Chapter 1

Code Red

INT: A BASEMENT BAR IN SOHO-FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 10 P.M.

EVIE stands in a small crowd of well-dressed twentysomethings, holding a scuffed plastic "glass" of house white wine, nodding in time to the conversation happening around her. She checks her phone, too tipsy to be anywhere near as surreptitious as she thinks she's being.

Two Weeks Earlier

Sarah: I'm going to email the presentation to you all to help your planning session next weekend. Check your inboxes!

Maria: we really don't mind planning your hen do ourselves

Jeremy: which isn't to say that we don't mind planning your hen do

Sarah: but this way you'll KNOW I'll love it. While we're on my wedding, can we talk about your plus-one situation, Evie?

I slipped my phone back into my bag. Sarah had been trying to get me to talk about my "plus-one situation" since she got engaged. As if I had some sort of condition that I'd been ignoring.

As I turned my attention back to the two achingly trendy young women with me in the bar, I noticed two things: 1) Their beautiful, pristine, untouched-by-worry baby skin. And 2) That I was much tipsier than I realized, despite sticking to my strict three-drink rule.

That was the curse of the assistant drinks. Once a month, every assistant working in TV and film talent agencies met in a different yet equally terrible bar in Central London to "network" (i.e., gossip). There was never any food available at these events, though there was always an abundance of a very particular type of white wine (the cheapest). I could only assume everyone else here was too young to have experienced hangovers as adults, and were therefore blissfully unaware of what it's like to wake up feeling like every single one of your twenty-nine years has smacked you in the face.

Myself, on the other hand . . . I had an egg sandwich in my satchel that I was dying to eat, but hadn't yet found an appropriate moment. While my practical side was telling me I needed something to line my stomach, I also conceded that normal people probably don't bring their own sandwiches to networking events.

One of the girls, Jodi, swept the curtain of blond hair from her face and gave me a little smile that made me feel like the young one. I had the feeling she'd just asked me a question. She was an assistant at one of the biggest talent agencies in the business, and one of those people who collected gossip like it was currency.

"What was that, sorry?" I squeezed my plastic wine cup tightly. It wasn't that long ago that I had someone by my side at these events.

"I'm whisking young Geraldine here around to introduce her to the cool kids," Jodi said. She had one of those drawling London accents that made me feel more northern with every syllable.

I turned to the teen with round glasses. Most of her long hair was pulled up into a messy bun, leaving the rest down in the sort of tangled waves that said "Just look at how much I don't care about my appearance." Beneath her overalls she wore a white T-shirt with greta gerwig across it in large black lettering. I immediately wanted one, though I'd never be cool enough to pull it off.

"Who are you interning with?" I asked.

There was a moment of silence.

"Evie, you big nerd," laughed Jodi. "She's an assistant."

"But she's a kid!" I clamped my mouth shut, as if that could somehow take back my words.

Geraldine let out a low, throaty laugh and placed a hand on her chest. "Thank you. I'm almost prehistoric in assistant years." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm actually twenty-three. I was worried everyone would think I was too...