Page 92 of Original Sin

‘Ah, I see,’ said Tess, ‘and you’re worried that your usual kind of date might not reflect well on you in the intelligence department?’

She could hear the smile in his voice as he said: ‘They might not necessarily say the right things.’

She laughed.

‘Come on, Tess, you’d be doing me a massive favour.’

Tess shrugged. It never did any harm to have someone like Sean owing her favours, especially since her primary function as Asgill’s PR was to keep him under control. Plus, she was going to London anyway. She thought about it for a moment, then smiled.

‘First class, you say?’

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

‘Please, Brooke, you’ve got to do something!’

Debs Asquith was standing in the doorway of Brooke’s office, her hands clasped together in front of her. Brooke’s friend and fellow commissioning editor looked so anxious, it was making her feel even more edgy.

‘Okay, so how long is he going to be in with Mimi?’ asked Brooke, drumming her manicured nails on the desk nervously.

‘He’s only here until twelve,’ said Debs, glancing at her watch. ‘He’s meeting Mimi, then he’s leaving. You can’t let him out of the building without this.’

She picked up a proof copy of Portico and waved it in front of Brooke’s face. Brooke chewed her lip. She was glad Debs was on her side. The two women had started at Yellow Door at the same time and they had quickly bonded over their mutual dislike of Mimi Hall and their frustrations with the way the rest of the company looked down on the children’s division. Even so, it wasn’t Debs who had to risk the wrath of Mimi Hall by trying to get to her contact. Mimi was currently meeting with Hollywood movie executive P. J. Abramski about any Yellow Door books that might be suitable film vehicles.

She looked at Debs anxiously. ‘Do you think she’ll give him Portico?’

‘Of course not,’ said Debs, her hands now on her hips. ‘She’s not called Me–Me for nothing. That woman is totally self–seeking. Mimi might be publisher of this division, but the only time she wants a film made from a Yellow Door book is if it’s one of hers.’

Debs popped her head out into the corridor and then jumped back into the room.

‘Quick! Quick!’ she hissed, flapping her hands, ‘Go! He’s just leaving Mimi’s office.’

Debs grabbed the proof and thrust it into Brooke’s hands. ‘Ambush him!’

The lift doors were just closing when Brooke’s hand shot through the gap, allowing her to jump inside. Suddenly she felt stupid and tongue–tied. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself. Mimi’s going to kill me.

‘Mr Abramski,’ said Brooke, her voice faltering. ‘You don’t know me, but I was wondering if you had a minute?’

The man favoured her with a hawkish smile. He was short and wiry and was wearing a sharp three–piece suit.

‘Of course I know you,’ he said pleasantly, ‘you’re Brooke Asgill. I was hoping I might bump into you, but Mimi said you were tied up in meetings.’

Brooke offered up a prayer of thanks to Page Six. She knew this situation had been made easier by being well known.

‘I’ll be quick, Mr Abramski, I’m sure you’re very busy,’ she said. ‘I have a book I think you might be interested in.’

‘What is it? Your life story?’

The lift pinged open and they crossed the lobby. For a short man, Abrams walked incredibly quickly, and Brooke struggled to keep up with him .

‘I guess I just missed my elevator pitch,’ she smiled.

He stopped and glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, I have lunch at the Cip in twenty–five. Want to join me for a drink at the bar?’

Brooke’s smile turned to a grin. ‘That sounds wonderful.’

P. J. Abramski was one of the most respected Hollywood scouts in the business. He was renowned for his knack of picking up ‘properties’ – magazine articles, books, even TV shows – that went on to become big box–office films. Once a year or so he came to Yellow Door to see if any editors had any new material and, obviously, every editor wanted their books to be made into a film. One recent Yellow Door book, an adult sci–fi thriller, had been made into a box–office–friendly Will Smith action movie, which had pushed the sales of the book over two million copies and had precipitated a run on the author’s otherwise unknown and unloved backlist. But Brooke knew it was a long shot. In her time working at Yellow Door, a handful of books had been optioned, but none had ever made it onto the big screen and, therefore, it had no impact on book sales.

Sitting at the bar, she could see a few people looking at her; no doubt wondering what she was doing in one of Manhattan’s sexiest restaurants with a man who clearly wasn’t her fiancé. If I ever thought of cheating, thought Brooke with amusement, the New York public would soon put a stop to it.