The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

Inside, I had two choices. Open the box and go to bed. Go to bed and open the box. I chose the latter. I deposited the box on my kitchen table, took ninety seconds to brush my teeth and drain some of the liter of alcohol I had consumed, littered the bedroom floor with my damp clothes, and fell spread-eagled onto my blanket. It was heaven. I felt as if I had not seen my bed in weeks. I felt as if the next twelve hours were my birthday and Christmas rolled into one.

  Except for one problem.

  I was wide-awake.

  My eyes popped open. It works that way sometimes. You’re dead on your feet, and then you’re on the rocket end of a quadruple espresso. I tossed and turned. I scrunched the pillow over my head. I imagined I was flying with Peter Pan over the streets of London. Nothing worked. I was up.

  I knew why, too. It was that damn box. Knowing it was there, unopened. If I ever hoped to sleep, I needed to know what was inside.

  I got out of bed and wandered back into the kitchen and flipped on the light. I hadn’t even been in the dark long enough for my eyes to squint. I was naked, and the curtains were open, so theoretically there was a pervert insomniac with a telescope somewhere getting a view. Don’t get too aroused. I wasn’t at my best. Rain, sleep deprivation, alcohol, tears, and stress had worked a curse on my waning beauty. I was having a bad hair day. Bad makeup day. Bags under my eyes. Blanket wrinkles on my breasts. My legs needed a shave.

  I grabbed a cleaver from a butcher block near my refrigerator and tore into the brown paper wrapping with the enthusiasm of a serial killer. Inside was, obviously, the box itself, surrounded by more wrapping paper, a ribbon, a pink bow, and a card. There are card-first, gift-second people, but I am not among them. I put the card and its mauve envelope aside and sliced and diced the ribbon and made short work of the metallic silver paper.

  Finally, I reached the box itself, which was black. There was a name engraved in small type, as if the name on its own were enough to get my attention. Which it was. Julien Macdonald. If you are a woman in London, the name Julien Macdonald is enough to make your legs go weak and make your husband clutch his wallet. Julien is one of the catwalk glitterati, the kind of designer that A-listers turn to for nights in Cannes and LA. I probably don’t make enough money to afford the box, let alone whatever is in it.

  I whisked off the lid like I was rubbing a magic lantern. My mouth fell open. I screamed loud enough for Samur to hear me five floors down. I stared into the box and wasn’t even sure I dared to touch the fur, which nestled inside on a bed of tissue paper, all white and mink, layered and deep. My eyes caressed fold after delicious fold. I was suddenly hungry for caviar, champagne, white truffles, single malts—anything that was decadent and expensive. I put my fingertips near it, then pulled them back. When I couldn’t resist for another second, I buried my hands in it up to my elbows, and, oh dear Lord, it was the softest, richest, most supple, most lavish, most revoltingly beautiful thing I had ever put my fingers on. I lifted it up by the collar, and it was almost as tall as I was. It was a thing of royalty.

  If I wasn’t already naked, I would have taken off my clothes. Because this is not a coat you put on to touch anything but bare skin. I didn’t even know if I had the courage to slip my arms inside. I rubbed it over myself like a cat rolling on catnip. I inhaled it. I stroked its sleeves. Then I spread it open and eased it over my shoulders, enveloped my arms in its soft tunnels, and closed the forest of fur around my torso. I became an entirely different person. Strangers crowded at the velvet rope to see me. Flashbulbs popped in my face.

  Arriving now in the Julien Macdonald mink is London superagent Tess Drake.

  She is a stunner, isn’t she, Judy?

  Yes, she is, Richard. In that coat you have to wonder why she sells film rights when she should be starring in films herself.

  Is that Tom Cruise walking her down the red carpet, Judy?

  I believe it is, Richard. And who can blame him when Tess has a coat like that?

  Although what’s with the skanky hair, Judy?

  You’re right, Richard, she’s having a bad hair day.

  And the bags under her eyes?

  Yes, a bad makeup day, too. And you can see where the coat ends that her legs need a shave.

