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‘So you missed the elevator,’ smiled Abramski, ‘why don’t you give me the bar pitch?’ He must only have been about thirty, thought Brooke, but he had the shiny armour–plated confidence of someone ten years older.
Brooke took a deep breath. ‘Here’s the short version. A teenage girl works for her father’s magic show. She wakes up one morning to find that she has real magical powers and uses them to help solve mysteries and the dark forces behind them. Think Harry Potter meets Medium,’ she said quickly, pulling the description from the air.
‘Supernatural rather than fantasy?’ ‘Abramski pouted thoughtfully.
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Why good?’
‘Fantasy equals expensive,’ he smiled. ‘Lots of CGI, flying about on wires, building models, and so on. Let’s just say teenage witches are cheaper, less risky.’
‘It’s such a gorgeous book,’ gushed Brooke, ‘so well written, with this beautiful romance spinning through it – and it’s genuinely really scary.’
Watching him grin at her enthusiasm, she took a breath and tried to focus herself into a Liz mind–set. Cool, measured, impossible not to take seriously. She thought for a moment, realizing that Hollywood wouldn’t care about how well written something was.
‘It’s a book that will appeal to both teenage girls and their mothers,’ Brooke said firmly. ‘It’s got very widespread appeal, and Yellow Door are going to market it as such. This book is going to be an international best–seller. This time next year, Eileen Dunne is going to be a brand. Option now before the price skyrockets,’ she said slowly.
That last line seemed to have impact.
‘In which case I’d better give it a read.’
He’d already asked for the bill and was waving to a tall blonde woman who had walked through the door.
‘My lunch appointment is here. Good luck with the wedding.’
‘Thanks for making time for me.’ She slid off her stool and grabbed her bag.
Mimi Hall was going to kill her.
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE
Tess dropped her holdall in the living room of her Prince of Wales Drive mansion flat and flopped onto the sofa. It all looked so different, so tidy without her heels and clothes littering the floor and her Vogues and nail polishes scattered across the table. Dom had always been more pernickety than she was about the smartness of the flat, and now it had all the clean lines and organization of a bachelor flat: CDs organized and filed alphabetically, magazines in a rack, pans gleaming on the hob, quite possibly untouched since she left. Tess had only been away for a few
weeks, but it even smelt different, of aftershave and burnt toast. Feeling tired and grubby, she went to shower, hoping the warm water and the zingy tangerine body polish she’d bought at JFK might provide a temporary pep–up from the six–hour flight. As she scrubbed, she ran over the two options she had brought with her to wear. One, a scarlet silk dress with a halterneck she had bought in a fit of excitement when she had first shopped along Madison Avenue a few weeks earlier. Too sexy, too dressy, too much, she thought, wondering why she had packed it in the first place.
But then the other outfit – black trousers and a black silk T–shirt – didn’t seem appropriate to the occasion either. As she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel – there had never been clean towels when she and Jemma had shared the bathroom either – she silently cursed Sean Asgill for changing her plans so abruptly, causing her to rush her packing the previous night. She also realized that she was still angry at Dom. As soon as she had hung up on Sean, she had emailed Dom about her new plans.
Coming to London Thursday! x
He had replied almost immediately.
In Dublin Thursday night. New hotel launch. Doing story on it. Want to come?
After his rudeness towards Jack, the weekend had gone from bad to worse. Despite her carefully planned itinerary, he always had somewhere else he wanted to go – somewhere better, somewhere more cool. It didn’t matter that Tess wanted to show him places she had found, it all seemed to be a competition for Dom. He’ll fit right into New York life, Tess could remember thinking. Tess’s big treat of a table at Per Se hadn’t gone down much better, as he’d been disappointed there were no celebrities to ogle and he bitched that the tasting menu was ‘too fiddly’. So Tess hadn’t been too upset that she’d had to reply to his email:
Can’t come to Dublin. Asgill work do till late on Thurs. Hot date Friday? X
Despite her anger, a part of her was hoping that, back on English soil, they might regain the spark and spice of her previous visit. She parked the thought, realizing she was running late. Striding over to her bedroom she rifled through her wardrobe. Now full of suits and men’s sweaters, her own clothes had all been squashed into a corner. She immediately recognized them as impulse, unflattering purchases that she’d not had the heart to throw away: a puffball skirt, a rip–off Lanvin cocktail dress made from a cheap turquoise satin, a beaded top that made her breasts look too big. There was nothing for it but one of the original two options. Over the top or underdressed. Which one should it be? Just then the intercom began buzzing fiercely. Still in her bra and pants, she ran over and pressed the button.
‘Who is it?’
‘Hi, it’s Sean.’
Flustered, she stuttered, ‘You’re early.’
‘Yeah. Can I come up?’
