by Ally O'Brien
“That sounds lovely,” Dorothy told me.
Oh yes, lovely, lovely. I felt like a heroine in a musical. I felt pretty. My hills were alive. I was making the music of the night.
“Was there anything else, dear?” Dorothy asked me. “I know you like to go on a bit, and sometimes I have to cut you off, or neither one of us would get a thing done. I’ve got to see that boy David Milton for lunch, and I haven’t taken the girls for their morning walk, and they get cranky if they don’t get to prance through City Hall Park.”
Try to imagine five clipped poodles strutting through the canyons of New York ahead of a woman barely taller or larger than a Russian gymnast. Scary thought.
“Thank you, Dorothy, you’re the best,” I told her.
“Oh, you’re very welcome, Tessie dear, don’t give it another thought. Go do all of your little agent things, and don’t worry about me. Give Sally a hug. I could swear, though, that there was something else I was going to tell you. What, what, what was it, and it was on my tongue just a second ago. Oh, yes, I know, I have greetings from a friend of yours, that’s what it is.”
“Friend?” I said.
If someone introduces himself to Dorothy as a friend of mine, I have an awful feeling that he’s not.
“Yes, I was getting an award at the animal rights dinner last night, don’t you remember? Very posh, swanky, in the ballroom at the Pierre. I love that ballroom, do you remember what it’s like? Anyway, it was all vegetarian, of course, and I was telling everyone about my kinkajou, and they all wanted to see pictures, not only of Kinky—that’s what I call him, isn’t it wonderful?—but of the girls, too. Naturally, I was happy to oblige. Oh, and the ceremony was lovely. I cried. They talked about everything I do for animals, and, yes, I know it’s a fancy way of saying I write big checks, but they were gracious about it and they even did a little reading from my books.”
“Friend?” I repeated.
“Oh, yes, I met this lovely woman, and we spent most of the evening together. She is extremely passionate about animals, too, just a lovely little thing. But I was so surprised that she knows Guy, and she knows you, too! Isn’t it a small world?”
“Tiny,” I said. “Minuscule.”
“Her name was very exotic—now what was it?”
“Saleema?” I said, feeling all my stomach juices slurp through the hole that had just formed, like sand squeezing through an hourglass.
“That’s it! Saleema, isn’t that pretty? Saleema Azah. She said I should be sure to say hello when we talked. I thought that was very sweet, don’t you think?”
“Sweet as sugar, that’s Saleema,” I said.
If you’re diabetic.
12
“MY GOD, I’M EXHAUSTED,” I said, collapsing onto the burgundy sofa in the downstairs bar at the Groucho Club. I blew a kiss at the bartender, who knew me and kept me well supplied with white wine and cosmopolitans. Always make friends with your bartender.
“Dorothy?” Sally Harlingford asked me with a knowing smile.
“Dorothy. I feel like I’m a year older every time I talk to her. This time, however, it was worth it.”
“So I gather.”
I had texted her the good news about Dorothy and my agency. It was a code she would understand: pandas r free.
I made short work of the first glass of wine and relaxed into the red velvet with a satisfied sigh. It was only four thirty, but I knew my afternoon would be a loss after chatting with Dorothy, so I asked Sally if we could move up our date. Sally never says no to early drinkies. You’d think the bar would be empty at that time of day, but the Groucho is a haunt for the publishing industry, and we do as much work over afternoon drinks as we do at our desks. Probably more.
A few book biz women started the Groucho back in the 1980s in revenge against the old boys’ clubs (no girls allowed, only crusty old men like my father) and because publishing still carried a whiff of Fleet Street that made us socially questionable. We both use ink, and we gossip, and we spill secrets to the world at large. Bad form all around. However, for twenty-plus years, the Groucho has been a home we can call our own, where rumors fly in the course of the evening from the bar to the brasserie, based on who is talking to whom. Lowell was a fixture on the club’s board for years. I imagine Cosima will inherit his chair.
