The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [1]
They shared a rueful smile. Vivienne’s lunches were notorious. Whenever one of her clients had been going through a dry spell—and might otherwise start questioning the wisdom of their illustrious agent—Alice’s boss would whisk them out for a three-hour session of compliments, champagne, and star-studded visions of international acting success. Alice had seen them wander back to the old, Soho office a hundred times, dazed and delirious with future promise, their faith completely restored.
“Arbutus?”
“No, L’Escargot,” he replied, gloomy, naming an even more expensive restaurant. Alice tried not to wince. Things must really be slow.
“Well, good luck,” she offered. Few clients bothered to acknowledge her, let alone brave the perilous winding staircase to say hello, but Rupert had always been the nice one. Too nice. His promising string of period drama parts had slowed to a trickle, and personally, Alice thought his gallant enthusiasm was the problem. The ones who made it as leading men came equipped with brash arrogance, not boyish good looks and a sweet devotion to their wives.
“If you want, your tax declaration is around somewhere,” she suggested, not wanting him to have ventured up there for nothing. She began to click through her files on the screen. “Are you all right waiting?” She glanced up. “Do you want tea, or something?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Rupert moved aside a stack of books and took a seat on the battered leather couch. “The girl at reception is getting me a coffee. She’s, uh, very eager to help.”
“I’m sure she is,” Alice murmured. Fresh from drama school, the new assistant, Saskia, was especially accommodating to clients. The attractive, male ones, that was. “Ah, got it! Let me just print you a—” The words died on her lips as the computer let out a strangled bleep. Suddenly, her screen began to blur into a sequence of binary code and hieroglyphics.
“No, no…!” Alice cried, but it was no use: her mouse was frozen, her keyboard, dead.
“What’s wrong?” Rupert hurried to look over her shoulder as Alice stared at the angry-looking symbols. “Oh. That doesn’t look good.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She swallowed, not wanting to think about all the client data in peril. “I wonder if it’s just me, or”—an angry cry echoed up from downstairs—“not.”
She found everyone crammed into the reception area, arguing loudly. Vivienne refused to let The Grayson Wells Agency inhabit anything as ordinary as an office block; instead, Alice worked in a narrow, three-story townhouse on a cobbled Soho backstreet. The agents operated out of low-ceilinged nooks, visitors were greeted by a checker-floored cloakroom, and Vivienne herself held court from the second-floor drawing room, complete with damask wallpaper and a Georgian-style chaise lounge. After years spent wilting under fluorescent lights in a gray cubicle at a corporate firm in the city, Alice adored her attic hideaway. She could play Radio 3 in uninterrupted calm, grow pansies in the window box, and never be bothered by the daily dramas of everyone else.
Well, usually.
Ducking to avoid the low-slung ceiling, Alice edged into the room. Vivienne was fluttering her hands as if she were having a fainting fit, the agents were milling about in panic, and Saskia was proclaiming her innocence in between dramatic gasps of dismay. Yes, it was business as usual at Grayson Wells.
“What’s happening?” Alice asked. “Are everyone’s computers—?”
“Fucked.” Tyrell answered shortly, folding his arms across a spotless white shirt. A new agent from the States, he sauntered around in designer tailoring and box-fresh Converse sneakers, wooing prospective clients with talk about taking their careers to the next level, touching bases, and leveraging their brand potential. “I’m waiting on an email—”
“My client needs his contracts and—”
“My BlackBerry’s down and I can’t function—”
Alice maneuvered to the front of the room. “I know this is a stupid question,” she said. “But has anyone called the technician yet?