The Liberation of Alice Love(25)
Author: Abby McDonald

She left Saskia gingerly pulling on a rubber glove and returned to crisis management duties out front. The post was swiftly distributed to appropriate agents, a stern peek over their shoulder dealt with the extracurricular web activities, and as for the blinking answer machine…Vivienne could face that delight on her return. Alice was just wading through the last stack of faxes when the bell above the front door chimed and a tall, handsome man sauntered in.

“Hi there.” He fixed her with a dashing smile. His voice was arched with public school vowels and blue eyes were sparkling beneath the careless flop of his blond hair. Propping an elbow on the front of the reception desk, he casually surveyed the room. “Nick Savage. I have a meeting with Tyrell.”

Alice gave him an absent smile. “I think he’s been out,” she answered carefully, holding her finger in place in the middle of the pages. “But I’ll have someone check for you.”

“Great.” He flashed a grin at her again, running one hand through that artful fringe. “And if I could get a coffee? Soy no-fat latte with extra vanilla.”

Alice paused at the arrogance in his tone, but he had already turned away to check his reflection in the polished prints of screen greats that hung on every wall. Charming.

Alice found Saskia leaning against a dirty counter, painting the remainder of her fingernails. “I need you to run out to Starbucks,” Alice told her, trying not to notice the stack of mugs waiting, untouched in the sink. She better find that agency number…

“I’m sorry, but that’s not really my job.” Saskia had the nerve to smile at her with faux sincerity. “I need to stay in the office, for the phones. You understand.”

Alice took a deep breath. “It’s not for me; it’s for a client. And regardless of your job, the clients always come first.”

“Nick’s here?” Immediately, Saskia brightened. Putting down the tiny bottle, she blew frantically on her nails. “Is my hair OK?”

Alice managed not to roll her eyes. “Yes, Saskia, your hair is just fine.”

“Fab!” Saskia quickly sashayed out toward reception, but Alice lingered in the back, taking a detour by the agency board. Vivienne kept large charts of client activity, for the agents to keep track of each other’s bookings—and to inspire what she liked to term “the natural hunger of professionals.” In other words, competition. Scanning the various notes, Alice was surprised to see that this Nick Savage was already a client—and booked solid with auditions and meetings. Rupert, on the other hand, had a lone penciled comment reading, “Rom-com walk-on? (director also did The Descent 3: Return to Hell).”

Alice felt the first stirring of unease. Had Vivienne found a replacement to fill Rupert’s dashing breeches?

Out by the front desk, she found Saskia and Nick engaged in a time-old ritual of fluttering eyelashes and dazzling grins.

“Just a small place, to get away.” Nick was still leaning against the desk, eyes drifting down to appreciate the flash of cle**age in Saskia’s hastily unbuttoned blouse. “It’s so beautiful down there, I always find it so inspiring.”

“Mmm,” Saskia breathed, gazing at him with rapt adoration. “I just love Dorset. I always think of Thomas Hardy and what an influence the wild landscape had on his passions.”

Alice watched them from the doorway, amused. Any minute now, Saskia would be quoting old university essays about extended metaphors, and Nick would break into a monologue.

“Ah, Hardy.” Nick nodded, switching from roguish charm to serious artiste in a moment. At least he had range. “I starred as Jude at the Playhouse up at Oxford last year. What was it he said about destiny?” There was a pause, and a furrowed brow. “He might battle with his evil star—”

Oh, God, not this. Alice cleared her throat. “Saskia, that coffee?”

She looked over, resentful, but Nick quickly spoke up: “Oh, there’s no need. I’m fine.”

Of course he was.

Alice was about to exile Saskia back to the kitchen and save herself a reenactment of the poor playwright’s collected works when the door chimed again, and Tyrell sauntered in.

“Nick, you savage beast you!” A complex ritual of fist bumping and back slapping ensued. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long. Had a crazy meeting over at Working Title.” Tyrell tapped a finger to his nose and pointed at Nick. “Got some things coming up, perfect for you, but it’s all still hush-hush.”

“No problem,” Nick laughed, still nonchalant. “They’ve been taking care of me here.”

“Of course we have!” Tyrell pounded him on the shoulder. “Our Alice is a gem.” Sending a wink over his shoulder at her, he steered Nick toward the door. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

Alice watched them go with a shiver of distaste: a matching pair of designer suits and oversized egos. Oh, it was petty of her, she knew, to fault them for their infinite ambition when she was the one left filing papers—again—but Alice also knew without any doubt at all that each of them would happily stab the other in the back and trample all over the bleeding body to get ahead. Like some other people…

As she gathered up her papers and retreated to her attic, Alice wondered again how she could have been so wrong about Ella. Of all her friends, she would never have expected her to be the one to let her down—Cassie, in an episode of single-minded selfishness, perhaps; Flora, out of thoughtlessness; but Ella? And to do it in such a heartless, manipulative fashion? Alice could never have imagined. Even Julian—who had spent long evenings with both of them—was shocked by her duplicity. But of course, that was the point. It wasn’t out of character, because Ella had never had a character to begin with—or rather, it was all character: carefully constructed, artfully performed. The perfect friend.

Alice knew she was supposed to move on and put the whole matter out of her mind, but as she slowly settled back into her office—dusting down surfaces, watering the poor and neglected window box, and deleting the twenty-odd threatening phone messages from debt collection agencies—she couldn’t shake that deep sadness that came over her whenever she thought of Ella. There wasn’t a single detail of their time together she could look to as genuine or a moment that meant anything at all. Not a single detail.

Alice paused mid-polish, the cloth wavering in her hand. “The data never lie,” Nathan had said. He’d rhapsodized about the power of simple facts and figures, as if they were cryptic clues to be deciphered. He was tracking the money itself, forward through the trail of transfers and bank accounts Ella had to use to withdraw it from Alice’s account, but what about the other data?