“Not even close,” I said, trying to ignore how the word “friends” had made something tighten in my chest. We’d seen each other once a month for the last year or so, ever since Jodi had started as an assistant. Did that qualify as a friendship? Part of me hoped it did, because since moving to London I’d found making new friends outside of work all but impossible. And yet . . . the one time the two of us had gone out for a drink, I’d dropped my guard and told her something personal. The next day an assistant I didn’t know emailed me to recommend her grief counselor. We hadn’t gone out again.
“His charity work is probably taking up his writing time,” Geraldine said sympathetically. “He just spent one whole month in South America so he could meet all the children he’s raising money for. I don’t know how he does it.”
“We wonder the same thing,” I said neutrally, thinking of the artful shots of the vineyards he’d also managed to visit.
“Tell us something we don’t know about Ezra, Evie,” Jodi said, widening her eyes, as if we were both irritated by Geraldine. Coconspirators.
“Well,” I said, still light-headed from too much cheap booze on an empty stomach. “The truth is that Ezra . . .” I saw Jodi hold her breath. My phone buzzed.
I paused, realizing how easy it would be to tell them too much; all I had to do was explain why my friends back home call him NOB. Ruining his and the agency’s reputation in one fell swoop.
Much to their dismay, I reached into my bag, pulling out the sandwich to get to my phone. Oh, what the hell. I opened the packet and took a generous bite. People who think being an agent is a glamorous career path haven’t seen me catching the last train home cradling a loaf of bread so I can eat toast in bed. Jodi cleared her throat, looking embarrassed for me. “Well? Come on, Evie, share.”
“Okay,” I relented. “The truth is . . .” I paused to quickly polish off the sandwich. They took an impatient step closer. “His next project is going to blow you all away.”
A beat. Their faces filled with disbelief. “Right,” said Jodi flatly, and this time I was the one left in the cold as she and Geraldine exchanged looks.
That’s the thing about being an assistant for seven years. You get really, really good at it.
Ezra might be a NOB, but no one here was ever going to find out why.
I tucked the empty packet back into my bag and retrieved my phone. I had several missed calls from Monty. Knowing him, it could be anything from a client crisis to wanting a suit dry-cleaned.
For once, I was grateful he was high-maintenance. “I’m so sorry, but I have to run. I’m needed back at the office.”
Geraldine checked the time on her waterproof Baby-G watch. “But it’s after ten p.m.!” she said, bewildered. “On a Friday.”
I gave her my sweetest smile. “Welcome to agenting.”
* * *
“Code Red. They’ve ambushed me.” Monty’s voice was a whisper but echoed oddly. “Did you tell them where I was tonight?”
“Who?” I dodged through the Friday-night Dean Street crowds.
“Sam-and-Max. They’re here.” Sam-and-Max were the producers for Ezra’s new script. They did everything as if they were one person, like a hydra someone had tried to kill that had merely divided in two and continued its life as normal. I’d never met two more enthusiastically polite people. It seemed unlikely they’d approach Monty without any warning.
“Are you at the Ash?”
“Aha!” he hissed. “So you did tell them I was here.”
I bit back my response. Monty was always at the private members-only club; he’d all but moved in. He spent more time at the Ash than at home, and anyone who knew even the slightest thing about Monty wouldn’t look for him at the office.
“And they both just turned up?”
“Yes, they didn’t even call first.” A noise drowned out his next words. Was that a flush? “You need to get here. Code Red, Evelyn.”
Monty had devised a code system for needing my help when he was with clients so that they didn’t know he was calling for assistance. Amber meant “stand by for action.” Green was for minor emergencies. Taxis that needed booking, that sort of thing. The severity of a Code Red situation was unpredictable. The last one had involved a client choking on a meatball, and Monty had been too drunk to remember that I’d gone home for the weekend and couldn’t perform the Heimlich maneuver from Sheffield. The client had, despite this, survived.
“I need an extraction.” It was also worth bearing in mind that Monty could be dramatic. We worked with screenwriters, not spies. “Shit.” For a few seconds, I could hear only women’s voices in the background.
“Monty? Is everything okay?”
“Hang on,” he whispered. The voices faded. “Come and get me out of here!”
“I’m on my way. Which room are you in?” The club was based in Mayfair and its seven floors included a rooftop pool and a health spa.
Monty mumbled something about wombles talking.
“Sorry, I don’t think I caught that.”
“I said I’M IN THE WOMEN’S TOILET.”
“Then, er, leave?” I suggested helpfully.
“I’d love to, only I’m STUCK, Evelyn. I’m bloody stuck.”
As I headed for the tube, I was immensely glad I’d eaten that egg sandwich. Something told me I’d better be sober for this.
Chapter 2
Stuck
INT: THIRD-FLOOR BAR, THE ASH, PRIVATE MEMBERS’ CLUB—FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 11:02 P.M.
The bar’s color scheme is ironically bright and garish. There are several giant film canisters on the ceiling from which reels of filmstrip hang down. A purple curtain with lime-green tassels hangs between the bar and the restaurant beyond. A blond-haired waiter in a crisp usher’s uniform stands next to the curtain. He huffs a filmstrip out of his face and appears to be listening.
“Please, I have to get across the restaurant without being seen.”
The blond waiter clasped his hands, his smile bland and practiced, well-versed in handling the eccentricities of the Ash’s clientele. “Miss Summers, I appreciate you’re Monty’s assistant, but this is highly unorthodox. We wouldn’t want to disturb our other guests.”
Monty was a founding member of the club, hence the first-name basis, so the staff knew who I was even though he wouldn’t pay for an additional membership fee. As a nonmember, my rights were limited. I tried my best to look like someone worth helping.