by Ally O'Brien
I needed to be patient for a few more days. Maybe a few more weeks. The trouble is that I’m not exactly long on patience. I also didn’t want to see my opportunity slip through my fingers.
After my dad left, I caught up on my reading and wore out my thumbs sending e-mails to a few more clients. Basically, I told them I was in a holding pattern but that I hoped they would be with me when I made the move. No one wrote back. It was Saturday, and not everyone is as anal as I when it comes to e-mail.
Emma arrived around four o’clock, carrying a battered old box of papers from Dorothy’s first agent. Her strawberry hair was tied behind her head in a furry ponytail. She wore a sleeveless pink T-shirt, short shorts, and fluorescent white tennis shoes, looking annoyingly youthful and fit. For years, I was the young agent, the upstart, and somehow this whole generation of children sneaked up behind me and became adults. Where did they come from?
I flipped the lid off the box. It smelled musty and made me want to sneeze. The contents included bulging file folders of letters and contracts, old manuscripts, and advance reading copies of The Bamboo Garden. None of it was organized in any coherent fashion; it would take me hours to go through it.
“What are you looking for?” Emma asked me.
“Haven’t a clue,” I admitted.
I’m not one to live in the past. I barely looked at the box when Dorothy sent it to me. Even so, David Milton’s little plot is all about the early days of Dorothy’s career, and this box may as well have been the archives from the Starkwell Museum. Someday my heirs will sell it for a fortune to some obsessive collector on eBay. Assuming I have heirs, which doesn’t look too likely right now.
The box could wait until tomorrow.
“Want to see something?” I asked Emma.
“Sure, what?”
“It’s a surprise.”
There is no point in having something extravagant like a Julien Macdonald fur coat unless you can show it off to another woman. Men buy these things for their wives and mistresses, but they don’t appreciate them. It is the kind of thing that only a woman can truly scream about, lust over, and envy.
I went to the bedroom and retrieved the box.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
Emma did so and wobbled a little on her feet. I think her breasts are so big they leave her a bit off balance.
I opened the box and slipped the coat over my T-shirt and sweats. Yes, I am oh so chic. I admit this wasn’t the first time today I had worn the coat. I put it on when I got out of bed. And again after my shower. And again after my lunch. If you are going to look this beautiful, you want to admire your beauty every fifteen minutes or so.
“Now,” I said.
Emma opened her eyes. “OH MY GOD!”
“Nice, huh?”
“OH MY GOD! Where did that come from? Where did you get it?”
“Darcy,” I said.
Emma panted. “I have never seen anything so gorgeous in my life. Never. Ever. You look like a movie star.”
“Lana Turner, eat your heart out,” I said.
“Who?”
“Never mind,” I said.
Damn, I am so old.
“Could I, like, try it on maybe?” Emma asked. “Just for a second? Please?”
“Sure.”
I eased the coat off my shoulders and handed it to Emma, who put it on with the gravity reserved for a coronation. Her eyes went back in her head. Her freckled face lit up. “Do I even want to know what something like this costs?” she asked.
“No.”
“I can’t imagine anything sexier than being naked in this coat.”
“I can vouch for that,” I said.
Emma spun with her arms straight out. Her ponytail bounced.
“So I guess that answers the question of whether Darcy loves you back,” she said.
“Well, he said the three little words.” I showed her the note.
“I am so happy for you, Tess.”
“Thank you, darling, but don’t hire a band and print invitations. It’s not like he’s going to dump Cosima and get down on one knee.”
“You don’t know that,” Emma said.
Yes, I do. To Emma, in her twenties, love is a fantasy. To me, in my thirties, love is an awkward reality you try to squeeze in around the complications in your life. Somewhere along the way, you have to decide if it’s worth it.
I held out my hands to reclaim the coat from Emma, who reluctantly slipped it off. I knew how she felt. It’s like taking off your superhero costume and becoming an ordinary human being again. She bit her lip with undisguised jealousy and desire as I folded it and returned it to the box. I was pleased.
“Are you going to wear it for your date at the Hilton?” Emma asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, wow,” she said. “This is so romantic.”
“No, no, romance is dead,” I informed her, which is my way of controlling my expectations. It’s easier than being wildly disappointed.
“You should let herself be happy once and awhile,” Emma told me, shaking her head.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Emma sighed. “Jane’s going to be at the Hilton, too. Remember, the BFI gala on Sunday is in the hotel ballroom. There will be stars and popzees all over the place. You can show off.”
“Darcy’s the only one I’m showing off for,” I said.
“Well, everyone will think you’re somebody, Tess. I mean, you are, of course, but you know what I mean. Somebody famous. You’re going to stop traffic, honestly you will. I’d love to see the looks you get when you stroll into the Hilton lobby wearing that coat.”
I could tell you that I don’t care about things like that, but I’d be lying. Every woman wants to get the looks.
“Speaking of Jane, I left a message for the guy I know at Godfrey Kahn’s production company,” I told Emma. “I said he should be taking a close look at Jane for that part in Kahn’s next pic.”
