by Ally O'Brien
That was exactly what I wanted, so I couldn’t help wonder: What game was Guy playing?
“I appreciate it, Guy. We’ll talk soon.”
“Indeed.”
He hung up.
Ten years in this business have made me a cynical, suspicious bitch. Whenever someone caves too easily for no apparent reason, I wonder what he’s hiding. Try as I might, however, I couldn’t see any downside for me in Guy’s postponing the wrap-up for Dorothy’s next deal. Assuming I went out on my own, and assuming Dorothy was still my client, then Guy was giving me a huge ace to play against Bardwright. Such things don’t normally come free, and Guy isn’t the kind of man to offer something for nothing.
Hmm.
Maybe Saleema is harboring dreams of stealing Dorothy away, and she’s convinced Guy to wait until her schemes bear fruit. After all, if Cosima gets the deal, then we all lose.
I thought about it and then did something I hadn’t done in a very long time.
I called Saleema’s cell number.
“It’s Tess,” I said when she answered. “Don’t hang up.”
Saleema was silent, and then she said, “What do you want, Tess?”
Her voice was butter smooth. She still had an erotic hint of an Indian accent, despite all her years in the States. I could picture her face clearly. A tiny, gorgeous firebrand.
“I thought we could bury the hatchet,” I said. “But maybe somewhere other than in my head.”
I thought that was funny, but Saleema didn’t laugh.
“Who are you sleeping with these days, Tess?”
I was taken aback, and I didn’t answer. She said it as if she knew something. But that was impossible. Emma was as loyal as a palace guard, and Darcy and I had plenty of reasons to keep our mouths shut.
“Look, I’ll tell you I’m sorry a few more times if it would help,” I said.
“It wouldn’t.”
“Ah.” I didn’t know what else to say. “So where are you? You sound faraway.”
As in, are you in London, you scheming bitch?
“I’m in the toilet in first class on a seven forty-seven.”
“You know you could be interfering with the aircraft’s communication and navigation systems.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I was looking for something, anything. The truth is, I really did want to put the past behind us. I missed her. Of course, I knew it was a lost cause. Once you’ve pricked your skin and become blood enemies, you don’t change.
“I really miss you, Saleema. If I could go back and do things differently, you know I would. I wish I could make things right between us.”
I heard a long pause, and for a moment, I thought maybe the relationship we had shared in the beginning might peek through. But no. “You made your choice, Tess.”
“Will you be in London anytime soon? We could talk.”
I heard a smile in her voice as she replied. As if, somehow, she knew that I knew. She had been in London yesterday. With Guy.
“I never know when my plans will take me to London. Sometimes it’s on short notice.”
“So call me next time.”
“I don’t think so, Tess. Good-bye.”
She hung up on me.
I didn’t learn anything from the call, other than what I already knew. Saleema still hated me. Five years hadn’t softened her. I didn’t know if she and Guy had plans with regard to Dorothy, but as far as I knew, I was still bulletproof. They were handing me Dorothy’s deal on a silver tray. Sometimes the bad guys do the good guy a favor, even if they don’t want to.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t even hear my office door open.
When I looked up, my other enemy was there, framed in the doorway, the dark office behind her. Thin. Arrow straight. Hands on her hips.
The wicked witch. The new head of the agency.
Cosima.
9
MY BOSS.
I have worked with Cosima Tate for three years, and I have known her as long as I’ve been in the industry. Everyone knows her, in the way that you know war, pestilence, and plague exist in this world but you hope they don’t come to your neighborhood.
For twenty-five years, Cosima ran her own agency. She was one of the most successful female entrepreneurs in the city, but let’s be honest. She was and is a bitch with a capital C. Single-minded. Ruthless. She will tell lies, go back on deals, cut you off at the knees, plot behind your back, and do whatever it takes to ensure that she comes out on top. It’s all about power, and power comes through money. You might tell me that I could learn something from Cosima, and you’re probably right. If business success is your model, she’s a paragon. She does nothing that men don’t do every day, without an eyebrow being raised. If I am as successful in running my own agency as Cosima was in running hers, I will be a wealthy woman.
At least until Satan comes calling to get his soul back.
The entire agency world was taken by surprise when Cosima agreed to merge her agency with Bardwright three years ago and accept a number two role behind Lowell. Everyone speculated—correctly—that Lowell would become a figurehead leader and the real power would reside with Cosima. The question was, why do it at all? My friend Sally told me at the time that Cosima had big plans, world plans, and she needed a larger platform to mount her assault. Merging her own company with Bardwright created a combined entity that was the second-largest entertainment agency in London. I have no doubt that she intends to be number one very soon. Not just in London but in New York, LA, and elsewhere.
She could let me and Dorothy walk away without blinking. Her plans don’t rise or fall on a few children’s books about pandas, however popular and lucrative they may be. But it isn’t about that. When you are Cosima, you win every battle. You offer no consolation prize to your opponent. You take everything, leave nothing. For her to finally win complete control of Bardwright and then have a story in the Bookseller about one of her agents leaving with a multimillion-dollar client? That would be intolerable.
