The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

  “No,” I told him.

  “Oh, I don’t know. No one will be reading Singularity in a thousand years.”

  “Trust me, it’s better if you get the fame and money while you’re around to enjoy it,” I said.

  Oliver and I were among the first to arrive, because a funeral is like a sporting event where you want to get there early to get the best seats. It’s a see-and-be-seen kind of thing. We draped our raincoats over a pew facing the nave and then made our way toward the altar, where Lowell was waiting for us. The funeral was open casket. Mahogany frame, antique brass trim, bone white velvet.

  Lowell was looking better than I’d seen him in some time. A little pasty, maybe, but dying makes you look trim. The tobacco smell was gone. His wild gray hair was combed and coiffed. He wore a Savile Row suit, black and very chic. If you think you might have to answer a few questions before they let you through the pearly gates, you want to look good for the interview.

  He wore a red Hermès tie with diagonal yellow stripes. It was knotted firmly around his neck. His shirt had a high collar.

  “You don’t suppose that’s the tie, do you?” I murmured.

  “Tess,” Oliver chided me.

  “Sorry.”

  I was being sacrilegious, because funerals scare me. Dead people scare me, because they don’t look dead. Lowell could easily have opened his eyes, given me a wink, and asked me to climb on board for one last ride. I didn’t completely rule out the idea that he had staged his entire death just to scare the shit out of me at his funeral. That would have been just like Lowell.

  But, no, he was gone. Peaceful and gone. As we all shall be. He would not bicker with me anymore over deals. He would not grope my arse at the Christmas party. He would not wave a manuscript in my face and shout, “This is bloody crap, Tess! Crap! Bilge-water!” He would not extol the virtues of the Cornish coast. He was done with his body, and it would do nothing but take up space underground.

  I was surprised when Oliver looked at me and said, “You’re crying.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Except when I touched my cheek, it was wet. I wiped the tears away. I’ve always believed that we cry at funerals for ourselves, like babies who are left alone.

  “Scatter my ashes in the Thames when I go, will you?” I asked.

  “Ditto,” Oliver said.

  I patted the side of the casket with tentative fingers, and then we went back and took our seats and watched the parade. Everyone was there. The whole industry, like a Who’s Who of publishing, entertainment, and media. Good for Lowell. Lots of deals would be done right here in the church, and he’d love that. We shall miss him, the poor old sod, and did you happen to take a glance at that debut I sent you last week? I think I shall weep, but before I do, let’s say one hundred thousand quid, not seventy-five, okay?

  Really, I can’t think of a better tribute to Lowell.

  You see people you haven’t seen in years at funerals. The trouble is you can’t exactly get up, smile, hug, tell a joke, admire their clothes. Darling, how are you? You look fabulous! You have to be somber and occasionally flick your eyebrows up like a secret message. I nodded at Tina Brown and made a phone gesture with my hand—call me. I got a wink from Richard Madeley. A head shake from Alexandra at Vogue, who had seen me in the same black silk top once before. That’s a funeral fashion don’t.

  Rebekah Wade from the Sun veered over to our pew after viewing the body. She mouthed in my ear, “So what’s the deal, Tessie? Did you kill him?”

  I hoped she was making a joke.

  “You know me, darling,” I said. “If I was going to kill anyone, it would be Cosima.”

  We whispered to each other, because you have to be careful what you say in churches. The acoustics will surprise you.

  “One hears things,” Rebekah murmured and then left me to stew.

  It didn’t help that the next face I saw was the police detective Nicholas Hadley, who had his chocolate Burberry over his arm and eyed me as he stroked his gray beard. I had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone else was watching him watching me. Hadley didn’t bother inspecting the corpse (once is enough, I guess), but instead took a seat almost directly opposite Oliver and me. Maybe this was his idea of psychological warfare. Maybe he thought I would break down in tears during the service and confess, and he didn’t want to miss it.

  “Who’s he?” Oliver asked.

  “A cop,” I told him. “He thinks I helped Lowell strangle himself.”

