Chrysalis

11

Wendy Rothman sat in the marble-draped fastness of the Connaught Hotel’s lobby, legs invisible behind a bulwark of baggage. The lobby was perfect, as befitted London’s best hotel: elegant, tasteful, with a mix of decorum and solicitude furnishing an air of gens de notre milieu. Even the traffic outside, speeding around Carlos Place on its way toward Grosvenor Square, seemed to grow more discreet, slowing and refraining from any presses of the horn. People passed by in groups of twos and threes, occasionally assisted by a member of the staff; if Wendy had been people-watching, she would almost certainly have spotted at least one movie star, fashion designer, head of state, or celebrity philanthropist. But she was not taking in passersby. Her eyes were riveted on the nearby bank of elevators, and the discreet numbers that were set above them.

She’d been told when she took this job — warned, actually — that this would happen. Wendy had paid little attention, believing the opportunity far outweighed any potential crisis. But now, staring at the elevator door that refused to open, she wasn’t so sure.

One of the bags at her feet belonged to her. Three others were long black totes made of ballistic nylon, the kind used for large tripods or other photographic equipment. And the other two bags — the Louis Vuitton steamers — belonged to Marceline.

Marceline Williams, president and publisher of Halcyon Group, along with its twelve imprints spread over five divisions. Marceline Williams, who, according to the Wharton academician who’d bestowed an honorary PhD on her the previous week, had “done more to give voice to new writers than anyone else now on earth.” Marceline Williams, who — in the role of mentor, confessor, best friend, drill instructor, counselor, champion — had her name behind more best-selling success stories than anyone in New York and Hollywood combined.

Marceline Williams, who — according to an informal count — missed four out of every ten flights she was booked on, and managed to delay two of the remaining six.

Nobody quite understood why this was. Marceline — she insisted on first names — was on time to every meeting, luncheon, awards banquet, and television interview she was booked for. Right now, her bags lay at Wendy’s ankles, packed and ready to go. But she always, always, had trouble getting to airports. Worst of all, she didn’t recognize the problem, and bringing up the subject was the only thing guaranteed to enrage her. And on those rare times she grew angry, she tended to fire someone.

Wendy’s own editorial boss had just quit to go to law school — a not uncommon exit ramp in the business — and Wendy had been unsure what her own fate would be: she didn’t have enough experience under her belt to become an editor herself, but she was overqualified to be some other editor’s assistant. And it was just then that Marceline’s invitation had come. Each year, she took a different companion to the world’s biggest book fair. More often than not, getting to know Marceline and — especially — having her watch how you dealt with foreign publishers and agents, how you evaluated literary properties, was like strapping an afterburner to your career. She was remarkably modest considering her degree of power, and she was quick to reward those who had a real talent for fostering writers.

Of course, there was the problem with flight times. And now, with this two-day stopover in London complete, the most important flight of all — the one to Frankfurt — was leaving Heathrow in just over ninety minutes.

Wendy’s boyfriend, en route to a doctorate in psychology, had a variety of theories for Marceline’s condition, most dealing with some kind of chemical imbalance. People at Halcyon liked to speculate endlessly about her mental and emotional health, just like they gossiped about her private life. Right now, however, Wendy wasn’t doing any speculating at all. She was looking at the three cell phones held awkwardly in her left hand, and wondering if she dared call Marceline’s room and suggest — ever so gently — that they meet in the lobby.

She glanced at Carlos Place. Mayfair was busy this time of the evening, and their limousine — which, like Wendy, had been waiting for twenty minutes — had finally been shooed away by the valets, and was now on the far side of the small triangular square formed by the intersection with Mount Street. One of the phones — her own — buzzed, and a message appeared. It was the driver.

Need to leave now. Now. She glanced at her watch: the driver wasn’t exaggerating.

Screw it: missing the flight would be worse than giving the publisher a nudge. Picking up her own phone while balancing the other two, she placed a call to the Somerset Suite, several floors above.

