civil enough with Felicia to work out the rest of the details with her?”

“I’m the soul of restraint.”

“Yeah, I bet you are. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Felicia to retract the claws. I’m in London next month, so tell Oliver dinner’s on me. You come along, too, okay?”

“It’s a date.”

“See you later, Tess.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

And that was that.

Some deals are done over coffee. Or wine. Or at a funeral. Some are done in the rain in Hyde Park. Anyway, I may have lost Dorothy and her pandas, but I still have one client. And one big deal. The Drake Media Agency wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.

I wondered how Oliver was going to react to the idea that I was about to make him a millionaire. And that the publishers who had turned down
Duopoly
were about to open up their wallets and start begging me for the rights.

Like I said, this is what I do.

Okay, I know it’s just a start. I’ve climbed one rung back from the bottom, and I have a long way to go. Knowing me, there are probably
a thousand new ways I can screw up my life tomorrow. Put me in a fur coat, and point me at the next disaster. But not today. Today, I have a new job and a new boss.

Me.

I called Emma. She could barely get the words out of her mouth.

“Did he reach you? Did he reach you? Did he reach you?”

“He did.”

Emma screamed. A full-throated, high-pitched scream. “AAAAGGGHHHH!”

“Listen,” I said, cutting her off. “What I said before still goes. You’re better off staying where you are. Okay? I’m telling you to stay put and not do anything stupid like me.”

“Right.”

“We’re clear about that, okay? Stay put.”

“Right.”

“Good. Because I can probably scrape together enough to pay you for three months, but it would be crazy to give up what you’ve got for an agent with practically no clients and a reputation for fondling breasts in public.”

“I’m in.”

“I said no.”

“I’m in.”

“You’re not listening to me, Emma.”

“I’m in.”

“Then get the hell out of that fucking place and come meet me at my office,” I told her.

“Where is that?”

“I’m on a bench in Hyde Park.”

“It’s raining,” Emma protested.

“Didn’t I tell you not to take this job? Now come on, get over here.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up.

Now I had a client, a deal, and an assistant.

Good thing, too, because there’s a lot to do. My day’s just starting. I have to call Oliver. I have to get back on the phone with his
original publisher and launch a reprint of
Singularity
. I’ve got to get them on the hook for a multibook follow-up deal, too. Six figures per book, minimum. I’ve got to write a press release and run it by Cruise and start feeding it to the entertainment media. I’ve got to nail down the details with Felicia and get the deal signed.

Oh, and there’s a little debt I owe to Lowell. I have to call my Burberry-wearing, greasy chip–eating detective, Nicholas Hadley. Tell him to track down Jane Parmenter and stick one of his cotton swabs in
her
mouth. He just might find some interesting DNA if he can get past all that Botox.

So sorry, I can’t sit around here talking to you. The agency is up and running. I’ve got to start knocking on doors and drumming up new clients. It’s not like there’s a slow day in this business.

Now you know.

This is my life.