  Okay, it didn’t take long for reality to set in, even in the midst of my fantasy. After pretending to be a princess for about ten seconds or so, I put the coat back in the box, dug expensive mink lint out of my navel, and reached for the card in the mauve envelope. Honestly, my mind wasn’t working at all. The only person I could think of with the money to send me something like this was my father, and he would be more likely to send me a signed first edition of Wedgy Benn’s diaries.

  I recognized the handwriting inside, though, and the emotions I had spent the last several days trying to erase from my mind all came flooding back. I read what he had written and knew that I had begun to climb out of my cave into the sunlight again.

  Tess,

  I love you, too.

  Darcy

  28

  I SLEPT UNTIL NOON on Saturday, the sleep of the angels, or at least of the angels who have an unbelievable fur coat.

  I took a long, hot shower, washing away the grime and restoring my hair to its full rainbow-streaked beauty. I pulled on sweatpants and a roomy T-shirt. My head ached from the wine, but I took three aspirins to combat the hangover, and then I ate cold Chinese takeaway for lunch. I called Oliver to make sure he was still alive—he was—and then I checked in with Emma, who sounded as if she had just crawled out of bed with Jane to answer the phone. She told me she would deliver the box of papers from Dorothy’s old agent to my flat later in the day. She also asked if I had received her text—I hadn’t—and told me to check it right away. I heard a giggle in her voice.

  When I checked my BlackBerry, I understood why. There was a message from Emma to go along with my Julien Macdonald:

  DARCY CALLED! SUNDAY AT HILTON PARK LANE, 10 P.M.!

  I felt a flush of anticipation, knowing my life was back on track. It was tinged with a little bit of guilt that I had fallen into bed with Evan after Lowell’s funeral, but a date with Darcy would make me forget all about that. Now if only I had something to wear, ha-ha.

  Coffee in hand, I sat out on my terrace over the high street in the early afternoon, legs propped on the balcony. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny to match my mood. I thought about Darcy, and I couldn’t help wonder what his declaration meant for the two of us. We were in love. Scary thought. I live in the present, and I let the future take care of itself, which is one reason I have procrastinated for so many years about going out on my own. Darcy and I made an unspoken promise in the beginning never to look beyond our nights together. Now we’ve both broken that promise. So what comes next? I am not a marriage, white dress, fairy tale kind of girl. Darcy is not the kind of man who is ready to give up the lifestyle Cosima’s money affords him. People like us don’t change because Cupid shoots them in the arse.

  Or do we?

  Part of me wonders if I could tame my independence enough to really let a man in my life. There’s security in meaningless affairs, because you never put yourself at risk. I think of myself as strong, but here comes the real test. The agency. And Darcy.

  Maybe I need to ask the wizard for some courage.

  This would be easier, I admit, if it weren’t for Evan. Not that I’m in love with him. God, no. I just wonder why it was so easy to let him ravish me. I tell myself that he was a consolation prize, that I was hurt and angered by Darcy’s rejection. Screw love, give me a one-night stand. That was the old Tess, and the note from Darcy changed everything. Right? If Evan were here right now, I would not have sex with him. Not standing up. Not lying down. Absolutely not. No way.

  Except there was a devil Tess at my shoulder who whispered, “You’re lying.”

  I drank my coffee and watched the traffic on the street and smelled bread baking and realized that life is complicated. Messy.

  I thought about Oliver next. I was reliev
ed that he had backed away from the precipice, although with Oliver, sanity is a temporary reprieve. He might face another crippling episode of depression at any time. In my gut, I knew that his thoughts of suicide had nothing to do with his books and everything to do with the nightmares from his past. I also knew that I could extend a hand to help him, but that he would have to do the hard work himself. I don’t like to think that way, because I’m a fixer, and my habit is to rush in, believing I can solve any problem. But not all problems have solutions.

  Complicated. Messy.

