thoughts of Guy, Dorothy, and Cosima out of my head, so that I could focus on the night ahead. Darcy and I don’t see each other often. One night of horny passion every few weeks was the most I could hope for. Even so, I was falling for him. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough.
My father keeps an apartment in Mayfair that he uses during the week. He’s usually there only to sleep and eat breakfast; otherwise, he is at the newspaper’s offices every other minute of his life. On the weekends, he takes the train west to his farm in Somerset, and I have a standing invitation to use the flat for whatever rendezvous I may need to satisfy my desires. My father knows me and knows I’m my mother’s daughter. That is where Darcy and I have been meeting for the past year.
All I wanted tonight was to freshen my makeup, dab on Jo Malone, open a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Rosé Brut, and allow myself to be ravished. Unfortunately, nothing is as easy as it seems.
As I walked from Piccadilly up Down Street toward the inner circle of Mayfair, I passed a small Italian bistro on my left. Candlelight. Trendy pizzas. Very romantic. I glanced idly through the window and couldn’t help but notice Guy Droste-Chambers sitting alone at a table on the far wall. Guy is difficult to miss. He was staring into a bell-shaped glass of red wine.
I felt a twinge of regret for this lonely, middle-aged man, despite the games he had tried to play with me. Then I saw a woman emerge from the ladies’ toilet and join him at the table. That was when I realized there was already another glass of red wine at the place setting opposite Guy. He wasn’t alone.
I saw who it was.
My heart left my chest and went running for the Tube. My breath was stolen away. The woman with Guy was the last person on earth I wanted to see with him.
No, not even Cosima.
Her name was Saleema Azah. She was a literary agent in New York. Once upon a time, going all the way back to college, she was my best friend. Now she was a self-declared enemy. We had done battle over clients for the last five years. She was my alter ego. My evil twin.
I moved on quickly along the sidewalk before they noticed me outside, but my mind was spinning.
For all I know, it was an innocent dinner, and it had nothing to do with me. Saleema had clients in the UK. No doubt Guy was the editor for some of her authors. But you know what they say about being paranoid: That doesn’t mean they’re not after you.
I suddenly heard Oliver’s voice in my head.
What’s the worst that can happen?
6
MY NEMESIS .
I first met Saleema in New York when I was doing a term abroad at NYU, studying English and film. I had a hankering for saag paneer on a Tuesday night and found a restaurant called Bengal Star in the East Village. Saleema was there, too, and I recognized her from a class we were both taking on the films of Scorsese. We sat together, shared nan and pilau rice, and struck up a friendship. My favorite was
Taxi Driver
. Hers was
Goodfellas
.
Saleema is DDG—drop dead gorgeous. She has jet-black hair, wavy and full, that hangs halfway down her body. A tiny frame, never more than a hundred pounds. Thick eyebrows and huge brown eyes. A skin tone like cappuccino. After twenty years, she still seems ageless.
Back then, she wanted to be an actress, and I was majoring in wine and marijuana. We both took the long way around to our careers. She made it into a couple of indie films, largely based on her willingness to flash her nipples and supple arse for the camera,while I played around with journalism and publishing. Her acting career peaked with a role as a murderous computer programmer in an episode of
Law & Order
. It’s still not easy to make it as a minority woman in acting, and she decided to quit rather than eke out a modest living playing bit parts. Saleema was already in New York, and she had an English degree and a PalmPilot full of contacts in the movie and TV biz. With that background, and
My father keeps an apartment in Mayfair that he uses during the week. He’s usually there only to sleep and eat breakfast; otherwise, he is at the newspaper’s offices every other minute of his life. On the weekends, he takes the train west to his farm in Somerset, and I have a standing invitation to use the flat for whatever rendezvous I may need to satisfy my desires. My father knows me and knows I’m my mother’s daughter. That is where Darcy and I have been meeting for the past year.
All I wanted tonight was to freshen my makeup, dab on Jo Malone, open a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Rosé Brut, and allow myself to be ravished. Unfortunately, nothing is as easy as it seems.
As I walked from Piccadilly up Down Street toward the inner circle of Mayfair, I passed a small Italian bistro on my left. Candlelight. Trendy pizzas. Very romantic. I glanced idly through the window and couldn’t help but notice Guy Droste-Chambers sitting alone at a table on the far wall. Guy is difficult to miss. He was staring into a bell-shaped glass of red wine.
I felt a twinge of regret for this lonely, middle-aged man, despite the games he had tried to play with me. Then I saw a woman emerge from the ladies’ toilet and join him at the table. That was when I realized there was already another glass of red wine at the place setting opposite Guy. He wasn’t alone.
I saw who it was.
My heart left my chest and went running for the Tube. My breath was stolen away. The woman with Guy was the last person on earth I wanted to see with him.
No, not even Cosima.
Her name was Saleema Azah. She was a literary agent in New York. Once upon a time, going all the way back to college, she was my best friend. Now she was a self-declared enemy. We had done battle over clients for the last five years. She was my alter ego. My evil twin.
I moved on quickly along the sidewalk before they noticed me outside, but my mind was spinning.
For all I know, it was an innocent dinner, and it had nothing to do with me. Saleema had clients in the UK. No doubt Guy was the editor for some of her authors. But you know what they say about being paranoid: That doesn’t mean they’re not after you.
I suddenly heard Oliver’s voice in my head.
What’s the worst that can happen?
6
MY NEMESIS .
I first met Saleema in New York when I was doing a term abroad at NYU, studying English and film. I had a hankering for saag paneer on a Tuesday night and found a restaurant called Bengal Star in the East Village. Saleema was there, too, and I recognized her from a class we were both taking on the films of Scorsese. We sat together, shared nan and pilau rice, and struck up a friendship. My favorite was
Taxi Driver
. Hers was
Goodfellas
.
Saleema is DDG—drop dead gorgeous. She has jet-black hair, wavy and full, that hangs halfway down her body. A tiny frame, never more than a hundred pounds. Thick eyebrows and huge brown eyes. A skin tone like cappuccino. After twenty years, she still seems ageless.
Back then, she wanted to be an actress, and I was majoring in wine and marijuana. We both took the long way around to our careers. She made it into a couple of indie films, largely based on her willingness to flash her nipples and supple arse for the camera,while I played around with journalism and publishing. Her acting career peaked with a role as a murderous computer programmer in an episode of
Law & Order
. It’s still not easy to make it as a minority woman in acting, and she decided to quit rather than eke out a modest living playing bit parts. Saleema was already in New York, and she had an English degree and a PalmPilot full of contacts in the movie and TV biz. With that background, and
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