The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

  I didn’t have anything more for Emma, but she sat down and crossed her arms across her ample chest and waited. Her lips folded into a sly smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You left out the best part,” she told me.

  “About what?”

  “You told me you met Cruise while you were having dinner with Evan.” She cocked her head, waiting for details. Emma knew all about my sordid past.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said, but even I couldn’t pull off that line. A furious blush rose like the dawning sun on my face.

  “Did you sleep with him?” Emma asked. “Did you really? You naughty girl.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Extremely good.” Extremely, as in I’m going to walk bowlegged for a week.

  “What about Darcy?”

  I shook my head sadly. “I think we may be done.”

  “No, really?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since I said the magic words.”

  “Bastard. I can’t believe it.”

  “The trouble with dating men is that you have to date men,” I said. “And they’re pigs. You’re smart, Emma.”

  “I thought Darcy was different.”

  “So did I. At least with Evan, I know what I’m getting. Which is nothing. He makes no bones about being a cad and a cheat.”

  “If you want to try girls, I can hook you up.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, but I’m afraid I’m stuck with the opposite sex.” I added, “Speaking of which, are you still seeing your new girlfriend? The actress?”

  “Jane? Yes! She’s amazing. I think I’m in love. I mean, I know I say that a lot, and I just met her, but sometimes everything clicks. It isn’t just sex, either, although I can’t believe what she knows how to do. Wow.”

  “Well, learn from my experience, Emmy,” I told her. “Don’t go blurting out ‘I love you’ until you’re sure you’re going to hear it back.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  I was a little surprised that the bloom wasn’t off the rose yet. This makes almost a week, which is usually enough time for Emma to decide that a girl is not quite right, too clingy, too short, too demanding, too loud.

  “Are you two going out tonight?” I asked.

  “Yes, and Saturday, too.” Emma pouted with her pink lips in a frown. “But Jane’s been invited to the BFI gala on Sunday night—very glam, all sorts of stars, TV cameras—and I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, Jane doesn’t want it obvious that she’s gay. She says the popzees will be staking out the party. She figures if Godfrey Kahn sees her in the tabloids with another girl, he won’t cast her in his next boy pic.”

  “It might help her chances,” I said.

  “Well, that’s what I said. Oh, did you have a chance to put in a good word with Godfrey?”

  “I haven’t called yet, but I will,” I assured her.

  “That’s very sweet, thank you.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, though. I know some of his people, but I don’t know Godfrey himself.”

  Emma nodded enthusiastically. “That’s okay—anything will help. I really like Jane. I mean, I know I sort of jump from one girl to the next, but this one feels different. You know?”

  Yes, I knew what she meant. It’s all in how your heart beats. Then again, I thought I was in love with Darcy, and look how that turned out.

  25

  MY FATHER WAS ALREADY AT THE RESTAURANT and halfway through his glass of Sancerre when I arrived. I’m always late for my father, even when I’m early. It’s the first move in our perennial father-daughter chess game. He knows I am habitually late, and he never says anything about it, but invariably I feel like shit for making him wait. Terrence Paul Drake, senior political correspondent for the Times, is a busy man, but never too busy for his daughter. Call me crazy, but I have spent my life wishing for him to be something less than perfect, which would at least give me an excuse for falling short of his standards.

  Start with the fact that he doesn’t smoke. Has never touched a cigarette in his life. He is probably the only journalist whose lungs are as pink and fresh as the day he started using them. Me, I finally quit about five years ago, but I teeter on the edge like a klutzy tightrope artist, always in danger of falling. My father congratulates me on remaining smoke free, which is his way of asking if I really am. He knows me. Damn him.

  Then there’s my love life. I’m sure he blames my disastrous history of romances on genes from my mother. He never talks about their divorce or how much it hurt him when she ran off to Italy. He acts as if it were just a minor disappointment, like a family cat failing to return home. I don’t recall ever seeing him date anyone, and God knows he would never allow himself to be a fool again for a woman. I think that’s rather sad. He is always working, always on the phone, always anticipating the next political trend. MPs and cabinet ministers hold their breaths when they read his column. His address book overflows with contacts and friends around the world, but in the thirty years since my mum broke his heart, I don’t believe he has ever enjoyed the sheer stupid exhilaration of falling in love. Occasionally, when I visit my mother in Italy, we talk about Dad, and she claims that he never had a heart to break. I don’t think that’s true. It’s just that when you are the soul of a British gentleman, you don’t allow your emotions to overrun your decorum.

  Unlike me.

  It’s funny. I obviously take after my mum in so many ways, but the parent I love and whom I long to impress is my father. Not that I’m succeeding.

  We met at the Bank Westminster restaurant, where my father keeps a reserved table by the window looking out on the Victorian garden and fountain. Everyone knows him there. Everyone knows him everywhere. We are always interrupted by people stopping by our table, but, bless him, his eyes are always on me, not darting around to observe the comings and goings of Westminster regulars. His cell phone must ring eighty times a day, but not once has it rung during one of our dinners. Not once. Would that I could say the same, because my BlackBerry sits between us and cries for attention every five minutes like an infant. He never says a word when I take calls and post e-mails with my thumbs. He sips his wine and smiles and watches me. I’m sure he wonders how a daughter of his could be such a social misfit.

