“You must be Elizabeth Grayson,” he said pleasantly. “Liz.” And with a gesture, he invited her to come in. She couldn’t move, she sat frozen in her chair with a look of fear. He realized this was going to be hard. “And that must be the manuscript your sister-in-law hated. I’d love to have a look.” With that, Liz stood up and followed him silently into the other room. She noticed that he’d had the entire office repainted and fresh carpeting put in. There were new paintings on the walls, of hunting scenes in England, and he had a handsome antique partner’s desk. There was a comfortable leather chair for her to sit in, facing him across the desk. He was much too good-looking to be an agent, she told herself. He was probably some sort of con artist or playboy who had nothing else to do. She sat looking at him with suspicion as he held out a hand for the manuscript she was still clutching. And then she realized how neurotic she must seem.
“I’m sorry. It’s just strange dealing with someone new,” she said as she finally handed the manuscript to him. It was looking a little beaten up after making the round-trip to Europe in her handbag, but he didn’t seem to care as he glanced through it.
“I’m sure it is. Did Charlie sell a lot of work for you?” he asked her candidly.
“Just short stories, and some poetry. I wrote two novels, but they weren’t any good.”
“Did your sister-in-law tell you that too?” he asked with a look of amusement. He looked very British, and seemed to be amused by almost everything.
“No, she didn’t. Charlie said it wasn’t my best work, and he was right. I don’t know what to think about this one. My mother was probably just being nice.”
“Possibly. I’ll give it a read and tell you what I think. If you jot your number down for me, and your e-mail, I won’t have to look it up in the files. My assistant is out sick.” She wrote both down for him on a piece of paper, and she wasn’t sure what else to do. She realized that she was so nervous, she must have looked more than a little nuts to him. She was terrified of what he was going to say about her book. Sarah had probably been right.
“Your sister-in-law might be jealous of you too,” he suggested. “The book may be very good.” He tried to reassure her, but he could see how unnerved she was.
“I don’t know. See what you think.”
“Happy to,” he said, smiling at her, and she thought he looked like the cover of GQ. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing as an agent. He looked as though he should be an actor in British films. He had a kind of Hugh Grant quality about him, with even better looks.
“Have you been an agent for long?” Liz asked him in a strangled voice that sounded more like a croak to her.
“I worked for Richard Morris in London for fifteen years. And then I went out on my own, and moved here. It’s worked out very well. Charlie had a lot of very nice clients, and I’ve added a few of my own in the past two years. I’m sorry we haven’t met before. But I’m very happy to be reading your book.”
“Thank you … thank you … Mr. Shippers—”
“Andrew.” He smiled his dazzling British smile at her, and she stood up out of the leather chair, ready to retreat. “We’ll talk about the book when I’ve read it.”
“I’ve done some editing on it already,” she said nervously.
He walked her back through the outer office then, and held open the door for her. She fled down the stairs, instead of waiting for the elevator, and stood on Madison Avenue with a dazed look.
She got back in her car and sent her mother a text message immediately. “I did it. Just left the agent’s office. Old one died. New one. British. I left the manuscript with him. See you soon. Love, Liz.” She took a deep breath then and called both her daughters. Carole was at a shipping company, picking up boxes to pack her things for L.A., and Sophie was in Boston getting ready for school. There was nothing left for her to do except go home.
She drove back to Connecticut and tried to tell herself that the book wasn’t important to her. And if he hated it,