by Ally O'Brien
Nice.
It was bad enough that Jane’s errant dress strap had made me the butt of bad jokes in Hollywood, but the rest of the media world was laughing, too. When I surfed over to the Bookseller Web site, there I was again. Openmouthed, fondling. Ditto for Hello! and the Telegraph. Rebekah Wade of the Sun left me a voice mail in such snorting hysterics that she probably needed oxygen.
Needless to say, word of my encounter raced throughout the industry with all the speed and prickly discomfort of an STD. When I arrived at the office, Emma smothered a giggle as she said, “Good morning.” Several people applauded my arrival. My colleagues, displaying their usual tact and sensitivity, had enlarged the TMZ photo and taped a five-by-three-foot poster to my door. My mouth was the size of a grapefruit. Jane’s breasts looked like basketballs. I smiled through gritted teeth, left the poster where it was, and went inside and closed my door.
Emma followed me. Her face was deadpan. “Do I have to worry about you moving in on my girlfriend?”
“Do I look like I find this funny?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. Really. I was concerned when Jane didn’t come back to my place after the party, but then I saw why this morning. What on earth happened?”
“Watch for yourself. The whole thing is on YouTube.”
“Oh, I know. I saw it. They were running video on the BBC this morning.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said.
Emma winced. “Um, no.”
I felt an urge to shoot someone.
Emma sat down and leaned across my desk. She whispered even though the door was closed. “Is today the day? Are you doing it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s brilliant!”
“Well, the timing could be a whole lot better, thanks to last night’s little traffic accident with Jane’s D cup.”
I could see the news reports on my press release now. Tess Drake, last seen feeling up a starlet’s naked boob at the BFI party, announced today that she was accepting clients for her new entertainment agency.
“Oh, no, it’s perfect!” Emma assured me. “Everyone will know who you are.”
“The Breast-Dressed Girl in London?” I suggested sourly. That was the photo caption on the OK! magazine Web site.
Emma lectured me with a wag of her index finger. “Tess, you know as well as I do that bad publicity is just as helpful as good publicity. Maybe more. Who cares how many boob jokes they make as long as people remember you?”
I groaned, but I knew that she was right. I had given the same counsel over the years to clients sued for trashing hotel rooms, clients arrested with transvestite hookers, and clients caught in amateur videos of their Caribbean sex romps. Being infamous is the same as being famous in today’s gossip-hungry world. Even so, it’s a lot easier to give the advice than it is to get it.
“How do you feel?” Emma asked. “About launching the agency, I mean.”
“Like I could throw up,” I said honestly.
I didn’t really care about the tabloid trash, which was just a bit of fluff that would be pushed aside by the next celebrity scoop. By the end of the day, Amy Winehouse would be back in rehab, or Angelina Jolie would have adopted nine more children. If anything, worrying about my debut as a lesbian porn star kept my mind off what I was about to do. In fifteen minutes, I would march into Cosima’s office and say sayonara to the Bardwright Agency. Au revoir to ten years of my life. I had been test-driving snappy ways to drop the bomb on the bus ride across the city. Hasta la vista, baby. Good-bye and good luck. Feel free to kiss my arse as I go.
Beneath the bravado, though, I was a jittery wreck. You can dream about the joys of being free, but it’s not so easy when you’re ten thousand feet up and the ground below looks really small. I wanted it to be over. Say the word, pack my bags, and start my new life. Let Cosima tell me what a terrible mistake I was making and then go ahead and make it anyway.
“How was last night with Darcy?” Emma asked. “Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“God, you must have felt so sexy in that coat!”
“I didn’t wear it long,” I admitted.
Emma giggled. “Was it fabulous?”
“Fabulous but strange,” I said.
“Strange? How so?”
“Strange like it’s not just a game anymore. It’s real between us.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
Darcy was gone again when I woke up. No note. It didn’t bother me, because I knew the score. I could love him and sleep with him, as long as I didn’t expect anything more. That had been our arrangement from the start. So why did some part of me scream that I was a whore in a fur coat? I loved the man and wanted to say so again and again. I wanted to hear him say it back. I wanted to marry him.
God almighty, did I really just think that? What’s wrong with me today?
I heard fingernails tapping on my door. Marty Goodacre, Cosima’s faithful basset hound, poked his head inside. His brown teeth grinned at me. Coffee sloshed over the top of a mug clutched in his nervous hand.
“Lovely photo, Tess,” he chirped.
“Fuck off, Marty. What do you want?”
“It’s time for your one-on-one with Cosima,” he reminded me cheerily. “She’s expecting you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Well, don’t be late—it’s a busy day. I’ve been ringing up reporters all morning for a press conference at noon.”
“Press conference? About what?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy!” Marty sang in a high-pitched voice.
I remembered Guy telling me about rumors of an earthquake at Bardwright, and I didn’t like that the ground was already shaking and I still had no idea what was going on. It also worried me that Marty seemed insufferably pleased with himself. The tittering that normally followed each of his sentences was louder than usual.
“Did Cosima sign a new film rights deal with Sony?” I asked. “Is that what you’re announcing? I saw her talking up the suits on Saturday night.”