  Inside my flat, someone knocked on the door. That’s a rare event in a security building. I climbed out of the chair and padded across the carpet to the door, where I checked the eyehole. My father waved back at me. Naturally. He has made friends with the guards in my building, and you don’t say no to Terrence Paul Drake when he says he is going upstairs to visit his daughter. You just buzz him up.

  “One minute, Dad.”

  I made him wait, as I usually do. My Julien Macdonald was still on the dining room table, and I didn’t want to explain it to my father. I put the lid back on the box and tucked the box away in the back of my bedroom closet. Then I let him in.

  We kissed.

  “What are you hiding, Tessie?” he asked me, with a glance at his watch. “A buff young gentleman? Is he hiding under the bed?”

  “I slept late. I wasn’t dressed.” A little white lie.

  He eyed me in the way that fathers do when they know their daughter is keeping secrets, but he didn’t press me for the truth.

  “I understand there’s a gala premiere tonight,” he said. “Are you going?”

  “Yes, why not come with me?”

  The big new musical from the Les Miz guys was opening at the Garrick. The play was adapted from a bestselling novel published by Random House, which was boasting of its success by sprinkling free tickets among industry insiders. The story involved a romantic triangle in the midst of a religious civil war, sort of Dr. Zhivago meets Khaled Hosseini. I’m not a big fan of musicals. I rarely break into song spontaneously. Even so, it’s a chance to see and be seen.

  My father shook his head. “No, thank you, dear.”

  “You could be my date.”

  “A lovely offer, but I’m having dinner with someone from the Ministry of Defense tonight. That’s why I stayed in the city this weekend.”

  He gave me another one of those looks when he said this. As if he knew that I might have had plans to borrow the flat in Mayfair again if he weren’t in it. Which was true.

  He handed me an oversized white envelope. “Here. Ask and ye shall receive.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Dirt on David Milton.”

  My eyebrows went up. “That was quick. How did you get this so fast?”

  “Never ask a journalist his sources, darling, you know that. Anyway, my daughter rarely asks for my help, so when she does, I make it a priority. I have a good friend in New York who can pretty much assemble anyone’s life story in a few hours just by retrieving bits and bytes from cyberspace.”

  I hope no one ever does that to me.

  “Brilliant. Dad, you’re amazing.”

  “There’s more to come, but I figured you’d want the first pass as soon as possible.”

  “Absolutely. Did you look at it?”

  “I did.”

  I waved my father into the living room, where he sat uncomfortably on my modern pastel sofa. I usually put my feet up on the glass-and-metal table, but Dad never does. I went to the kitchen and got us both cups of coffee, then sat down in the recliner opposite him and extracted the sheaf of papers from the envelope.

  “So what is all this?” I asked.

  “Educational background. School records. Housing records. Legal actions in which he’s been involved. Where he shops. Where he eats. What videos he rents. When his automobile warranty expires. What type of pornography he prefers. That sort of thing.”

  “Jesus. Is this legal?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Did you see anything that might help me?”

  “Nothing jumped out at me, I’m afraid, but I’m not sure it would. This is your world, Tessie, not mine.”

  I began skimming through the materials. “Does this include financial information? Bank records, that sort of thing?”

  “No.”

  “So we can’t figure out if he’s been making payoffs?”

  “If you want that kind of detail, you’re going to need to sue him in a U.S. court and file a discovery motion. Which I imagine you don’t want to do.”

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice,” I said.

  “What exactly are you trying to find out?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Anything that would help me prove he’s a fraud. Some clue as to who he might have used to write the phony manuscript. It’s a long shot, but I really appreciate your getting this to me so quickly. You won’t wind up in jail over this, will you?”

  “I trust you’d visit me.”

  “Remember, I might be there, too,” I said. “That whole murder-the-boss thing.”

  “I’m still making calls on that.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

  I continued reading about David Milton. His educational credentials matched the diplomas I saw on his wall from NYU and Columbia. He was an average student. You’d think that a lawyer would have all the money he needed without fleecing an old woman, but you’d be wrong. Law is a tough racket these days unless you’re a corporate partner billing at eight hundred dollars an hour. Personal injury attorneys, divorce lawyers, estate lawyers, they all scramble in the mud for clients. And a New York lifestyle isn’t cheap.