  Oliver looked at me. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I didn’t picture you for the black widow type.”

  “Now you know.”

  I tried to ignore Hadley, which wasn’t easy with him acting like Inspector Lestrade ten yards away. However, I realized that the woman walking up the nave now was Sally, and I got up and leaned over the pew and took her hand. She smiled at me with more sadness than I expected and squeezed my fingers. I watched her approach Lowell, and she averted her eyes, staring at the floor and not at her ex-husband in the box. I didn’t see her cry, but when she returned down the aisle, she didn’t look at me, and she didn’t come sit by me. Instead, she took a seat at the far back, away from everyone. Death always hits us harder than we expect.

  And so does love.

  I saw Cosima, and beside her, I saw Jack. Darcy. The man I love, who didn’t belong to me. Cosima was regally dressed in a charcoal waistcoat with black buttons, her shoulders squared and her chin lifted toward God. Her three-inch heels tapped like gunfire on the cobbled floor. She was like a fort, built of solid old stone and impenetrable. Jack towered over her and held her elbow delicately in his right hand. My memory caressed his chiseled features, and I could feel my fingers in his swept-back hair. My heart went wobbly. My breathing sped up. I got dizzy and thought I might faint.

  “Are you all right?” Oliver asked me.

  “Fine.”

  But I wasn’t fine. I sucked in a deep breath of air and tried not to be sick all over the church floor. Cosima turned her head as she passed me and gave me a nod that said everything. Her lips curled into a cruel smile just for me. Somehow, I knew that she knew. Me and Jack. Dorothy and her legal problems. Lowell’s death. The agency. I expected her head to do a full circle on her neck, and I would be the only one to see it. I knew that war had been declared.

  I wanted to feel Jack’s eyes on me. He knew I was there. He could feel me and know what I was thinking. He knew the last words that had been spoken between us, when I told him I loved him. How could he walk by and not even acknowledge me? But he did. His head never turned. He was as impassive as a palace guard. I wanted to scream at him. Cry to him. Run to him.

  Oliver took my hand, which was trembling. He’s a smart man, and I’m transparent. He shook his head and stared into his lap.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” he asked me under his breath.

  Barely, my chin moved, acknowledging the truth.

  “My God, I do love you, but you are such a fool, Tess,” he told me.

  I tried to say something, but my mouth moved and didn’t form words. It didn’t matter. Oliver was right. I tried to compose myself, because Marty Goodacre followed the two of them like a tall troll, stooped over, acting as Igor to Cosima’s Dr. Frankenstein. He patted his greasy hair and smiled at me with his brown teeth. I looked away. I couldn’t summon the will to be civil. I hope he couldn’t see behind my mask and realize how distraught I felt.

  Nicholas Hadley was staring at me, too. Curiously. Damn him. Damn all of them.

  “Shall we go?” Oliver murmured.

  “I can’t.”

  Yes, I wanted to get up and run from the church, but instead, all I could do was sit there and hear a roaring in my ears. The service began. There was a man speaking at us, talking about angels and heaven. People stood up and sang. Oliver helped me to my feet, and I pretended to sing, too. Lowell was never a hymn man. We should have been singing Beatles songs. We were all choir member
s in Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

  The service went on forever. The priest spoke again. Cosima spoke, and her haughty voice was like a coronation speech, a new queen smugly bemoaning the death of the king. More speeches. More singing. Plenty of Bible verses for a man who thought Christ was a swear word. I wanted to escape, get on a plane that afternoon, and fly to New York and never come back.

  Then it was finally over, and we were left in a churchy silence, where mumbles and footfalls echoed between the stone walls. Everyone stood up, shuffling out in solemn rows. I leaned against Oliver’s shoulder, and even his lean, bony frame was a comfort. I felt drained.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” Oliver said.

  “I could use six drinks, but I have to go home and get my bag and grab a cab to Heathrow.”

  “You’ll be late.”

  “I’m always late, but I get there.”

  Life goes on. I still needed to sort out Dorothy’s troubles. And my own. And start an agency. And ditch the police. The idea of seven or eight hours on a plane where no one could reach me sounded wonderful.