Emma clasped her hands together. “Did you really? Thank you! Jane will be so pleased.”
“I don’t know if it will help.”
“I’m sure it will. That’s brilliant, Tess, really. You know, I’m sure Jane would love to meet you. Who knows, maybe she could be a new client for us. She and I are having dinner tonight at Hakkasan. Would you like to join us?”
“Tonight’s the premiere for that damn musical at the Garrick,” I said.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Sorry.”
Emma headed for the door with one last, longing look at the box on my kitchen table. “I suppose it’s because of the premiere tonight,” she added. “That makes sense. Everyone is busy getting ready.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“No one’s writing or calling back today. It’s weird.”
“It’s Saturday,” I said, but I had noticed the same thing. Fool that I am, I didn’t give it a second thought.
The Garrick is one of those classic nineteenth-century London theaters, lavish and Victorian, gold leaf adorning everything inside but the toilet stalls. It’s only a few steps from Trafalgar Square, so I walk past it every day to and from the bus stop. I arrived an hour before the curtain, in time for a glass of red wine and some puff pastry snails. The premiere was obviously a hot ticket, attracting snotty City types along with the theater and publishing mafia. The evening was warm, so the glitterati were spilling out onto the sidewalk, where the smokers could get their fixes.
You wouldn’t think I would feel underdressed in a shimmery silver cocktail dress, but everything feels shabby after the fur. I air kissed Penelope Keith. I pinky waved at Simon Cowell, who looked unbelievably bored. I pushed my way into the lobby, which was crowded with bejeweled women and gay men bumping drink glasses into each other. Everyone was sweating in the heat. The Random House directors strutted around like they owned the world, but they mostly do, so who can blame them?
I got more wine. Alcohol is the only way to survive these things. I had some pâ
té smeared on a cracker and threaded my way through the room, stopping to smile and hobnob. Most of the men were in tuxes. The women’s breasts were high and outside. Lots of silk and chiffon. Diamonds everywhere.
I spotted Cosima in a corner holding court with three executives from Sony. Tiny Asian men with lots of money. Darcy wasn’t with her. I know she saw me, but she declined even to nod her head imperially in my direction.
I didn’t care. I wondered how God would score this battle, her plotting to ruin me, my sleeping with her husband. I never claimed to have the moral high ground in this fight. Looking at her, I wondered if it was really possible that she had had something to do with Lowell’s death. People cross terrible lines for power all the time, but there’s also that biblical admonition about gaining the whole world and losing your immortal soul. Perhaps it doesn’t apply if you lack a soul to begin with.
Sally Harlingford appeared at my shoulder. She was dressed the way she always is, elegant and precise in yellow silk, someone who would rather take a little of the best than more of something second-rate. She had worn that same designer dress several times before, but it was beautiful and timeless. I wasn’t going to tell her about my fur. I’m sensitive to not making Sally feel at all jealous. I know there are things she would love to do that she can’t. It’s strange, seeing Cosima and Sally at the same time, two women veterans of the industry with such different paths. One ruthless and successful and enamored of the limelight; one world-weary and private. I wondered if I was staring at my fate in another fifteen years, and I couldn’t help ask myself which path I would choose if I could and where I would like to end up.
Like Cosima or like Sally.
“Are you going to smile and make nice with her?” she asked me, following my eyes to Cosima.
“Why spoil a lovely evening?” I said.
Sally shrugged, as if I was being petulant. And maybe I was.
“You don’t want Cosima as an enemy,” Sally told me.
“I think it’s too late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lowell,” I said.
Sally looked at me sharply. “Excuse me?”
“Someone’s trying to make it look like I was at Lowell’s place when he died. Cosima’s the only one I can think of.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“The police say he wasn’t alone when he died,” I told her.
“Lowell? That’s hardly a surprise.”
“Whoever was there planted evidence against me. They made it look like Lowell was trying to pressure me for sex over the Santelli affair.”
“I assume that’s not true?” Sally said, with a ghost of a smile.
“Sally, please.”
“I think you’re making too much of this.”
“They used a cotton swab to sample my DNA!” I protested. “I’m like a suspect in a damn Patricia Cornwell novel!”
“I love those books,” Sally said mildly. She flagged down a waiter with a silver tray of appetizers and studied the bruschetta carefully before selecting one. “Don’t worry—you’re about fifteen years too old for Lowell’s tastes.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“The scary thing is that Lowell’s death isn’t even my biggest problem,” I added.
“Oh?”
I gave her the thirty-second synopsis. Dorothy. Milton. Saleema.
“So what do you do now?” Sally asked. “Kill him? Would it be too suspicious if this Milton person died of erotic asphyxia, too?”
“Funny.”
“Seriously, what’s your next step?”
“Get a lawyer.”
“You know this could take months to resolve,” she said.
“Maybe years.”
“So what happens in the interim? Do you stay put, or do you leave the agency anyway?”
“I’m still deciding,” I said.
“I’ve already told you—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to stay with Cosima. You can make a lot of money.” Sally stroked blond hair away from her eyes.