“So how is the Bard of the Pandas?” Sally asked, carefully crossing her legs and tugging her lavender skirt over her knee.
“Oh, as scattered as ever. She sends her love.”
Sally made a kissing noise with her lips. “Back at her.”
Sally loves New York and makes any excuse to cross the pond. A few years ago, when we were both at Book Expo America, I arranged for the two of us to have dinner with Dorothy at a restaurant in Little Korea. We all hit it off, and our girls’ night out during BEA has become an annual pagan rite.
“You know I want you to handle Europe for me?” I asked Sally, who is something of a language savant and speaks fluent French, German, and Italian. To be honest, I think Sally hates London and would love to live just about anywhere else. Most of the time, she’s in Paris, Munich, or Rome, meeting with publishers on translation rights for her clients, which is a wonderful excuse to suck down wine and goose liver terrines. How she stays so damn skinny is a mystery. Anyway, I handle the deals in the United States and Britain and all the film and publicity work, so I need someone who knows the European terrain to sell to the inscrutable publishers on the Continent.
“I’m a little overcommitted, Tessie,” Sally replied.
“Dorothy wants you and only you.”
“Well then, anything for her.”
“Thank you.”
“When’s the big day?” Sally asked.
“Next Monday, I think. That will give me time to figure out what the hell I’m doing. Besides, I want to wait until after the funeral on Wednesday. It looks bad to bail on Bardwright before Lowell is even in the ground.” I saw a tightness in Sally’s face, and I knew I had stuck my foot in it. “Damn, that was a stupid thing to say, I’m so sorry.”
Sally shrugged, as if it were nothing to her, but it wasn’t. Sally is many things to me. A friend. A mentor. A gossip. An inspiration. She is the soul of elegance, a blond beauty from the old school, diplomatic and British, but with all the toughness and independence of a woman who has struggled to survive on her own. If Cosima had her grace, I probably wouldn’t be leaving Bardwright. I have known Sally for years, but she is still a bit of an enigma to me. She never really invites you inside her soul, like a Frenchman who still uses vous instead of tu with a neighbor of thirty years. Me, I spill my heart to bus drivers, but for Sally, some things are meant to be kept under lock and key.
Among her secrets is a big one that I know only because Lowell blabbed it to me, not Sally. Once upon a time, Sally and Lowell were married.
It’s hard for me to imagine. Lowell, hard smoking, hard drinking, womanizing, and not above masturbating in a corset with a tie around his neck. Sally, whose lips never left a lipstick ring on a cigarette in her life and who had expressed so little interest in sex during the course of our friendship that I had to wonder if she even knew what an orgasm was. This was the woman who stole Lowell away from his second wife when Sally was twenty-five and Lowell was thirty-five, and who spent six years at his side in the Bardwright Agency. Then Lowell moved on to wife number four, and Sally launched a solo career as a quiet deal maker, which she has done ever since. I know she doesn’t make a fortune, and I think Lowell won the battle of the solicitors during their divorce. She lives in a flat no bigger than a closet in Fitzrovia, which may be why Sally has never been wild about London.
Not surprisingly, she’s never been wild about Lowell, either. Given their history, he was never shy about using his position to screw her out of deals and clients over the years. However, you may not grieve when your ex-husband dies, but you don’t expect your friends to make jokes about it, either. Not Sally, anyway.
I changed the subject.
“So do you know Tom Cruise?”
Sally raised an eyebrow into a perfect semicircle. “If I knew Tom Cruise, do you think he’d be married to Katie?”
“Good point.”
“What do you want with Cruise?”
I explained again about me, Felicia Castro, and my quest to get Tom Cruise to read Singularity. Sally shook her head.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re fighting a losing battle with Oliver Howard, sweetheart. If you expect Tom Cruise to ride in on a horse and rescue Oliver’s career, it’s just not going to happen. Better to hand him off to another agent, particularly when you’re about to be consumed with all the details of getting your agency off the ground.”
