‘My mother suggested you,’ said Sean.
‘Your mum?’ said Tess incredulously.
‘Actually, she said I needed someone who will just sit there and look pretty.’
‘Well I’m flattered … ’ began Tess, ‘but … ’
‘No, that’s not why I asked you, actually.’
‘Oh.’
‘I need someone with brains. This is actually a very important dinner. It’s with Sir Raymond Greig, who’s opening a new retail paradise; we need to sweet–talk them to get Lupin into prime display space.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Tess, ‘and you’re worried that your usual kind of date might not reflect well on you in the intelligence department?’
She could hear the smile in his voice as he said: ‘They might not necessarily say the right things.’
She laughed.
‘Come on, Tess, you’d be doing me a massive favour.’
Tess shrugged. It never did any harm to have someone like Sean owing her favours, especially since her primary function as Asgill’s PR was to keep him under control. Plus, she was going to London anyway. She thought about it for a moment, then smiled.
‘First class, you say?’
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT
‘Please, Brooke, you’ve got to do something!’
Debs Asquith was standing in the doorway of Brooke’s office, her hands clasped together in front of her. Brooke’s friend and fellow commissioning editor looked so anxious, it was making her feel even more edgy.
‘Okay, so how long is he going to be in with Mimi?’ asked Brooke, drumming her manicured nails on the desk nervously.
‘He’s only here until twelve,’ said Debs, glancing at her watch. ‘He’s meeting Mimi, then he’s leaving. You can’t let him out of the building without this.’
She picked up a proof copy of Portico and waved it in front of Brooke’s face. Brooke chewed her lip. She was glad Debs was on her side. The two women had started at Yellow Door at the same time and they had quickly bonded over their mutual dislike of Mimi Hall and their frustrations with the way the rest of the company looked down on the children’s division. Even so, it wasn’t Debs who had to risk the wrath of Mimi Hall by trying to get to her contact. Mimi was currently meeting with Hollywood movie executive P. J. Abramski about any Yellow Door books that might be suitable film vehicles.
She looked at Debs anxiously. ‘Do you think she’ll give him Portico?’
‘Of course not,’ said Debs, her hands now on her hips. ‘She’s not called Me–Me for nothing. That woman is totally self–seeking. Mimi might be publisher of this division, but the only time she wants a film made from a Yellow Door book is if it’s one of hers.’
Debs popped her head out into the corridor and then jumped back into the room.
‘Quick! Quick!’ she hissed, flapping her hands, ‘Go! He’s just leaving Mimi’s office.’
Debs grabbed the proof and thrust it into Brooke’s hands. ‘Ambush him!’
The lift doors were just closing when Brooke’s hand shot through the gap, allowing her to jump inside. Suddenly she felt stupid and tongue–tied. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself. Mimi’s going to kill me.
‘Mr Abramski,’ said Brooke, her voice faltering. ‘You don’t know me, but I was wondering if you had a minute?’
The man favoured her with a hawkish smile. He was short and wiry and was wearing a sharp three–piece suit.
‘Of course I know you,’ he said pleasantly, ‘you’re Brooke Asgill. I was hoping I might bump into you, but Mimi said you were tied up in meetings.’
Brooke offered up a prayer of thanks to Page Six. She knew this situation had been made easier by being well known.
‘I’ll be quick, Mr Abramski, I’m sure you’re very busy,’ she said. ‘I have a book I think you might be interested in.’
‘What is it? Your life story?’
The lift pinged open and they crossed the lobby. For a short man, Abrams walked incredibly quickly, and Brooke struggled to keep up with him .
‘I guess I just missed my elevator pitch,’ she smiled.
He stopped and glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, I have lunch at the Cip in twenty–five. Want to join me for a drink at the bar?’
Brooke’s smile turned to a grin. ‘That sounds wonderful.’