  “Oh, interesting,” I murmured.

  “What?”

  “Milton got divorced recently.”

  “Are you planning to add him to your list of available men?”

  I looked up with annoyance to find my father smiling at me.

  “It looks like his wife won everything but the clothes I saw him wearing,” I continued. “Apparently it’s not just online pornography that Mr. Milton enjoys patronizing. The divorce filing talks about hookers, too. Oh dear, and not female hookers, either. Naughty boy.”

  “So he needs money,” my father concluded.

  “Yes, he does. He mentioned that he was selling his house, proceeds of which go to the ex-wife, apparently. David Milton could use a large cash infusion.”

  “Enter Dorothy and her pandas.”

  “Exactly.”

  I was feeling better. Not that I was any closer to proving that the manuscript was fake or to figuring out how an estate lawyer who got low grades in his NYU literature class had managed to write a credible forgery. However, you know what the crime shows always say: Motive, means, and opportunity are what you need to prove guilt. His father’s relationship with Dorothy gave David Milton the opportunity, and his wallet-sucking divorce sure gave him the motive. Now I needed to know the means.

  At least I was more and more confident that Dorothy was a victim here and not a poodle-walking plagiarist. It was an awfully big coincidence to believe that David Milton had stumbled onto a twenty-year-old literary crime just as he was about to lose his shirt.

  “You’ll need more than his divorce,” my father told me, reading my mind.

  “I know.”

  I was deep in thought, because I was staring at the list of social and professional activities in David Milton’s file. Something in there was triggering a memory, but it was just out of my reach. What was it?

  “He served on the New York bar’s pro bono estate counsel committee after 9/11,” I said.

  “Laudable.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that meaningful somehow?” my father asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  But something about it rang an alarm bell in my head. Why? The more I tried to remember, the more it slipped away.

  Maybe it didn’t
mean anything. And yet.

  “Tessie?” my father asked, watching my face.

  “Hang on.”

  And then I knew.

  “One of the secretaries at the Robinson Foote agency lost her daughter and her son-in-law in the attacks,” I said. “I remember there was some weird testamentary problem. A big life insurance policy. The daughter was in the tower that went down first, but the son-in-law worked near the floor where the first plane hit. So there was a bizarre argument about who died first and where the money would go. The secretary, the mother, didn’t have the money for a lawyer. They were all talking about how to find someone to represent her.”

  “How do you know all this?” my father asked.

  “I know all this because Robinson Foote is where Saleema works,” I said. “It was her secretary.”

  29

  IF DAVID MILTON HAD REPRESENTED Saleema’s secretary as part of his pro bono work after 9/11, the case wasn’t included in the materials about him. However, that didn’t mean anything. It could easily have been overlooked in a search of legal records. Or perhaps Milton and Saleema met during the legal process even though Milton was not the attorney on the case.

  Or perhaps they never met at all.

  Was I being oversuspicious? I didn’t think so. In a city of eight million people, what are the odds of an innocent connection between the man blackmailing Dorothy and the agent who has made it her life’s work to sink me? It wasn’t hard to imagine how a conspiracy could be born. Milton wants money. Saleema wants revenge. He’s got an innocent note written by Dorothy, and she’s got a farm team of frustrated writers looking for a break. Left hand, meet right hand.

  I went through the rest of the materials my father had given me, but I didn’t find anything else that made a blip on my mental radar. Not that I would. Saleema and Milton were both smart. It was a shot in the dark that I spotted something to tie them together, and if I really wanted to prove it, we’d need to do a lot of digging.

  I’d like to say that this changed everything, but it didn’t change a thing. I was still between a rock and a hard place. More than anything, I wanted to show up for my Monday meeting with Cosima and tell her to shove the job and the agency up her arse. Bury me if you like, but I’m out of here. Give her a long list of the clients who were going with me. With Dorothy’s future hanging in the balance, though, I wasn’t sure I was ready to make my move.