“Film deal? Oh, no, it’s bigger than that, much bigger.” Titter, titter.
“Just keep the reporters away from me, okay? I’m in a pissy mood.”
“How is that different from your mood on any other day?” he asked.
“Good-bye, Marty.”
“Remember, Cosima needs to see you right away.”
“Instantaneously,” I said.
“Honk, honk!” he cried, squeezing the photo of Jane’s breast like it was the rubber bulb on a bicycle horn. He shut the door.
“What an arsehole,” Emma murmured with a shiver.
I didn’t care about Marty, but I did want to know what this press conference was about.
“What’s the big secret?” I asked Emma. “Have you heard any buzz around the office?”
“Not a word. Cosima must be keeping this on a short lead.”
I frowned. It made me think Cosima knew what was coming—me quitting, taking Dorothy with me, going for a big splash in the press. She had obviously ginned up some announcement of her own to steal the news from me. I wondered what it was, but it didn’t really matter. She could have the headlines today. Tomorrow would be my story.
“My insides are water,” I said, standing up. “How bad is it to leak shit on the floor when you’re resigning?”
“You are too funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
I wasn’t, either. I wondered if I had time to hit the loo before I made the march to the corner office.
“This is your moment, Tess. Really it is. I’m so excited for you.”
Emma leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as I steadied myself with both palms on the top of my desk. I breathed in and out until I was calm but dizzy. Emma held the door open for me, and I squared my shoulders and headed for the hallway, wobbling on my heels. I skipped the loo and squeezed my arse cheeks closed. This wasn’t going to take long. How many words does it r
eally take to say I quit?
I walked gingerly, not wanting to fall on my face. Remnants of my morning eggs and toast burped into my mouth, and I swallowed them back down. I could feel my deodorant dissolving into sticky white balls. My nose began to run. I was a portrait of self-confidence.
I wondered how Cosima would react to my big farewell. Maybe she would offer to double my salary. Maybe she would break down and cry and beg me to stay.
Or maybe not.
Her door was closed. From where I stood, I could see Marty, who watched me with a smirk from inside his office. I ignored him. He was number two on the list of things I wouldn’t miss around here. Number one was behind the door.
I knocked and heard Cosima’s voice, cool and aristocratic. “Come in, Tess.”
I went inside and closed the door behind me. Cosima’s desk was stretched diagonally across the corner of the office with two windows behind her overlooking the National Gallery. She sat with her head down, red pen in hand as she pretended to edit a contract. I shuffled my feet and studied the photographs all over the walls. Cosima with Ian Rankin. Cosima with Gordon Brown. Cosima with Jamie Oliver. Cosima with Keira Knightley. Cosima’s expression was identical in every photo, as if she were molded out of Madame Tussaud’s wax. Maybe that was what they used in plastic surgery these days.
“Have a seat,” Cosima said, not looking up. Her reading glasses were balanced on the pointed tip of her nose. Her hair looked particularly black today, as if she had spent the weekend having the dye freshened at her salon. She twirled the pen in her hands, and I saw the painted nails of a new manicure, too.
The desk surface was so smooth I could see myself coming closer. She had objets d’art on the desk and on the window ledge. Romanian crystal. Asian jade. Native American wood carvings. I clung to the back of one of the guest chairs and decided to stand.
“I want you to know this isn’t personal,” I told her. “This is about me, not you.”
Cosima ignored me as if I hadn’t said anything. I chose my next words carefully, because I wanted to get them exactly right. I’d been dreaming about this moment for a long time.
I’ve decided to start my own agency. I’m resigning.
I’m giving you my notice.
I’m going out on my own.
I quit, you bitch.
As it turned out, none of those was quite appropriate for what happened next.
Cosima put down her pen and took off her glasses. She closed the manila folder in front of her and pushed it neatly aside. When she leaned forward, her fingers formed a little church steeple.
“How ironic,” she said. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
“What?”
“It’s not personal.”
I blinked and had no idea what was going on.
That was when Cosima smiled, the way a shark probably smiles as it gets ready to feast on your leg.
“You’re sacked, Tess,” she said.
36
I REALLY WISHED that I had visited the loo first.
“Excuse me?” I blurted out.
“You heard me.”
Yes, I had, but I couldn’t believe it. Was this her little game? Her way to sabotage me in the press? You can’t quit, Tess, I’ll sack you first. I expected to see Donald Trump bolt from the closet and bark, “You’re fired!” as if this were some kind of reality television show.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I demanded.
Cosima reacted with Zenlike calm. “I’ll miss that obscene little mouth around here. Really, I will. You’re always so entertaining. Like that titillating photo of you in the tabloids today. So emblematic of your taste and style.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“There you go again. I love your coarseness. What a shame it doesn’t fit with the new direction of our agency.”
“I quit,” I said, about fifteen seconds too late.
Cosima laughed. “You don’t get it, Tess, do you? That’s too bad. I’m very busy, so I’d appreciate it if you could pack your things as rapidly as possible and vacate the premises. You can give me your key to the building right now. No offense, but I’ve asked a security guard to assist you as you gather your personal effects. Can’t have you nicking the staplers, can we?”
