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“your presence is much too intense to be contained in a mere few pages. The paper would combust, and think of the lawsuits I would have on my hands.”
    He was edging one meaty thigh closer to hers when she was saved by the arrival of a tall, reedy man at the table.
    “So sorry,” said David, her agent, dropping into a chair in a cascade of scarves and bags. “Bloody awful on the Tube this morning. Passenger under train, again! Liverpool this time. Dear God, the sorrow in this city.” He noticed Andrew and brightened. “Oh, hello! You’re the vet off Donkey Island , aren’t you?”
    Augusta introduced the two men, and they briefly exchanged gossip about mutual acquaintances. The London equivalent of dogs sniffing each other’s arses , she thought. Andrew finally left, after securing a promise that Augusta would call him one day soon.
    David snapped his napkin across his lap. “You look well,” he said. “Rested. The holiday worked marvels.”
    She searched his face for sarcasm, but there was none. Only familiar shrewd brown eyes, gazing at her over the top of Prada glasses that her fifteen percent had helped buy. A waiter poured mimosas at the next table, champagne meeting orange juice in a bright citrus explosion. It reminded her of a garden of orange poppies.
    She tore her eyes away and took a sip of bitter black coffee. The urge to ask about Deller’s book was overwhelming, but she fought it down. It would be better to get the good news first, and delay the sting in the tail.
    “Now that I’m back,” she forced a smile, “do we have the finished script for Circle of Lies ?”
    Six months ago, she had secured a job that would lead her back to the cameras. It was a small part, but gritty and eye-catching: she would play the wife of a Q.C. who was secretly running a European sex-trafficking ring. The wife, coddled in luxury, initially turned a blind eye to her husband’s crimes but in the end, twisted by her conscience, reported him to the authorities. Augusta had auditioned, and pleaded, and lunched for weeks until the role was hers. Now, looking at David’s darting eyes, she felt a stab of panic.
    Her agent clung to his menu as if it offered the secret to life itself. She’d known him so long; this was not a positive sign.
    “David?”
    He appeared to be gathering himself. Finally he looked up. All the coming disappointments were forecast on his lovely, open face.
    “There will be other work, Augusta.”
    She felt herself deflate in the chair, the air forced from her lungs. Surely everyone in the restaurant would turn and stare, smelling failure in their midst. In her head she was screaming, but only one word came out: “Why?”
    David motioned to the waiter, who arrived with pen poised. Augusta was on the verge of asking for champagne in her orange juice. She bit the words back. Instead she ordered another coffee, and kept her hands in her lap to hide the trembling.
    “Why?” she asked again once the waiter had gone.
    David rubbed his spotless knife with his napkin. “They couldn’t wait any longer. You were . . . away.”
    He’d left something unsaid. “And?”
    Finally, he looked up at her. “And there was a problem with insurance. With insuring you.”
    It was out, hanging between them, impossible to retract now.
    The waiter arrived with David’s breakfast and her coffee. She reached blindly for his cuff. “I’ll have a mimosa.”
    She took a deep breath. Suddenly she wanted to murder everyone in the place, to choke them with their words, their chattering, planning, scheduling.
    “Well,” she said finally. “Is there anything else on the horizon?”
    “Absolutely,” David said, with professional cheer. “I got a call about a reality program — don’t give me that look — and you’d be perfect as the presenter. Just listen a moment. You’d be sent to live in a puffin colony in Northumberland, and you’d commune with them, you know, urbanite and bird, for six months . . .”