  We emerged from the church into the late-morning sun, a rare thing in London. God was apparently smiling on Lowell. Mourners—if you could call them that—gathered in little clusters, where they smoked and laughed and talked about film rights and translation sales.

  Life goes on.

  I gave Oliver a hug. “Thank you, darling.”

  “Do you need me?”

  “Desperately, but, no, I’ll be fine.”

  He kissed the top of my head. Oliver is a truly decent man, and I felt guilty again that I had done so little to help him. He headed for the iron gates without looking back, and I thought about his tiny flat and his demons and the empty pages staring at him and the temptation of the street. I thought about Singularity in my purse. If we are measured by our ability to lift one person up, then Oliver did that for me by giving me a book I truly believed in. So what had I done to lift him up in return?

  I checked my watch. My flight left in three hours. I was late.

  I thought I was free, but then from behind me, a hand clutched my shoulder with a tight, skeletal grip. When I turned, I saw Cosima’s gray eyes and jutting cheekbones and inhaled the smoke from her cigarette. Her hair was ebony against her drawn ivory skin, and the wind was no match for her hair spray. When she took the fag out of her mouth to speak, I saw a bloodred circle on the white paper from her lipstick.

  “It was a lovely service,” she said.

  “Lowell would have been pleased.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Cosima announced. “The dead watch over us, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “You’re not religious, are you? I understand. Well, it gives comfort. Walk with me for a moment, will you, Tess?”

  She sounded as if she planned to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Maybe she thought she was Marlon Brando. We strolled into the garden, and I made a point of checking my watch again so she could see my impatience.

  “I understand you’re going to New York,” she said.

  “Yes, I have a flight to catch.”

  “To see Dorothy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t forget about Guy and the new deal,” she reminded me.

  “I won’t forget.”

  “I’m sorry you won’t be able to join us for lunch. I believe Jack was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I’m sure the three of you won’t miss me,” I said. Did she know? Did she know I had made a fool of myself? Had she already folded Jack back into her wallet and tucked him away?

  Cosima exhaled smoke into the trees. She dropped the cigarette into the green lawn and crushed it under her shoe. I didn’t think the rector would approve. I have no doubt, though, that Cosima believes herself to be a religious woman and that her schemes are guided by the hand of the Lord.

  “Have you thought about what I said, Tess?”

  “What was that?” I asked innocently.

  “About your future at the agency.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought a lot about my future at the agency.”

  I smiled. She smiled back.

  “Good.”

  “I really need to get to the airport,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. Do give my best to Dorothy, won’t you? Tell her how much we value her at Bardwright. She always has a home with us.”

  Not if I can help it.

  I turned to leave, but Cosima stopped me with her hand on my shoulder again.

  “Oh, Tess, one other thing,” she told me. “I hate the dance, don’t you? The game. The secrecy. Life would be easier if we were all honest with one another, don’t you think?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’re probably wondering if I know, Tess, and I thought I would tell you that I do.”

  My mind went only one place. Darcy. Jack. Cosima knew about the affair. I wondered if she had known all along, if she had reeled Jack out like a fish on a line and then snapped him back. I glanced at my feet as if there might be a trapdoor ready to swallow me up.

  “What is it you know?” I asked.

  She took a glance around the garden and leaned close to my ear. “You. Your plans. The agency. I know you’re planning to leave us.”

  I was annoyed that she knew but relieved that she was talking about something else entirely. And not at all surprised that the grapevine had passed along my secret to Cosima. I wondered who had given me up, but it didn’t matter. It was inevitable. You talk to clients. You drop hints. You ask for someone’s confidence, and he says yes, I won’t tell a soul, and then he’s on the phone again as soon as you hang up. It was better to have it in the open.

  “It’s just something I’m thinking about,” I said. “I haven’t made any final decision.”

  “No? Well, I’m pleased to hear that, Tess. Loyalty is very important, and the Bardwright Agency gave you your start. You’re where you are today because of Lowell and me.”