P. J. Abramski was one of the most respected Hollywood scouts in the business. He was renowned for his knack of picking up ‘properties’ – magazine articles, books, even TV shows – that went on to become big box–office films. Once a year or so he came to Yellow Door to see if any editors had any new material and, obviously, every editor wanted their books to be made into a film. One recent Yellow Door book, an adult sci–fi thriller, had been made into a box–office–friendly Will Smith action movie, which had pushed the sales of the book over two million copies and had precipitated a run on the author’s otherwise unknown and unloved backlist. But Brooke knew it was a long shot. In her time working at Yellow Door, a handful of books had been optioned, but none had ever made it onto the big screen and, therefore, it had no impact on book sales.
Sitting at the bar, she could see a few people looking at her; no doubt wondering what she was doing in one of Manhattan’s sexiest restaurants with a man who clearly wasn’t her fiancé. If I ever thought of cheating, thought Brooke with amusement, the New York public would soon put a stop to it.
‘So you missed the elevator,’ smiled Abramski, ‘why don’t you give me the bar pitch?’ He must only have been about thirty, thought Brooke, but he had the shiny armour–plated confidence of someone ten years older.
Brooke took a deep breath. ‘Here’s the short version. A teenage girl works for her father’s magic show. She wakes up one morning to find that she has real magical powers and uses them to help solve mysteries and the dark forces behind them. Think Harry Potter meets Medium,’ she said quickly, pulling the description from the air.
‘Supernatural rather than fantasy?’ ‘Abramski pouted thoughtfully.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Fantasy equals expensive,’ he smiled. ‘Lots of CGI, flying about on wires, building models, and so on. Let’s just say teenage witches are cheaper, less risky.’
‘It’s such a gorgeous book,’ gushed Brooke, ‘so well written, with this beautiful romance spinning through it – and it’s genuinely really scary.’
Watching him grin at her enthusiasm, she took a breath and tried to focus herself into a Liz mind–set. Cool, measured, impossible not to take seriously. She thought for a moment, realizing that Hollywood wouldn’t care about how well written something was.
‘It’s a book that will appeal to both teenage girls and their mothers,’ Brooke said firmly. ‘It’s got very widespread appeal, and Yellow Door are going to market it as such. This book is going to be an international best–seller. This time next year, Eileen Dunne is going to be a brand. Option now before the price skyrockets,’ she said slowly.
That last line seemed to have impact.
‘In which case I’d better give it a read.’
He’d already asked for the bill and was waving to a tall blonde woman who had walked through the door.
‘My lunch appointment is here. Good luck with the wedding.’
‘Thanks for making time for me.’ She slid off her stool and grabbed her bag.
Mimi Hall was going to kill her.
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE
Tess dropped her holdall in the living room of her Prince of Wales Drive mansion flat and flopped onto the sofa. It all looked so different, so tidy without her heels and clothes littering the floor and her Vogues and nail polishes scattered across the table. Dom had always been more pernickety than she was about the smartness of the flat, and now it had all the clean lines and organization of a bachelor flat: CDs organized and filed alphabetically, magazines in a rack, pans gleaming on the hob, quite possibly untouched since she left. Tess had only been away for a few
weeks, but it even smelt different, of aftershave and burnt toast. Feeling tired and grubby, she went to shower, hoping the warm water and the zingy tangerine body polish she’d bought at JFK might provide a temporary pep–up from the six–hour flight. As she scrubbed, she ran over the two options she had brought with her to wear. One, a scarlet silk dress with a halterneck she had bought in a fit of excitement when she had first shopped along Madison Avenue a few weeks earlier. Too sexy, too dressy, too much, she thought, wondering why she had packed it in the first place.
But then the other outfit – black trousers and a black silk T–shirt – didn’t seem appropriate to the occasion either. As she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel – there had never been clean towels when she and Jemma had shared the bathroom either – she silently cursed Sean Asgill for changing her plans so abruptly, causing her to rush her packing the previous night. She also realized that she was still angry at Dom. As soon as she had hung up on Sean, she had emailed Dom about her new plans.
Coming to London Thursday! x
He had replied almost immediately.
In Dublin Thursday night. New hotel launch. Doing story on it. Want to come?