I was dazed. Cosima knew it. She had landed a body blow, and I could see icy glee glowing behind her starchy skin. I wilted into the uncomfortable guest chair and squirmed.
“You knew I was going to resign,” I said.
“Your plans aren’t of much interest to me, Tess. However, my advice would be that you pursue a new career, because I believe you’ll find that most of the doors in the industry are closed to you now. Perhaps you can parlay your recent fame into some exciting job opportunities. Maybe Britney Spears is looking for a new publicist for her upskirt photos.”
She smiled wickedly.
I realized I was playing her game. Letting her rattle me. This was Cosima indulging in psychological warfare, because it was the only option open to her. Bragging to the world that she had sacked me didn’t change a thing. The result was the same. When I walked out of her office, I would be free.
“Tell the papers whatever the hell you want,” I snapped. “We can both spin it our way and see who wins.”
“The game is already over. You lose.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Cosima clucked her tongue in sad dismay. “I’ve always found hollow boasting to be particularly pathetic. It really doesn’t suit you, Tess. The fact is, I warned you not to get in my way. I gave you a fair chance to make the right choice. You could have been a partner here.”
“And live in your pocket like Marty and Jack? No thanks.”
Cosima’s razorlike smile evaporated. “Exactly what do you know about Jack and me?”
That was a mistake.
I had been careful never to mention Jack’s name around Cosima, and this was the wrong time to bring it up. As much as I wanted to throw it in her face, I couldn’t do that to Jack. Even so, I wondered if it was too late, if she already knew. I tried to read her face to see if her desire to destroy me was really payback for my affair.
“I have two eyes, Cosima. I can see that the men around you walk funny. Like you’ve got their balls locked up for safekeeping.”
Cosima restored the veneer of politeness to her face. She picked up her red pen again and reached for her half-frame glasses, ignoring me. “That will be all, Tess.”
I fired back. “All? I don’t think so. I haven’t even begun. Clients aren’t your chattel. They can go wherever they please. I’ve talked to every one of my clients in the past week, and they’re all prepared to bolt from Bardwright and sign on with me.”
“Clients,” Cosima replied, nodding. “Yes, I suppose we should have that discussion now. You’ll be contacted by our counsel, of course, but it’s better if we’re clear about this from the outset. I wouldn’t want you to put yourself in any legal jeopardy in the next few days.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m warning you explicitly not to contact any of the agency clients. Anything you say, or any incentives you offer, would almost certainly constitute a trade secret violation based on inside knowledge you’ve obtained as an employee of Bardwright. I don’t like to pile it on, Tess, and I know you’ll be struggling financially anyway, so you don’t need a legal judgment against you to add to your woes.”
“They’re my clients,” I insisted. “I recruited them. You can’t tell me not to call them. You’re crazy.”
“If they were, in fact, your clients, that might be true,” Cosima said. “But they’re not. They’re Bardwright clients.”
“Not if they choose to leave.”
“True, but they already chose to stay. They’re represented by Bardwright now, not you.”
“Excuse me?”
Cosima reached with obvious delight for another file folder on her desk. When she opened it, I saw at least two dozen pieces of paper nea
tly stacked inside. Without reading them, I could see that they were letters. Signed letters.
My heart sank.
“These are agency representation letters, Tess. As you’ll see, they are all endorsed as of this weekend. I’ll go through them with you one by one, so there’s no misunderstanding, all right?”
She took the first letter off the stack. “Thomas Alcock.”
My client. Former coach of the British World Cup team.
“Migdalia Vasquez.”
My client. Investigative journalist.
“Dingo Dave Dressner.”
My client. Radio disc jockey.
“Jean Paul Consaire.”
My client. Chef and restaurant owner.
“Michael O’Neill.”
My client. Actor.
“Anne Thompson.”
My client. Novelist and member of Parliament.
And on and on it went. Name by name, she eviscerated my roster of clients. I tried very hard not to cry, and I cried anyway. I couldn’t help myself. These were people I had called and e-mailed within the last five days, people who had sworn to me that they were with me, behind me, ready to stand at my side. People I had discovered. People I had made rich. People I called friends. And every one of them had signed the same boilerplate letter, formally assigning their representation to the Bardwright Agency and walking away from me.
Cosima continued until she had laid nearly thirty letters in front of me. They constituted the bulk of client relationships I had spent the past ten years building. The heart and soul of my business.
I understood now why no one was calling or writing me back. No one had the guts to say it to my face. Welcome to the Drake Media Agency, everyone. The agency with no clients.
I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t shattered.
“How?” I asked.
“Oh, please, Tess. Clients are neurotic little things—you know that. Scared of their own shadows.”
“What did you do? Threaten them?”
Cosima tut-tutted me as if I were a child. “I don’t need to threaten anyone. There’s no need to be so dramatic. The simple truth is that no one wants to join a losing team, Tess. They stick with winners. They want to be represented by an agency that has influence.”