  And Dorothy. And my other clients. And ten years of bloody hard work to make her and Lowell even richer.

  “I understand that,” I said.

  Cosima folded her arms over her waistcoat. I caught a whiff of expensive floral perfume. “Then understand this, too. If you follow through with this plan, you will find nothing but misery, Tess. You will be a nonperson in this industry. A nobody. A failure. I will bury you.”

  17

  I’M NOT A BIG FAN of traveling by plane. There’s something about paying for the privilege of spending hours shoulder to shoulder and nose to arse with hundreds of strangers that leaves me sick. Plus the unnaturally small food. And the unnaturally small bathrooms. And the turbulence. And the deep vein thrombosis. Oh, and that whole what-if-I-die-in-a-fiery-crash thing, too.

  Even so, a Virgin flight from Heathrow to JFK sounded a hell of a lot better than having lunch with Cosima, Jack, and Marty.

  I tried to sleep and couldn’t. Sleeping on planes isn’t my thing, and every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Nikita Khrushchev pound his shoe on my armrest and shout, “Ve vill bury you!” Naturally, Khrushchev was bald but had Cosima’s face. Talk about a nightmare.

  On some level, I was relieved to have everything out in the open. Not to be whispering on the phone and sending secret e-mails anymore. Cosima knew I was going to bolt from Bardwright and take Dorothy with me. I knew she knew. Let the games begin. I didn’t enjoy the idea of a public battle with someone who wielded her kind of power in the industry, but all I could do was hope that my clients were as good as their word. Everyone I had called in the past few days had assured me that they would follow me to a new agency. They were on my side. This business is all about relationships, and my relationships were solid.

  Or so I hoped. You never know until you pull the trigger.

  It’s one thing to have an enemy like Saleema. She may scheme behind my back and win over a client or two, but there’s really nothing she can do to ruin me. Cosima is a
nother story. She can pull strings with everyone I know. Spread rumors and lies. Shut doors that used to be open to me. Lean on people to cut me out of their deals. If she really wanted to, if she’s not just bluffing, she could make my life extremely difficult.

  The question is whether I’m worth the trouble. In her pond, I’m a small fish.

  Then again, I’m sleeping with her husband. Not only that, I’m in love with him. Wives get a little funny about that sort of thing.

  Jack. Darcy. He was another reason I couldn’t sleep. Ever since Saturday, I’d been telling myself I’d gone too far, that I’d let my emotions get the better of me in a moment of sexual afterglow. I’m not the kind of girl to fall madly in love. I’m too smart for that. But you don’t have to cluck your tongue at me—I know it doesn’t work that way. I thought about calling him to say I had made a mistake, but then I saw him at the funeral, and I knew I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t go back on what I’d said.

  I did love him. Madly.

  His silence was eloquent. His refusal to meet my eyes told me everything I needed to know. Darcy had flown from my life. In the battle between love and money, men always choose money. Cosima had it, and I didn’t. Simple as that. It didn’t matter how he felt about me; he was on the end of a tether, a steel leash hooked to her bank account. I told myself that my relationship with him had been a fantasy, and you shouldn’t confuse your fantasies with real life. But sometimes we hold on to our fantasies tighter than what’s really in front of us.

  No doubt my father would say he told me so. And he did.

  My father lives to give me advice and is exasperated when I ignore it. Not that he is a master of relationships himself. My father allowed his heart to run away with him when he married my mum, and, had I been alive then, I would have told him the same thing he regularly tells me. He was being a fool. A thirtysomething political editor for the Times marrying a nineteen-year-old Bloomsbury girl from the chorus line of Covent Garden musicals? Anyone could see that was bound for disaster. When I visit my mum in Italy, I try to picture the two of them together, and I simply can’t. They are pickles and chocolate. Swimsuits and Alaska. Name any two things that don’t go together. You’d think we would learn from our parents, but instead we inherit a road map for making the same mistakes. So if my love life is like the Lusitania in the path of a torpedo, well, I blame it on my genes.