THE FIRST ADVENTURE OF PIPPA MARSH


CHAPTER ONE

“That’s amazing! Mmmmwwwaaah.”

I kissed the air well-clear of Lizzie’s smelly cheek. Jackson Byrd- America’s newest, hottest, fastest-selling writer- had just agreed to see us about being his UK agent. I flapped my arms in a low-to-medium panic. What would he be like? What should I wear? Where should I meet him? I couldn’t possibly bring him here- it was such a tip. When I founded the Pippa Marsh and Lizzie McFadden Literary Agency I’d thrown thousands at the office, but Lizzie was such a pig that I’d let it become a bit of a sty. I announced my thoughts to the blue filing cabinet:

“I can’t possibly meet him here.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’? We’re both meeting him.”

I stiffened and closed my eyes. Lizzie was going to be awkward again. Luckily we were interrupted by Portia, carrying the mail…

“What shall I do with these?”

Portia was Lizzie’s sister’s ex’s gormless niece. I’d said we’d give her some work experience because I fancied Lizzie’s sister’s ex, and then I find he’s gay.Typical!

“Let me see.” I sorted out the interesting stuff and gave her the unsolicited submissions. “Put them on top of the rest over there.”

I nodded at the stalagmite of slush in the corner - a huge stack of papers like the Old Man of Hoy. A long time back we saw a writer at the office who said you could tell a lot about an agent by the size of their slush-pile. I can still remember the glow of pride her words produced, although for some stupid reason she never signed-up. Portia slouched away, all spots and hormones. Oh for a cattle-prod.

“What about a hotel?” asked Lizzie, showing how little she knew about netting big authors. The first thing a writer learns is that an agent who meets you in a hotel has a crap office.

“Don’t you ever read them?” asked Portia from the slush pile, the lower strata of which were yellowed and curling.

“Don’t be silly, Portia. You don’t read unsolicited submissions- it’s practically a sign you’re desperate.”

Besides, I never get involved in any of the actual books- I leave those details to Lizzie. I’m too busy winning publicity with my celebrity contacts and status.

I looked at my watch.

“Oh my god. Is that the time?”

I had an appointment with Vidal at three, and it was nearly ten to. I grabbed my handbag and tizzied out of the office. Where had I left the car?



At Vidal’s I told him about my Jackson Byrd conundrum while he frowned at a split end.

“Why don’t you…” he paused for a particularly demanding snip, “meet him at your flat?”

Stupid question. The flat was nearly as big a tip as the office. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to make it smart- Jose was drowning in money- but I didn’t have the time. I couldn’t admit that in Vidal’s so I told a tinsy winsy lie.

“I can’t. The interior designers are in. I’m having it all re-done.”

“Oooohh are you?” This came from some nosey mare in the next chair, who should have been minding her own business. “Are they any good?”

I looked her up and down in the mirror- mainly down as she was a bit of a titch- my posture stiffening at the insinuation that Pippa Marsh might use less than the best interior designers.

“They are, actually,” I said. And if a whiff of huffiness tainted my words who could blame me?

“Oooh you couldn’t let me have their details could you? I need to get some designers in too and I just don’t know who to pick.”

That’s bloody done it. Typical. You have one tiny itsy bitsy lie and look what happens. I didn’t know any interior designers, and if I just made something up she’d find out, and the next thing it would be all over Twitter and Facebook.

“Well they are quite busy, actually,” I said, hoping to put her off. I was wasting my breath…

“That’s alright- we’re not in a rush.”

I had one of my brilliant ideas that Lizzie never appreciates…

“I tell you what, if you give me your name and number I’ll call you with the details when I get home. I don’t have them on me now.”

That was that then. One of Vidal’s young things went to fetch a pen and paper so nosey cow could write her details. I’d only put-off the problem, but it gave me time to think. I flicked through the society pages of Tattler until I was brought to a venomous stop by a picture of Marcella Reynolds at Belinda Filde’s divorce party. I knew her when she was just plain Madge, but she was full of airs and graces now she’d married Josh Reynolds for his millions. Hadn’t done her any good, judging by the photo- make-up by Artex, couture by Poundland. To be fair to Josh the dress looked like a Farentali, but it fitted Madge like a bin-bag on a space-hopper.

“Here.” The nosey c. gave her details to Vidal, and he passed them to me. Helen Morton, the loopy handwriting said.

“Lovely,” I lied. “I’ll give you a call tonight.”



After Vidal had polished the diamond, so to speak, I switched into executive procurement mode to buy suitably alluring garb for my meeting with Jackson Byrd. Lizzie thinks I just gallivant round Knightsbridge indulging myself, but having been in Tattler more times than all the other literary agents put together I let my work record speak for itself.

It took three hours of strenuous shopping to get the main ingredients in the bag- about eleven bags actually- so it was nearly eight when I got in. I was desperate for a soak, and was just about to tell Hettie to run a bath, when I remembered my promise to ring the nosey titch from Vidal's. I fiddled her details out of my bag and called the number…

“Helen Morton.”

“Helen! It’s Pippa Marsh. From Vidal’s. About the designers.”

“Pippa! Lovely. I’ll just get a pen.”

“No wait, something’s happened. They’re dead.”

“Dead!?”

“Yes there was a car crash this afternoon and my designers have both been killed.”

“That’s terrible. How awful! I mean… that’s just tragic.”

“I know, but I’m sure I’ll find somebody else.”