The Agency Read Free Page A

was planning on being naked most of the night. Toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup, L’Occitane shampoo, pair of black lace knickers, fresh blouse, and a packet of ribbed Trojans. What every girl needs for a tryst. The zipped pouch fit comfortably inside my purse.
    After my shower, I chose the tightest pair of jeans I could wear without risking circulatory failure and the amputation of my lower body. Honestly, I don’t know how Emma gets her jeans on or off. I picked out a push-up bra for the girls, not only because of Darcy but because I was having lunch with Guy Droste-Chambers, and the negotiations always go better with him when my tits are front and center. I hooked on a slim gold chain. Diamond studs. I wore an untucked strawberry silk shirt and left the top couple of buttons open. I squeezed my feet into killer black heels. Pointed toes. Mirror shine. Three-inch spikes. I swayed a little from the lack of oxygen up there. The shoes brought me in at five foot ten.
    My hair is short, bottle blond, with a few strands of color. Blue. Red. I’m going for that delicate balance of young, hip, tarty, and aggressive. I worked in a pomade with my fingers and spent fifteen minutes messing and remessing until I was satisfied that I was irresistibly sexy. Guy will think this entire look is for him, which it isn’t, but I’m okay with that.
    Am I beautiful? Well, I have to work at it, and that means working a lot harder at thirty-six than I ever did when I was twenty-six. Even so, I get there when I need to. Wherever I go today, men will stare, but that’s no challenge. Men will stare at anything with breasts. The real test is whether women will take a second glance and pinch their mouths unhappily. I still get those jealous looks, but I know my days are numbered.
    Beauty is an attitude. It’s about confidence. It’s the message you send to the world. Someone once told me that nice people aren’t beautiful—and that’s harsh, but it’s probably true. You have to have a bit of edge to be beautiful, like you know you’ve got something other people want, and they can’t have it. Beauty is about ego.
    Sexy is something different. I think women who love sex have a chemical makeup that men can whiff like pheromones in the air. I had a boyfriend who claimed he could look at any woman and decide in five seconds whether or not she enjoyed giving oral sex. (Honey, we
all
like to get it, don’t we?) He kept a scorecard on his computer. This is what you get when you date an industrial engineer. Unfortunately, I discovered that the entries in his BJ ledger didn’t stop after he met me, so it was time to move on.
    I spent the morning working from home, answering e-mails, calling clients, reading crappy manuscripts, and sweet-talking editors and reporters. Everyone wanted to talk about Lowell. They all wanted dirt. I dropped a couple of hints about his being dressed in a white corset and garters when he went to the big sex shop in the sky. I couldn’t resist.
    Someone named Nicholas Hadley left me a voice mail message. He didn’t say who he was or what he wanted, so he was way down on my callback list. Probably a writer trying to pitch a book. I’m at the point where I don’t tell anyone what I do for a living, becauseeveryone has either written a book, thinks they could write a book, or knows someone who has written a book. I figured Hadley was one of the three.
    I also talked to my solicitor and my banker and asked for their confidential assessments of whether I could launch my own agency and what I would need to make it work. They talked about cash flow, client agreements, contracts, currency exchange rates, financial accounting, and administrative support. In other words, I would need to hire people to do the things I didn’t know how to do and didn’t want to do so that I could do what I do best: make deals.
    However, they were very encouraging. If you have Dorothy Starkwell, they both told me, you can do it. That’s what it