“I owe it to Oliver,” I told her.
“You owe it to a client to be honest and realistic,” Sally replied, which was true. “Feeding false hopes won’t help him, and you can’t make up for the disasters in his past. His addictions aren’t your fault.”
“I know.”
“What’s the word on Duopoly?”
“His publisher bailed. I’m going to be getting pitches out around the industry this week.”
“Do you think it will fly?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Time is money, sweetheart.”
“You sound like Cosima,” I told her, winking.
“Speaking of Cosima,” Sally said.
“What?”
“I wonder if you’ve considered staying put and giving Cosima a chance,” Sally told me with a casual air that belied the bomb she had deposited in my lap.
“Are you kidding?”
“I’m not saying to do it,” Sally said. “I only asked if you’d considered it. I did European work for Cosima when she ran her own agency, and once you get past the fact that she’s a power-hungry bitch, you realize she’s very effective at what she does.”
“She hates me. I hate her.”
“I know, but that’s the business. What else is new? You’re trying to screw her, and she’s trying to screw you. That doesn’t mean you can’t make a lot of money right where you are.”
“There are other reasons,” I said obliquely. Namely Darcy.
“I’ve worked on my own for years,” Sally reminded me. “There are rewards, but there are also a lot of days when I wish I had a team behind me. I’ve actually thought about going back into the ring.”
“You?”
“Sometimes. Doing everything yourself is nice, but it means you have to do everything yourself.”
“You’ve been the one encouraging me to make the big leap. Now you’re telling me to skip it and stay where I am?”
“No, I just want you to be happy. This is a cruel business, and more and more, it’s being run by a few big players who pull all the strings. It’s harder and harder for solo agencies like me to make a go of it. If you want to do it, Tessie, you go for it, but do it with your eyes open. And for the right reasons.”
“Point taken, but this isn’t a sudden decision,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’ve been wanting to run my own shop for a long time.”
“And you’ll be great at it, but don’t think the world will automatically beat a path to your door. It just doesn’t work that way. Even for someone with your gifts.”
“Are you trying to depress me?”
“God forbid. I just don’t want you to find out the hard way that running your own agency isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be, and then have you blame me when you find out you hate it.”
“I won’t,” I assured her.
“You won’t hate it or you won’t blame me?”
“Both.”
Sally smiled, but the truth is, I was feeling depressed. When you make up your mind to do something, you don’t want to hear that you might be making a mistake that will screw up your life. Not that I haven’t made plenty of those mistakes in the past with my eyes wide-open. The hard part was knowing that Sally was right. I really didn’t know what I was getting into, but you don’t turn up your nose at opportunity.
“Will you be at Lowell’s funeral?” I asked her, not wanting to hear any more about the risks of my life-changing decision.
“Oh, yes, I have to pay my respects to the old bastard.” She raised her wineglass toward heaven and took a drink.
I hesitated. “Did the police talk to you? A detective named Nicholas Hadley?”
“The police? No, why?”
“There are rumors about Lowell’s death.”
“What, the murder talk?” Sally asked, tossing her styled blond hair back. “What a load of tosh. I was married to Lowell, so let’s just say I’m familiar with his predilections. The way he died wasn’t exactly a surprise to me.”
“Hmm,” I said.
Sally pursed her lips. “Are you saying the police talked to you?”
I nodded.
“What on earth about?” she asked.
“I really don’t know, but the questions were strange.”
“Strange?”
“Like they thought I might have been involved. Like I might have been in his apartment.”
Sally narrowed her eyes at me. “Just so we’re clear—you didn’t help Lowell into the afterlife, did you? I would have bought champagne.”
“Of course not.”
“Then don’t worry about it. You have plenty of other things to worry about this week.”
“That’s true.”
“I guess I shouldn’t tell you the latest rumors,” Sally said.
