Free Just Friends by Robyn Sisman Page A

networker and publishing wonk who could cite every major author’s advance and sales figures, and name the winner of each literary prize for the last twenty years. The joke was that he took facts and figures to bed with him every night, instead of women. Until the other week, when they’d got talking at some book party and Jack invited him on impulse to the poker game, the two men hadn’t met in a long while. But Jack was well aware of Leo’s rocketing reputation. However weird his approach, the fact was that in the last couple of years Leo had emerged as a hugely successful literary agent. He was still only thirty-one. Not everyone approved of his methods of acquiring writers—often “rustling” them from the quieter pastures of other agents—but there was no denying that when he zeroed in on talent he knew how to make it pay. Jack wondered if he was about to be wooed and felt a kick of excitement.
    The dining room was on the first floor, plain but stylish, lit by three high arched windows overlooking the street. You could see partway into the kitchen, where a wood oven shaped like a giant beehive took up most of one wall. Its iron door was open, offering a glimpse of glowing embers and the seductive, smoky smell of roasting food. On the way to their table, Leo stopped to say hello to a man who turned out to be Carson McGuire, though he didn’t look anything like his author photograph. McGuire’s first novel, Vanderbilt’s Thumb, had been on the bestseller list for weeks. Everyone said it was a masterpiece. Jack hadn’t read it yet, in case it was.
    In the flesh McGuire was unprepossessing: squat, fortyish, Bruce Willis haircut. Yet the sheen of success was upon him. His cheeks were plump and smooth, his jacket uncreased, his body language subtly assertive. With him was a tempestuous-looking young woman with slanting cat’s eyes and a thrilling acreage of bare flesh. Jack hovered at Leo’s shoulder, a half-smile on his face, while the others chatted about a party they’d all been to, laughing and bandying names. He was beginning to feel painfully conspicuous in his jeans and shabby jacket when Leo at last turned to include him in the group.
    “Carson, do you know Jack Madison? He wrote that terrific collection, Big Sky , a couple years back.”
    “For sure.” McGuire did the professional handshake/eye contact number. “Great book. Nice to meet you, Jake.”
    “Yes. Thank you. Uh, great.”
    What wit! What suavity! Carson McGuire would certainly remember him next time. Jack lumbered after Leo to their table, feeling as ridiculous as a dancing bear. It was obvious that McGuire had never read Big Sky , probably not even heard of it.
    “Great guy, Carson,” said Leo, once they had taken seats. “Absolutely one of my favorite clients. I think I’m just about to clinch a Hollywood deal for him—enough zeros to make his eyes spin—but don’t tell him, huh?” Leo winked.
    “How would I? We don’t move in the same circles.”
    “You will, Jack, you will.”
    Leo spoke with such confidence that Jack felt ashamed of his sulkiness. He made an effort to rise above it. “A movie deal, Leo: that’s wonderful. Carson’s a lucky man to have you for an agent. Good taste in women, too.” He cocked an eyebrow at the dark temptress.
    “That’s Mercedes. She’s a model, from Venezuela or somewhere. Carson’s married, of course, and he’s planning to move his family to New York, but there’s a glitch. The house sale fell through, or his wife’s mother is dying—I forget what. Still, while the cat’s away . . .” He shot Jack a man-to-man smile.
    “Yeah.” Jack chuckled. “Cute mouse.”
    “By the way, what happened to that poor woman the other night?”
    “What poor woman?” Jack’s smile faded.
    “Your fancy English friend who threw the calculator at you. She was hilarious!”
    “She’s fine.”
    “Got rid of her okay, did you? Some ditsy woman once passed out like that at my place, and I