  He gave me a European kiss as I sat down. Both cheeks. I smelled a dab of Clive Christian cologne, just the right amount, hideously expensive without being showy. My dad is a handsome man, no less so for turning seventy this year. He sports a crown of snow-white hair that he gets clipped every other Tuesday; smart baby blue eyes; a long nose like a bumpy ski slope; and a strong, narrow chin. He wears hand-tailored British-made suits—no Euro-zone rubbish for him, thank you. His pocket handkerchief always forms a perfect triangle, in royal blue today to match the silk of his tie. He’s tall, a little too skinny, and has big hands and manicured nails.

  Somewhere in my head, a little voice tells me that Darcy is like a younger version of my father, but that’s the kind of voice that would lead me to a shrink’s couch, so I don’t listen.

  We chatted about politics, which for us is like small talk. My dad is so scrupulously neutral that he doesn’t even vote. He is always discreet, because he knows that I’m not. Even so, I tell him everything I’ve heard on the street, and he is polite about not correcting my gross misperceptions. He has been around long enough to realize that most politicians are either fools or eunuchs, and if you’re smart, you’ll take a eunuch any day, because they don’t mess up the world by accomplishing anything. The fools, well, you know what they say. A fool and my money are soon parted.

  I was just postponing the inevitable. My father knew it. When we reached the twenty-minute lull in our conversation, he sat back in his chair and eyed me with a look that said, What are you hiding, Tessie?

  “It was very kind of you to invite me to dinner,” he said in his Somerset accent.

  Translation: You never ca
ll unless you have a problem.

  “I missed you,” I said.

  True, but that had nothing to do with why I had called. I smiled and took a long, nervous swallow of a California chardonnay.

  “I had an interesting phone call from Gerald at the Guardian who had heard that my daughter was starting her own entertainment agency,” he told me.

  I spit out a little wine on the tablecloth.

  “Naturally, I told him that couldn’t be the case, because I was certain I would already have heard about those plans from my daughter,” he went on. “I would have heard about those plans from my daughter, wouldn’t I?”

  “Look, Dad,” I began.

  He scratched an itch on his long nose with his index finger. His eyes twinkled. “Never mind, Tessie. I couldn’t be more thrilled for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I mean, my goodness, you should have done this years ago. I can’t think of anyone more suited to running her own show.”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that.”

  Stunned is more like it.

  “I mean, after all, you never listen to me or take any of my advice, so I can’t help think you don’t listen to your bosses, either. So you may as well be your own boss.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m kidding, darling.”

  I glared at him. He laughed. The trouble is, his jokes come with a little drop of poison at the end of the sword point.

  “I always thought Lowell would have a heart attack trying to control you, Tessie,” he went on. “Of course, his end turned out to be considerably more salacious than I would have imagined. Sexual drive has a way of making us idiots, don’t you think?”

  Translation: It’s made an idiot out of his daughter more than once.

  “Yes, about Lowell,” I said.

  “So when’s the big day?” he continued. “When do you strike out to sea like Columbus?”

  “Well, I was thinking Monday,” I said, “but now I’m not so sure. Some things have come up.”

  “Is it money? You never ask for my help, but I would be honored to be an investor. You know that, don’t you?”

  I do, but I would sooner starve than ask my father for help, and we both know it.

  “It’s not money,” I said.

  “Then what?”

  I finished my wine way too quickly and signaled for another. I leaned back in my chair and stroked the white tablecloth with my fingernails and played with my silverware. I teased the gel in my multicolored hair. Anything so I wouldn’t have to talk.

  “Tessie?” my father asked, his voice dropping an octave with concern.

  “Some bastard is accusing Dorothy of stealing her pandas from his father, Cosima says she’ll bury me if I leave, Tom Cruise probably thinks I’m insane, my married boyfriend dumped me, my other boyfriend is a scoundrel, and the police think I killed Lowell.”

  I ran out of breath and took another.

  My father didn’t look at all fazed. Jeffrey Archer is a friend of his, so my tale of woe probably doesn’t even crack the top ten.

  “I could use your contacts on the Dorothy thing,” I told him.

  He nodded and pursed his lips. “I wonder if we could start with the question of your murdering your boss.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I was hoping not. Why does anyone think you did?”

  “Oh, something about my fingerprints on a wineglass in his apartment, my dress in his closet, and his trying to blackmail me for sex over my taking kickbacks on Italian publishing deals.”

  Still not fazed. “Is any of that true?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t need to tell you that this is serious, do I?”

  “I understand that. All I can tell you is that whoever dispatched Lowell obviously decided that I made a convenient target. I didn’t do it.”

  “Did you ever have sex with Lowell?”

  “Dad!”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—well, you and your romantic choices, Tessie.”

