She felt the sting of tears and lowered her head, grateful for the unspoken commuter law prohibiting eye contact with fellow passengers. When did life get so hard? Where did it all go wrong?

Growing up in Hoxley, she’d always felt different from all the boring nobodies who worked in the village bakery and the butcher’s and the post office; she was braver, bolder. Better. For years she’d marveled at her parents, astonished that they could stand the boredom. Peter’s small dental clinic had been running like clockwork for more than thirty years, the same sequence of events repeating through the week in brain-meltingly dull eight-hour units, and for as long as Emily could remember, Juliet had worked three days a week as a landscaper for a local National Trust site. Filling their weekends with coffee, gardening, and watercolor paints, the two of them were as much a part of the local landscape as the drystone walls threading their way over the Derbyshire hills, and they rarely ventured farther afield than Sheffield, except to take their annual two-week holiday in Tenerife. Her school friends had been the same: no ambition, no imagination. She would listen to them talk about baby names and wedding dresses, and shake her head at them, wondering how they could endure village life, and they would shake their heads right back, equally dumbfounded that she could not.

The look on all their faces when she’d gotten into drama school had been priceless; Emily knew exactly how Cinderella felt when the prince showed up and made the ugly sisters apologize for being bitches. But every Christmas she would return home looking more disheveled, more desperate, and the expressions of astonishment were gradually replaced by confusion. Her grandparents could not fathom why she had not yet been on EastEnders. Auntie Cath wanted to know why she wasn’t yet friends with Jude Law. Didn’t she live in London? Wasn’t she an actress? And why didn’t she ever have any money?

These were all valid questions to which Emily never had the right answers. Why didn’t she know more famous people? Why was she still living in a shoebox with no central heating? Why did she always have holes in her clothes? Every visit home was like one of those lateral-thinking problems they gave you at school, the ones designed to make you look stupid. So eventually she just stopped going.

She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. Maybe London had been a bad idea from the start; maybe she should’ve stayed in Hoxley. Wedding dresses and watercolors were starting to look less and less like the death sentences she’d always thought them to be.

No. She tossed her head as if to shake the thought free. No way. She’d been right to leave. Small-town life would have killed her. She’d have hated the monotony and the repetition and seeing the same faces every day for her entire life. She had always felt different because she was different, and not just because she was adopted. This was who she was, this was the life she was meant for, and she would just have to take the rough with the smooth.

Emily sat up, forced her shoulders back, and lifted her chin. Everything was fine. She was going to be okay. More than okay, she was going to be awesome! Yes! She would get that job today. This was her time, dammit. Her star was on the rise. She was living the dream!

* * *

Shuffling off the train at Bank, Emily caught the Central line to Tottenham Court Road and nursed a small latte in Pret until it was time to meet her agent.

“Darling!” Lara cried as soon as Emily walked through the door, standing up and pulling her into a short, sharp hug. “Aren’t you a bit early? What time is it?”

“It’s ten, I think.”

“Oh. Okay, well, in that case you’re right on time. Silly me! How are you, sweetheart? I feel like it’s been ages since we caught up. A few weeks at least?”

“Um, maybe five? Or six. I’m not sure,” Emily lied. It had been exactly nine weeks and two days since she was last called in for a chat.

“Well, anyway, it’s so good to see you. You’re looking so well.” Lara ushered her through the open-plan office, weaving through desks and clusters of dripping succulents, until she reached a partitioned meeting area, the back wall of which was plastered with black-and-white headshots, the current success stories most prominently placed (Emily’s was at the bottom, half-hidden by a cheese plant). “Come on in, honey. Sit, sit, sit.” Lowering herself onto a leather sofa, she crossed her tanned legs and gestured for Emily to join her. “So,” she said, a flush of pink creeping up her neck. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Everything okay?” Emily asked. Lara seemed a bit flustered.

“Yes, I … well, the good news is—drumroll—I’m getting married!” She flexed her wrist and fanned out her fingers, showing off an enormous glittering diamond nestled among lots of other glittering diamonds.

Emily was temporarily blinded as the ring caught the light. “Oh, wow. Congratulations!” she said, blinking.

“Thank you, yes, it’s all very exciting. Tom kept me waiting long enough, but we’re finally doing it.”

Emily rolled her eyes indulgently, as if to say, You guys! She knew all about wonderful Tom and his amazing family and their dog and their summer house on the Amalfi coast. A chronic oversharer, Lara offered up odd and borderline inappropriate details in the same way that other people offered refreshments. Emily knew all about Tom’s dietary requirements (no gluten, no eggs, and no carbs after 2 P.M.), his secret celebrity crush (Jane Fonda circa 2014), and which side of the bed he slept on (the right; Lara slept on the left because it was nearer the door and she usually got up two or three times in the night on account of her tiny bladder). The few times Emily had tried to share some details of her own, she’d been shut down so fast it was almost funny. Were they friends or weren’t they? It was exhausting trying to figure out where the professional line lay; it seemed to move all the time.

“Where are you doing it?” Emily asked politely.

“Um, well, New York actually.”

“Oh. That’s … far.”

“Yes. Tom got this fantastic promotion—like, really fantastic—so we’re sort of moving there.”

“Really? Moving to New York?”

“Uh huh.” Lara lowered her eyes. “Early next month.”

“Next month?”

“Yes, I know, it’s fast. And, of course, it means I’ll have to leave the agency.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’m so sorry it’s so last minute. It’s all come as a bit of a surprise to me, too, actually,” Lara said, with just the merest hint of a frown. “Totally out of the blue. But, you know, it feels right. Tom’s been working so hard; he really deserves it. And hopefully, I’ll be able to join a new agency over there. After we get the family ball rolling, of course.”

Emily nodded, unsure of what to say. Was Lara leaving a good thing or a bad thing? It was the end of an era, she supposed, but maybe her next agent would actually take her calls.

“I’m so sorry,” Lara said again, pressing her hands to her face. “Are you very angry?”

“Angry? No, not at all.”

“Honestly, I agonized over telling you right before your audition today, but I figured it might give you the fire you need to really nail it this time. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be hard at first, finding new representation, but—”

Emily froze. “Wait, what?”

“Inevitably, it’ll be a bit of a transitional—”

“Hang on.” Emily shook her head. “What new representation? Don’t you just pass me on to another agent here?”

“Oh.” Lara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, darling, I thought I’d been clear.”

“Clear about what?”

Lara looked down into her lap. “I … Look, there’s no easy way to say this. I’m so sorry, but the agency isn’t absorbing my client list.”

Emily felt her mouth slacken.

“All the agents are at capacity right now.” Lara paused and shook her head. Silently, she moved closer and reached out for Emily’s hand, squeezing it as though she was dying. “Darling, I’m afraid you’re out. I really am so, so sorry.”

CHAPTER SIX

SCOTT

FROM THE doorway of a Soho café, Scott watched the windows of a gray building on the opposite side of the street. He checked his watch: 10:17 A.M.

His phone buzzed in his hand. Without breaking his gaze, he answered the call. “Scott Denny.”

“Scott!” a voice bellowed. “My man! It’s Tom. You got my message?”

“I did.” The entrance of the building was still. No one had gone in or come out for over twelve minutes. “And you’re welcome. I didn’t do much, though. Nothing that you wouldn’t have pulled off yourself, given time.”

“Are you kidding?” Tom laughed. “I’ve been trying to get my foot in that particular door for years. I owe you several drinks, mate.”

“No need, we’re all square.” Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The door remained shut, the windows still. “I’m grateful for the returned favor, by the way. I know it’s a little unorthodox.”