It’s also true that, on some level, this is personal. Cosima and I hate each other. Always have. I don’t know whether she sees something in me that makes her question some of the choices she made along the way or whether I see in her some twisted monster who symbolizes what I don’t want to become. Maybe it’s just that I don’t toe the line. I challenge everything. I do things my way. Cosima loathes anyone who thinks differently from her, which is why she is always trying to rein me in using Marty Goodacre to do her dirty work. It hasn’t worked, and it never will.
Or maybe there’s something more to all of this. Maybe she knows. I tell myself this can’t be true, but there are days when I’m certain she has sniffed out my secret.
You see, there is another reason why I cannot abide Cosima Tate.
I know how she keeps her husband under her thumb and treats him like a kept man. I know her money is like a chain around his neck. I know he yearns to be free, and he cannot be, not the way things are.
Her husband is Jack Tate.
Jack is Darcy.
“That’s a beautiful scarf,” I told her.
Cosima was wearing a purple-flowered wrap around her chest and shoulders. Purple, the color of royalty. I figured she had purchased it on the Champs-Élysées on her visit to Paris. Her blouse was white silk. Her black pencil skirt hugged her knees. She was not particularly tall, but her stilettos shot her into the stratosphere, and she maintained a posture so rigid I wasn’t convinced she could really bend at the waist.
“Thank you, Tess,” she said.
She stood in the doorway without coming into my office. Cosima never entered offices. If she wanted you, you came to her. She was sixty years old. Her face had the uncomfortably stretched look of a face-lift. Probably more than one. Her hair was as black as it had been in her twenties, but the dye job looked startling, as if gray would have come to her more naturally. Nonetheless, she was impeccably put together, right down to her elongated fingernails and her French
makeup.
“Good trip to Paris?” I asked.
She arched a black eyebrow.
“Marty told me,” I explained. “Where is Marty, by the way? Don’t tell me you let him off the leash. He’ll wander into the park and get lost.”
A thin smile. Lips only, no teeth.
“Marty is extremely efficient,” Cosima said, “although he does resemble a whiny dachshund at times.”
“A yipper dog. Yes, you’re right.”
“I hope Marty passed along my message to you. You’re very important to us, Tess. To me. I have extremely ambitious plans for this agency, now that poor Lowell has passed the torch, and I want you to know that you are a big part of those plans.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
Flattery wasn’t her usual game. In Cosima’s mouth, it felt particularly dangerous.
“You remind me a little of myself when I was younger, Tess,” she said.
Now I was really scared.
“Oh?”
“Yes, absolutely. Tough. Smart. Willing to take on the world. Those are admirable qualities.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, you need a savvy business sense, too. Without that, you can find yourself all alone.”
“I do okay alone,” I said.
“How old are you, Tess?”
“Thirty-six.”
Cosima nodded. “When I was your age, I had been running my own agency for several years. It was tough going in those days. Many times I wished I had never done it.”
“You did rather well,” I said.
“I did, but, you know, I only went out on my own because I didn’t have an agency that saw my potential. There were many days that I wished I had a support network around me. I stared into the abyss more than once, and if a lucky wind hadn’t pushed me back, I might have fallen. Success is all about hindsight, Tess. It looks like an easy, straight path when you’re on the other side of it, but the road is rather more curvy and treacherous along the way.”
“That’s good advice, but why are you telling me this?” I asked.
Cosima’s shoulders inched upward in a barely perceptible shrug. “I want you to think of me as a mentor, Tess.”
Run! Run!
“I appreciate the offer.”
“I know you were often frustrated while Lowell was in charge,” she continued. “You saw yourself as able to deliver much more, and you were right. I understand how you feel. However, as much as we will miss him, Lowell is gone. The agency is on a new path. You could wind up as a partner here, which means a much greater share of the agency’s income.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“Achieving your potential means making hard decisions, however.”
“Such as?”
“Well, we’re not artists here. We’re not museum directors. Agencies thrive on revenue and profitability. Partners in particular have to understand that.”
“Of course,” I said.
“However much we may like them, not all our clients deliver the returns we need. In that circumstance, it’s really better and kinder if we help them find other representation. We don’t simply want clients, we want profitable clients.”
“Did you have someone in mind?” I asked.
But I knew. She wanted me to dump Oliver.
“The agency has invested hundreds of hours in Oliver Howard,” Cosima continued. “Many of those hours are your own precious time, and there’s substantially more among our international and film teams. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen a suitable return on our investment, and it’s unlikely we ever will. I think it’s time we cut our losses and move on.”
“Oliver is a genius.”
“Oscar Wilde was a genius, but he died penniless.”
“Maybe he needed a better agent,” I said.
Cosima folded her arms. “Touché.”
“I won’t drop Oliver.”
“Well, I applaud your loyalty and faith in him. I think it’s misguided, but you are the agent, Tess. Ultimately, the decision is yours.”