After his rudeness towards Jack, the weekend had gone from bad to worse. Despite her carefully planned itinerary, he always had somewhere else he wanted to go – somewhere better, somewhere more cool. It didn’t matter that Tess wanted to show him places she had found, it all seemed to be a competition for Dom. He’ll fit right into New York life, Tess could remember thinking. Tess’s big treat of a table at Per Se hadn’t gone down much better, as he’d been disappointed there were no celebrities to ogle and he bitched that the tasting menu was ‘too fiddly’. So Tess hadn’t been too upset that she’d had to reply to his email:
Can’t come to Dublin. Asgill work do till late on Thurs. Hot date Friday? X
Despite her anger, a part of her was hoping that, back on English soil, they might regain the spark and spice of her previous visit. She parked the thought, realizing she was running late. Striding over to her bedroom she rifled through her wardrobe. Now full of suits and men’s sweaters, her own clothes had all been squashed into a corner. She immediately recognized them as impulse, unflattering purchases that she’d not had the heart to throw away: a puffball skirt, a rip–off Lanvin cocktail dress made from a cheap turquoise satin, a beaded top that made her breasts look too big. There was nothing for it but one of the original two options. Over the top or underdressed. Which one should it be? Just then the intercom began buzzing fiercely. Still in her bra and pants, she ran over and pressed the button.
‘Who is it?’
‘Hi, it’s Sean.’
Flustered, she stuttered, ‘You’re early.’
‘Yeah. Can I come up?’
‘I’m not dressed.’
There was a low laugh. ‘I didn’t realize it was that sort of a date.’
‘Just stay in the car, Sean,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want neighbours thinking I’m bringing strange men up to my apartment. I’ll be down in a sec.’
She released the button before Sean could say more and ran back to the bedroom, grabbing the red dress. As it slid down over her skin she felt a strange sort of illicit thrill.
Holding her coat and clutch she ran down on to the street. Sean was sitting in a sleek silver car.
‘Wow,’ he said admiringly, as she slid into the seat. ‘You look fantastic.’
She looked away from him to fasten her seat belt. Two months in New York had not yet taught her how to accept a compliment. New Yorkers did it extremely well, with a casual nonchalance – as if the praise was appreciated, but also expected.
‘I feel a bit overdressed. I wasn’t sure how smart it was going to be.’
‘It’s perfect,’ he smiled, gunning the engine. ‘You look the perfect date.’
His compliment both thrilled and annoyed her. ‘This isn’t a date, Sean,’ she said, a little too harshly, ‘It’s a business meeting.’
‘Of course,’ he smirked as the car leapt forward, leaving S–shaped marks on the road behind them.
The dinner was being held at the restaurant on top of one the City’s smartest tower blocks, The Overlook, a shard of glass that stretched three hundred metres into the air. The host for the night was Sir Raymond Greig, a retail tycoon who was quietly gobbling up Britain’s high street. His latest venture, a vast, multi–level store on Oxford Street called ‘Pop’, was one of the biggest retail sensations of the last five years. Aimed at young women, Pop was expanding into the provinces and America, while the London store was about to have its fifteen thousand square foot ground floor converted into a beauty boutique: every mid–market cosmetics label wanted to be stocked in it. Sean wanted to use the launch of the department to increase the profile of the new Lupin fragrance, but Asgill’s had its eye on a bigger prize – creating and manufacturing a range of Pop–branded cosmetics.
Tess had to admit, Sean was a natural at this. Seated next to Sir Raymond– in itself an impressive start – he had the billionaire in fits of laughter, regaling him with tales of debauchery and ill–doing after dark, but he also managed to skilfully drop in the odd boast about Asgill’s prowess as a manufacturer and mid–market sales force, plus a couple of allusions to the family’s influential position in the States. He was never explicit with promises or figures, but he was persuasive and charming, the sort of man you’d want to offer your business to. Tess was also able to hold her own, flirting and joking with Sir Raymond, teasing him with stories she’d picked up at the Globe about badly behaved celebrities. She did have the uncomfortable feeling, however, that Sean had told his host that Tess was his date, rather than his publicist.
