But … that really wasn’t the worst thing. It was barely 10 a.m. The meeting would’ve just started before the call was made. Donal and Ffion were in complete agreement and had railroaded Verity into whatever was done. She hadn’t put up much of a fight by the sound of things. Sounded like she didn’t care very much. Maybe she was glad to be rid of me, if that was to be the way things were.
Donal and Ffion would arrange a contract that would keep me at the agency but rewrite the terms to bleed me dry. Their cut could double or triple to keep up with any ‘reputational damages’ they incurred by keeping me on their books.
I should leave before I was pushed. I should reach out to other agents and try to staunch my losses before …
But no, I made millions for Verity’s agency. Literally, millions. It was my books that were keeping the lights on over there. Surely, they wouldn’t want to lose me, no matter how deranged my life seemed to them.
I’d been approached by several other agents since my books hit the big time. I had a swathe of business cards in a box somewhere and a good dozen emails from other agents in London and abroad who had deemed me an attractive option at one stage or another.
There was Bryce, the handsome Californian with a big agency out in LA, who had invited me for drinks when I was in New York last year. Just before I’d come back to England to find Ollie in bed with flexible Jamie.
He’d rolled out the welcome mat for me. Which was a polite way of saying he basically invited me to sit on his face in the middle of a Midtown Manhattan cocktail bar. He said his agency was very keen to sign me.
Then there was Camilla, who worked for a posh agency in London. We’d met at a launch or something beforeChristmas last year. She had shoved her mobile number into my pocket with a wink. “If you ever want to ditch Jones and her cute little, ah, start-up, give me a bell. I’d drop everything.”
But I’d vowed always to stay with Verity. Yes, her agency was tiny and sometimes it limited what we could do, but dammit, ten years of friendship were more important than more bloody marketing opportunities or adding another zero to our bank balances. She’d been with me through thick and thin – mostly thin and then very recently a huge chunk of sudden thickness.
It’d always been smooth sailing until now … Maybe it was the case that Verity had no real experience with my profile or the magnitude of coverage I seemed to garner.
Perhaps that was cruel to think, but Verity was acting like this was just business. No, this was my life.
I could rely on her … couldn’t I? She’d always have my back. Just like I’d always have hers.
It hadn’t felt like it over the past few days, but for God’s sake, Arden, she let you stay a week at her house and hasn’t said a word about leaving puddles of lube on her living room floor.
Through the wisdom of the universe, my phone started ringing again. I looked down at it, hoping it was Verity ringing back to tell me she’d solved everything, or that, Jesus, what twats were Donal and Ffion, right? Anyway, never mind about that, what was going on with your life?
Instead, Ollie’s name flashed up on my phone. Did I want to answer it? No. Did I? Yes. I’d felt bad for not returning any of his messages for days.
“Hi,” I offered.
“Bloody hell, he lives.” There was a pause. “Sorry, poor choice of words considering what’s been going on.” He stopped talking and waited for me to say more but I had nothing to add. I could hear the sounds of the city down the line. He’d be walking between his chambers and theHigh Court or to some meeting. He always made his calls on these walks. The number of times we arranged what we wanted for dinner with him cutting me off halfway through with a “Sounds lovely, babe, gotta go, bye” were too numerous to count.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
“Sorry I haven’t rung or anything,” I said. My voice sounded faint. I’d suddenly become very tired.
“No, no, I understand. How awful for that bloke you know. It all sounds unreal. Can’t imagine what it was like for the poor guy who found him. Imagine stumbling on that when you were coming home from a night at the pub.”
Oh, you have no idea.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I need your help,” I said, changing the subject. “You remember when you read over my contract with the agency when I started?” I gave him a rundown of the situation. As quick as possible, actually, because I found out when I started speaking that it was quite painful to talk about.
“I can do that for you. I’ll take a look, or I can find you someone who works in that field. I know a couple of entertainment lawyers.”
“Thank you.”
“Babe, are you okay? Really? Don’t give me the pat answer.”
Was I? How do you define okay? Having friends who you trusted to have your back, I suppose, was a good sign. Having a boyfriend who didn’t cheat on you or try to kill you. I’m sure most people thought that was quite essential. Having a family that … knew you were alive and vice versa. Yeah, I’d imagine nine in ten respondents would put that near the top. Well, I had a needy German shepherd and two antisocial cats. It wasn’t much, but it was more than some.
“I’ll be fine. I need to sleep now,” I said and hung up.
I went upstairs and crawled back into bed – switching my phone very much off. “Let sleep take me,” I whispered under my breath, and by some miracle it did.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