“Rumors about what?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. You know how rumors get repeated and twisted and wind up as fact in this business.”
I do, and I spread my share of them. Except, like Lowell being found in a corset, some rumors turn out to be true.
“What have you heard?” I asked.
As a solo agent with ties to nearly everyone in the business, Sally’s usually first in line for the good gossip. She is my unattributed source for entertainment industry dirt.
“You shouldn’t give it a thought,” Sally said. “Obviously, you just talked to Dorothy, so there’s nothing to it.”
“What about Dorothy?” I asked. Then I made a guess. “Are people saying she’s in play? Because that’s just Saleema trying to get under my skin. Dorothy’s not going anywhere, least of all to Saleema.”
“What’s up with Saleema?” Sally asked.
“I saw her having dinner with Guy.”
“So what? I see Guy all the time.”
“You don’t live in New York and have to fly seven hours to meet him,” I pointed out.
Sally shrugged. “I wish.”
“I found out that Saleema showed up at an animal rights benefit where Dorothy was getting some kind of award. She sees Guy, and then she sees Dorothy? I don’t like coincidences.”
“Well, Saleema or not, it wasn’t that,” Sally said.
“Then what?”
“Word on the street is that Dorothy may be having legal problems shortly.”
“Legal problems? What kind of legal problems?” I asked.
“Big ones,” Sally said. “That’s all I know.”
13
I HAD NO LUCK reaching Dorothy on Monday night, and I didn’t think she wanted me waking her up when I got to the office on Tuesday morning. Sally was probably right. It was probably just a rumor started by Saleema to put pressure on me. If Dorothy really had legal problems, I’d be the first to know.
I was barely behind my desk when Emma parked her mile-long legs in the chair in front of me. Her frizzy red hair was damp, and her makeup looked hastily applied. One of her bare knees twitched nervously like a puppy getting its tummy rubbed. It’s not hard to tell when Emma is in love.
“Good day off?” I asked, smiling.
“Oh my God.”
“Nice girl?”
“Oh my God.”
Ah, to be young again. I don’t miss my twenties, except when I remember having a spr
ingy body that can drink all night and make love all day. When I do that now, I get bags under my eyes that make me look like one of Dorothy’s pandas. Not that this stops me, mind you. That’s what makeup is for.
“Okay, details, darling,” I said. “Who is she? Where did you meet her?”
Emma squirmed forward in her chair. “Sally told me about this hot new club when she phoned last week,” she breathed. “It’s in a basement off Drury Lane. Girls only. Very exclusive. Very discreet. A lot of celebs hang there who don’t want publicity for their sex lives.”
“Since when is Sally your What’s On guide for lesbian nightclubs?” I asked. “Do I need to worry about her seeing me naked?”
“No, no, she’s got a gay client who mentioned that this club is where she goes for hookups when she’s in London. Sally thought of me.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Sally talked to her client, who put me on the list.”
“So who was at the party?” I asked. “Anyone I’d know?”
“Lots.”
“But you’re not telling?”
“I had to sign an NDA. Can you believe it? These people are serious about security. That’s why the celebs go.”
“So who’s the girlfriend? Or is that a secret, too?”
“I asked, and she’s okay with my telling you. I told her all about you.”
“You didn’t spill anything you shouldn’t, did you?” I asked nervously.
Emma knows everything there is to know about me. Including Darcy. Right now, that makes me feel a little vulnerable.
“No! God, no!”
I breathed a little easier. “So who is she?”
“Her name’s Jane Parmenter. She’s an actress.”
Aren’t they all?
“What does she look like?” I asked.
Emma dashed out to her desk and ran back, chest bouncing, with a copy of Hello! She flipped the pages urgently and then wrapped the cover back and pointed at a photo taken on a red carpet at a Leicester Square premiere.
“That’s Jessica Alba,” I said. “You’re dating Jessica Alba? Did she turn gay?”
“Not her, behind her, in red.”