“It’s not about money.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“Oh, come on, Sally, you should know. It’s about freedom. It’s about doing what the hell I want to do, making choices for myself. Isn’t that what you wanted, too?”
Sally smiled. “You can savor all that for a while when you’re on your own, and then it becomes about money again.”
That’s true. We can’t all be like Oliver, reveling in our poverty. You can talk about freedom, and you can talk about power, but in the end, you’re talking about money.
“The industry is a world of giants these days, Tess,” Sally added. “The little people get stepped on. I’m not trying to be the voice of doom, just telling it like it is.”
“Well, you’re depressing me.”
“I know you,” she told me. “You’re impulsive. Sometimes that works for you, and sometimes it doesn’t. This may be a moment in your life when you should listen to the angel that tells you to slow down.”
“I’m not sure I have any angels around me,” I said. “Just devils.”
Sally’s eyes flitted over my shoulder. “Shh,” she warned me.
I turned around and flinched when I saw that Cosima had swooped down on us, leaving the Japanese men from Sony in the care of a young blond intern from Bardwright. I felt a little like a squirrel that looks up just as the hawk is landing on it. Cosima’s nails resembled talons curled around her wineglass, long and sharp enough to cut flesh. Her eyes could spot wounded prey from a thousand feet.
“Sally, Tess, how wonderful to see you both,” Cosima said, in a voice loud enough for people near us to hear her.
“Hello, Cosima,” Sally murmured.
“Would you mind giving me a moment with Tess?” Cosima asked pointedly.
I wanted Sally to stay, but when the ship hits the iceberg, it’s every man for himself.
“Not at all,” Sally said and melted into the crowd, leaving Cosima and me alone.
I had the feeling that people were watching us together. Cosima put a hand on my shoulder in what probably looked like a friendly gesture.
“Tell me about your trip to New York,” Cosima said.
I sipped my champagne. “It was fine.”
“Fine? That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“I wonder why you were in such a rush to go there. Is anything up with Dorothy?”
“No.”
“Oh, please. You think I don’t hear rumors?”
“Like what?” I asked.
Cosima’s lips hardly moved, as if she were a ventriloquist. I felt like the dummy. “Rumors of big legal problems, Tess. If one of the agency’s leading clients is having trouble, then I need to know at once. We have lawyers who can help us in these circumstances. This is not about you. This is about what’s best for Dorothy.”
“I’ll let you know if I need help,” I said.
“Do that.” Cosima folded her arms and smiled at someone in the crowd. She didn’t look at me.
“Marty tells me we have a meeting on Monday,” I said to her.
“Yes, we do.”
“What about?”
“That’s up to you,” Cosima informed me.
“Oh?”
“I hope we can talk about your future at Bardwright. It’s not too late to stop all this nonsense. We can work together. I can be an ally for you, Tess. A powerful ally.”
Or a powerful enemy. The message was clear.
30
I’M A PRACTICAL PERSON when it comes to the theater. I get an aisle seat in a back row, because by the time intermission comes around, I’m dying to pee, and if you don’t sprint for the ladies’ toilet as the orchestra plays the last trumpet fanfare, you wind up in a queue of ninety women crossing their legs and dancing in place. Theaters are obviously designed by men, who think this is all very funny.
I exited the loo after con
ducting my business and strolled out to the sidewalk, where the smokers were gathered. The Garrick is not air-conditioned, so I decided that smoky air outside was better than hot air inside. They say that secondhand smoke will kill you, but as an ex-smoker myself I like to take the occasional whiff to remind me of what I’m missing.
Taxis whizzed up and down Charing Cross. Teenagers with punk-spiked hair spilled out of Leicester Square. I was only a block or so from the Bardwright offices, and I thought about bailing on the rest of the musical and heading to the building to get some work done. Maybe pack a box or two. If I did want to resign, there were things inside I’d like to remove before Cosima had a chance to lock me out. But I wasn’t ready to do that yet.
Nearby, someone lit up. Smoke greeted my nostrils. God, I want a cigarette. I drifted in the direction of the Benson & Hedges aroma and realized that the smoke trail led to Guy Droste-Chambers, looking like a swollen wine barrel in his tuxedo. His plump cheeks were two rosy spiderwebs of blood vessels, flushed by several ounces of gin. There were crumbs in his beard, and his thinning hair had been mussed by the wind. He stood alone, leaning against the theater’s stone wall as if propping it up. When you catch someone like that, before he knows anyone is watching him, you can take a little peek into his soul. Guy looked like a man whom life was passing by too quickly, and he wasn’t happy with the course of the river.
“Hello, Guy,” I said.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth. His smile bloomed with a sinister delight when he saw me. He made the requisite review of my breasts, to make sure they had accompanied me to the theater.
“Ah, Filippa, darling, what a delight.”
“Nice tux,” I said.
Guy patted his stomach where the cummerbund labored to cover it. “Thank you for saying so. And you’re a vision, as always.”
He checked again. My breasts were still there.