At that moment, several things happened. One of the elevator doors opened and Marceline emerged: glamorous as always, looking bright and fresh and eager to take on the world. At the same time, one of Marceline’s two phones — her business number — began to ring. It was a number Wendy didn’t recognize, area code 860, but that was a moot point: as Wendy pressed her own phone to end the call, her finger slipped and all three futuristic phones went sailing through the air, landing on the carpeting near the main entrance and bouncing once or twice before coming to a standstill.

“And who says time doesn’t fly?” Marceline said with a good-humored laugh as Wendy scrambled to pick up the three cell phones. The fumble, along with Marceline’s appearance, had stirred the valets and doormen, and a group of them came over to help with the luggage.

Marceline looked Wendy up and down with a concerned expression. “Are you all right, baby?” She called everyone “baby,” even the current vice president of the United States, whose autobiography she was personally editing.

“Oh, yes, thanks, I’m fine.” If Marceline had no idea what was wrong, Wendy wasn’t going to try explaining.

“It’s all good,” Marceline said, putting on her sunglasses as she made her way toward the lobby exit, jostling past people as if they weren’t there and followed by Wendy and the train of baggage-carriers. “You’ll love the book fair. I’ve been talking to Renauld’s agent, and I think we have a chance to sweep up her sequels. All of them, lock, stock, and barrel.”

They made their way out into the evening, Wendy balancing two bags in one hand while gesturing to the limo across the square with the other.

“Oh, no need to bring him over,” Marceline said. “I could use the walk.”

Jesus.

Outside the cocoon of the lobby, traffic was much louder: she could hear trucks grinding gears, the low diesel roar of the London transport buses.

The limo driver, spotting them, eased the vehicle forward until he was just across, separated only by the triangle of pavement and its black statues. The retinue altered course accordingly as Wendy silently blessed the chauffeur.

Just then, Marceline’s other phone — the private one — rang.

The publisher, hearing its particular tone, stopped. “Who is it?”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Wendy put down the suitcases to check. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “The same person just tried your business cell. It’s an 860 area code.”

“Oh. I’d better take that.” And Marceline put out her hand.

Take it in the fucking car! But Wendy’s scream was as silent as Edvard Munch’s, and she handed over the phone.

Marceline put it to her ear, realized it was upside down, smiled at Wendy in mock embarrassment. “Hello?” A London bus was lumbering down Carlos Place — Wendy could make out the driver in his silly uniform, and the sign marble arch — pimlico bolted just below the roof — and Marceline pressed the phone more tightly to her ear. “Claire! I’m just off to Frankfurt.”

Five seconds passed, but it seemed an age, as Marceline listened. Wendy glanced past the statues. The limo driver was staring back, tapping his watch, his face an anguished mask.

“Yes, of course I’m all right, baby! What? No, not in the least.” Marceline’s voice rose with the sound of the oncoming bus. “Well, if it’s as important as all that, I — give me a moment, Claire, something’s a bit odd.”

Now Wendy decided the time had come to take action: she nodded at the valets, then at the limo. Comprehending immediately, they nodded back and moved quickly down toward the zebra crossing.

Wendy looked back, and was shocked to see Marceline staring at her. Slowly, the woman took off her sunglasses. She blinked slowly: once, twice. For a moment, Wendy wondered if the publisher was angry she’d taken the initiative with the bags. But no: as the roar of the traffic grew louder, Marceline gave her a small smile.

And then — with a brisk about-face reminiscent of a Kensington Palace guard — she turned and stepped directly into the path of the oncoming bus.

Wendy, disbelieving and uncomprehending, didn’t close her eyes in time to avoid the instant dissolution that followed. Marceline’s phone hit Wendy in the forehead, and now she closed her eyes instinctively. And with that blackness came a warm spray across her lips and hair, followed by screams and cries that began to drown out the piercing squeal of brakes.