It is?
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.
“You’re not measured by your hours, you’re measured by your results. For example, Dorothy Starkwell.”
“What about her?”
“Marty tells me that you’re holding off on a new deal for her with Guy. Is there a reason?”
“Dorothy wants more time.”
“Ah, of course. But I was under the impression that you and Guy had already come to terms on the shape of the deal. If Dorothy wants a more relaxed deadline, that’s perfectly fine, but we may as well close the book on your fine efforts and put pen to paper. Marty may have mentioned that this is a priority for me. It would give us such good press, coming so soon after Lowell’s unfortunate tragedy.”
I smiled.
Cosima smiled.
“There’s no deal,” I said.
Sorry, Oliver, I can’t just walk away from that kind of money.
“No?”
“Guy doesn’t want to talk terms until Dorothy is ready,” I said.
“Ah.”
“I’ll talk to Dorothy again tomorrow,” I said.
If Cosima’s face got any tighter, I thought it would snap like a rubber band.
“Yes, please do. You know how important this is.”
“Absolutely.”
Cosima turned to leave. Half her body disappeared into the shadows outside my door, as if being gobbled up by the dark side of the moon. She turned back to me and added, “Will you be at Lowell’s funeral on Wednesday?”
“Of course.”
“Good. We all need to pay our respects. Such a terrible thing.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if they will find out what happened.”
I looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know how people talk. I’ve heard rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“Of murder,” Cosima said.
“Murder? That’s crazy.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will all come to nothing. Lowell was beloved. No one had a reason to kill him.”
I thought to myself: no one except you, Cosima.
“Oh, Jack will be at the funeral, too,” she added.
“Jack?” I asked, barely able to breathe.
She smiled. “My husband.”
“Yes, of course.”
“He told me how well you and he got on at the last Christmas party.”
“He’s a very pleasant man,” I said.
“Yes, he is. I thought that the four of us could go to lunch after the funeral. You, me, Jack, and Marty. Toast Lowell, and take a look forward to a new era. What do you say?”
Forget it, I thought.
“I’d love to,” I said.
10
I TOOK A BUS back to my apartment around noon.
Still no message from Darcy. Normally, that wouldn’t worry me. We make it a point never to call each other directly, because we don’t know who might happen to overhear a message or see a number on a call log. That’s why we use Emma as our go-between. Even so, I thought that he might make an exception this time, because of what I said to him last night. I was unreasonably nervous, and talking to Cosima only made it worse.
I tried Dorothy again but didn’t reach her. I figured out one time that it took me an average of six tries to get a hold of her. If you’re thinking of ditching the modern world by turning off your answering machine and throwing away your mobile, just remember those of us out here who may want to reach you. We are likely to be annoyed.
Emma sent me another text:
MET NEW GIRL LAST NIGHT. WOW. IN LOVE. HOT.
I smiled. Emma falls in and out of love every week with a new girl, but who am I to tell her to go slow? I wondered if this one looked like Sienna Miller. Emma’s girlfriends have a way of mirroring her latest celeb crush.
I decided to go for a run. The sky was drizzling, but no more than a spitting rain, not enoug
h to keep Londoners indoors. I took the bus up to Battersea Park and did a few laps around the Carriage Drive. I don’t run often enough, but I try to get out two or three times a week to clear my head. You would think that, being single, I have plenty of alone time, but that’s not really true. I eat most of my meals with editors, clients, reporters, producers, and everyone else who needs to sell or be sold; and my other waking minutes are normally spent on the phone and the BlackBerry. Other than in the shower and on my runs, I feel like I have invited the rest of the world to share my life.
I try not to think about anything when I run. I listen to my breathing. I feel my heart race. I watch the trees, the river, the people, the vendors selling ice cream, and the squirrels chasing each other around the grass. But not today. I had too much on my mind. The drizzle soaked my hair and face, and that mirrored my mood. I felt as if I were running from something now, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t know how far I had to go. In my business, it pays to be suspicious of other people’s motives. If you assume the worst, you’re rarely disappointed. Even so, I couldn’t escape the feeling that someone was out there, plotting against me. Call it ego, if you like. I mean, I know the world doesn’t begin and end with me. I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. But I kept looking over my shoulder anyway.
After running for an hour, I collapsed on a bench by the Thames. The white spires of the Albert Bridge were on my left. It’s my favorite city bridge, particularly at night. My brow was wet with sweat and rain. I unhooked a water bottle from my waist and squirted a long stream into my mouth. I threw my head back and closed my eyes.
“Excuse me?”
I looked up. A young woman, protected by a giant black umbrella, stood next to the bench. A plastic London map dangled from between her thumb and index finger. She was in her early twenties, heavy, mousy brown hair, red glasses.
“I’m so sorry to bother you.”
I managed a smile. “That’s okay. What do you need?”
“Well, I’m down here from York, and it’s my first trip, and I’m afraid I’m totally lost. I wonder if you could show me on the map where I am exactly?”
“Sure.”
