I speed walk to Brixton tube, hop on the Victoria line, and zip up to Oxford Circus, emerging into the sunshine and making my way to Soho.
I reach my destination at quarter past seven.
The Lark is a trendy independent café, perfectly located far away enough from Regent Street and Oxford Street that it doesn’t attract too many tourists, but still central enough on a bustling side street to fuel the local office workers and the WestEnd artists with its top-notch coffee. I order a flat white to go before walking down the road to lean against a wall and scroll through my phone while I wait.
At half past seven, I see Shamari heading into The Lark. I smile to myself. She really is a creature of routine. Shamari is five foot four and a force of nature, one of the best agents in the business, and renowned for being fiercely protective of her clients. She’s never afraid to go after what she wants on their behalf, even if it’s a decidedly punchy request. With her poker-straight black hair cut in a chic bob, bold red lipstick, and a fitted black dress with heels, Shamari looks ready for battle today. As ever.
I put my phone away and saunter back toward the café, sipping my coffee and lingering to the side. A few minutes later, she marches back out. I head straight toward her.
“Shamari!” I gasp, feigning complete surprise.
“Harper Jenkins,” she says, a knowing smile creeping across her lips as she comes to a stop in front of me. “What areyoudoing here?”
“Just grabbing the best coffee in London before I head to the office,” I say, gesturing to The Lark. “I don’t know what beans they’re using, but this stuff is gold.”
“Your office is in Vauxhall,” she remarks. “Nowhere near Oxford Street.”
“A small sacrifice for the really good stuff.”
“Funny I should bump into you at the exact time and place I get my coffee every morning,” she says, tilting her head at me.
“London is just one big small town, isn’t it? Anyway, tell me your news! What have you been up to?”
“You can walk me to the office and tell me what you want on the way,” she offers, rolling her eyes.
“How cynical of you to think I want something,” I remark, falling into step with her. “Comes with being Britain’s most esteemed talent agent, I guess.”
“Flattery gets you everywhere. Come on, Harper, get to the point.”
“I heard that Audrey Abbot is returning to acting.”
She halts in her tracks to stare at me in disbelief.
“How did you find out about that?”
“So it’s true, then.” I brighten. “That’s great news!”
She sighs before continuing toward her office. “Who told you?”
“You know I never reveal my sources.”
“Don’t get any ideas about Audrey, Harper, you’re wasting your time,” Shamari says loftily. “You know as well as I do that she does not do press. She won’t go anywhere near journalists. She’s made that very clear.”
“She also made it clear that she wouldn’t act again, but you obviously have sway there,” I point out carefully.
“I didn’tswayher to do anything.”
“You have to let me do a piece on her,” I plead.
“How about, instead, you interview Julian Newt?”
“Who the hell is Julian Newt?”
“My latest client and the fabulous actor playing her nephew,” Shamari informs me. “I’m sure you’ve watchedTell Me Again, the Netflix rom-com he was in recently? That’s right up your street.”
“Oh, yes! The main guy? He’s sexy,” I recall.
“You want to interview him? He’sverycharming.”