  “Give me credit for having at least some taste,” I protested.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know it wouldn’t be the first time I slept with the wrong man, but in this case, I am innocent.”

  “You realize the police are likely to find out about some of your past indiscretions,” he reminded me.

  “It’s not like I was spectacularly successful in keeping them secret,” I said.

  “So what’s next?” he asked.

  “Apparently whoever was with Lowell that night left behind a little spit in a very inconvenient place, if you catch my drift. Again, needless to say, it wasn’t me. I gave the police a swab of my DNA so they could prove that.”

  My father winced. “I wish you’d called me first. Or called a solicitor.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.”

  “Even so.”

  I sighed. He sighed.

  “I’ll make some calls,” he went on.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I’m going to, anyway.”

  I didn’t try to dissuade him. He saw in my face that I was grateful. I reached out and squeezed his hand, which is as physical as we get. While we were sharing that magic moment, my BlackBerry began ringing. My ring tone is some song with a chorus like, “Whoomp! There it is!” Not exactly right for the circumstances. I allowed my eyes to drift to the caller ID and saw that Oliver was trying to reach me.

  Normally I would take the call, but not now, not tonight.

  Big mistake.

  “So what’s up with Dorothy Starkwell?” my father asked me.

  I gave him the whole story. David Milton. Tom Milton. The manuscript in the attic. The note from Dorothy to Tom. I told him what I suspected—that this was all an elaborate fraud—but that I wasn’t sure how to prove it.

  “You’ve talked to an IP lawyer?”

  I nodded and gave him the name.

  “Well, he’s the best,” my father said. “Honestly, Tessie, you can find time to call a lawyer over a squabble about a children’s book, and you can’t figure out how to call a lawyer when the police are accusing you of murder?”

  “It’s more than a squabble,” I retorted. “Dorothy’s a client, millions of dollars are at stake, and I can’t launch my agency without her.”

  “You can’t very well launch it from prison, either.”

  “I didn’t do anything, so I’m not going to prison.”

  He harrumphed. “It’s not quite so simple, darling.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, you realize that your lawyer may tell you to settle to get rid of this thing with Dorothy.”

  “No way.”

  “Tessie, you are making the classic mistake of everyone involved in litigation, which is to think with your heart and not your head. It doesn’t matter whether Dorothy is innocent or guilty.”

  “She’s innocent.”

  “No doubt she is, but you and Dorothy will have to decide whether the time, expense, and publicity associated with defeating these charges are worth it. People settle bogus charges all the time because it’s the best business decision. All I can tell you is, listen to your lawyer and do what he tells you.”

  “I always do.”

  He actually laughed. “Yes, what on earth was I thinking?”

  “I’ll listen, I promise, but can you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “You have investigators in New York, right? People who can find out things?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d like to know more about David Milton,” I told him. “I’d love to find out if he’s doing this on his own or whether he has help. Anything that will give me some ammunition when I talk to him.”

  “Let your lawyer do the talking.”

  “I will, but the more I know about how all this happened, the better.”

  “Tessie, you don’t have to fight every battle yourself.”

  “
I feel better when I do.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “Now what’s all this about your boyfriends?” he asked. “Married or otherwise. And why does Tom Cruise think you’re insane?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  “I gather you’ve been making good use of my flat on the weekends,” he said.

  “Not as good as I’d like. Anyway, it’s old news. My relationships are a thing of the past. I’m unattached and planning to stay that way.”

  “You?”

  “Really. I’m considering celibacy.”

  “Don’t take your vows just yet.”

  I smiled, then screwed my courage up again. “Tell me something honestly, Dad. No kidding around. Do you think I’m up to this whole thing? Do you think I can make it work on my own? With everything going on, I’m wondering if God is sending me a message: Stay where you are. Don’t rock the boat.”

  Dad steepled his hands and leaned forward with his long chin balanced on his fingertips. “You, Tessie? Please. You were born to rock the boat.”

  Leave it to your father to come through for you when you least expect it. Sure, he worked in his share of zingers, but I left the restaurant actually feeling better than when I went in. Like maybe my life was not the complete and utter disappointment to him that I generally believed.

  I hailed a cab and literally fell into the backseat. It was Friday night, and I could sleep as late as I wanted on Saturday, and I was hoping the world would look better after an extended communion with my pillow. I still wasn’t sure if I had the balls to hand in my resignation on Monday with Dorothy’s future up in the air, but like Scarlett O’Hara, I figured I could think about that tomorrow.

  I thought about closing my eyes in the cab, but I am a slave to my BlackBerry. We lost out on two more queries on Duopoly, which pissed me off. I got a picture message from Emma that showed her and her actress chicky, Jane Parmenter, mugging for the camera on the London Eye. The message reminded me that I still hadn’t called my friend at Godfrey Kahn’s production company about pushing Jane for the role in Kahn’s next flick. Thanks to Emma, I knew more about Jane’s gifts in bed than her gifts as an actress, but the acting business isn’t really about talent anyway. It’s about who you know. I called Kahn’s offices. Got voice mail. Left a message.