‘Well, I have to say, that was a very enjoyable meal,’ said Sir Raymond, leaning over to Sean as the poached pear dessert was served. ‘How about a sticky?’
Sean shook his head.
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind something in a Tokay style, especially if it’s a Chambers Rosewood,’ said Tess casually. ‘The Aussies really do love their desserts, don’t they?’
Sir Raymond smiled appreciatively. ‘It’s rare you find a beautiful young lady who appreciates such things.’
Tess murmured modestly; dessert wines had been her father’s love, and he’d told her all about them once he’d opened his pub. Sir Raymond raised his hand for the sommelier, but Tess felt Sean’s foot knock against her leg under the table.
‘Actually Sir Raymond,’ said Tess quickly, ‘on second thoughts, it’s probably not wise on top of the jet lag.’
Sir Raymond nodded his agreement.
‘Well, perhaps we can all have a supper at Scott’s in the next couple of weeks,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Sean and I will have plenty to discuss by then.’
Outside, in the foyer, Tess and Sean had a fantastic view of London spread out below them like a carpet of lights.
‘You know, you weren’t nearly as bad in there as I thought you’d be,’ said Sean as they stepped into the lift.
‘Thanks,’ said Tess sarcastically. ‘There’s a compliment in there somewhere. I just can’t see it for the massive character slur.’
‘I dated a journalist once,’ he continued. ‘Magazine editor. Neurotic, very snappy. Only ate bean sprouts.’
‘I’ll pretend that last statement has nothing to do with me and move on,’ said Tess.
The lift slid down to the ground floor. As they walked outside, the early May air was balmy, offering a hint of the summer to come.
‘So how’s Dom?’
Tess was surprised that Sean even remembered Dom’s name.
‘Good,’ she said warily. ‘Actually, he’s in Dublin tonight, so I won’t be seeing him until tomorrow.’
‘That’s a shame.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s away a lot for work. He’s a travel editor.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said distractedly, feeling in his pockets for his car keys. ‘We spoke at the Lupin launch a few weeks ago.’
He unlocked the ca
r and they slid into the buttery leather seats.
‘So do you want me to drop you home or … ?’
She felt her heart jump; she hoped he wasn’t going to try it on.
‘Don’t panic, I’m not about to seduce you,’ he smiled wolfishly. ‘Come on, Miss Garrett. It’s just that it’s not even ten. It’s still afternoon on New York time.’
It was true – Tess didn’t really feel tired; in fact she was quite energized after putting in an Oscar–winning performance as ‘Sean’s intelligent girlfriend’. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that she had flown from New York first class. She had promised herself that she would stay awake as long as possible in order to get the most out of the experience, but the welcome cocktail and lie–flat bed had been too much. She had slept most of the way across the Atlantic, only waking for a light lunch of poached salmon and champagne. Besides, she didn’t really want to go back to her empty flat.
‘Okay then,’ said Tess, ‘as long as you’re not dragging me to any of those horrible Eurotrash nightclubs or lap–dancing establishments.’
‘Why have you got such a low opinion of me?’ he asked, with mock outrage.
‘I think you can guess, Sean,’ she replied, a little too cattily, but Sean merely shrugged and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘It’s me,’ he said into the phone, ‘Yeah, can you get me on the list for Nina’s party tonight? I’m with a friend.’
Snapping the mobile shut, he twisted the key in the ignition and Tess’s neck snapped back as they shot off into traffic.
‘I thought you knew everyone,’ said Tess.
‘I do.’
‘Not well enough to get your own invite?’
‘Nina Cheskov is a friend of a friend,’ he said with a thin smile, her barb clearly hitting its mark.
‘So who is she? An old conquest?’
Sean laughed. ‘Not this time. She’s a Kazakhstan oligarchess, if that’s the right term for the female of the species; one of the richest women to come out of the Eastern Bloc since Perestroika. She has one of the smartest places in Notting Hill – and yes, I have been – but she has just bought some ex–royal pad in Surrey, which is where she is having the party tonight.’
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