The women at the Anson Cosmetics counter at Harrod's were standing three-deep -- and it was only 10:30 in the morning, shortly after the store's opening. The reason: a guest appearance by supermodel turned superstar Meg Townsend.

There wasn't a woman under 40 in London who wasn't obsessed by the Amerasian beauty to begin with, what with the Anson Cosmetics campaign running banner ads on buses and full-size billboards high atop Oxford Circus. Now, her kidnapping had only made things worse -- or, in marketing terms, better. Supermarket tabloids heralded Meg's "escape" from the "ad-man turned kidnapper," morning chat shows clamored for her as a guest, and journalists who once trailed a young kindergarten teacher named Diana Spencer for a comment now hurried up the Strand after Meg Townsend.

The Account Department at the London office of Hillyer, Jones, Lefkowitz & DaCapo, which managed -- and masterminded -- the Anson account were positively ecstatic. Talk about "spin"! They couldn't have dreamed up a publicity stunt like the kidnapping if they'd tried! In the public's collective mind, all this attention had made Meg bigger than Paulina Porizkova! Bigger than Iman! Bigger than Elizabeth Hurley following the Hugh Grant/Divine Brown incident!

Make the most of it, girlfriend. And why not? Fame is fleeting -- infamy even more so. But where will Meg's newfound celebrity take her? And will it last for more than 15 minutes?

"Thank you, Meg, thank you!" shouted a tall, leggy Sloane Ranger as Meg Townsend autographed the young woman's pale peach Anson Cosmetics shopping bag. The girl had just spent £65 on blush, concealer, moisturizer, and other assorted Anson goodies . . . but what she'd really come in for this morning was to get a glimpse of Meg. "She really is that beautiful!" the girl gushed to her pale, pasty friend, who replied, deadpan, "I wonder if sitting in an unheated farmhouse in Scotland for 2 months would improve my skin?" Meg was sitting atop a wicker and rattan stool, her legs crossed and a felt-tip pen in her hand. She wore a fire-engine-red "poor boy" turtleneck and micro-mini skirt of the same hue -- the result of a cover story she'd recently read in American Vogue entitled "Red: Is It The New Black?" Never one to miss an opportunity, Meg was there to sign autographs and schmooze with her public -- at the request of Hillyer, Jones.

"Was it simply too awful, Meg?" the next woman in line gushed, a tweedy, Agatha Christie type who looked like she should have two Welsh Corgi's at the end of a lead. "The kidnapping, I mean?"

"No questions in that area, please," answered Meg dutifully, obeying her lawyers' instructions to avoid all comment on the matter pending the arraignment of Wallace-Hogg and the scheduling of a trial date.

"Sorry, dearie," the woman said, withered by the beauty's abrupt response. "I just followed so closely on the telly, was all . . . "

"Next?" Meg said brightly, blowing the woman off, and casting her charming gaze down the queue of admiring fans, perfect representatives of the ultra-desirable 18 to 35 "health and beauty aids" demographic so carefully targeted by the Media Department at Hillyer, Jones.

"Bitch," said the Agatha Christie woman, under her breath.

Contrary to his usual habits, Jim Hillyer sipped a glass of champagne aboard the Concorde, bound for JFK. It seemed like years, rather than just eight weeks, since he'd left New York for London. He was returning a changed man, he thought to himself, shifting in his seat, and loosening the knot on his Joseph Abboud necktie. He pecked with an index finger at a honey roasted salted peanut, staring at it as though it contained the secret to life.

Chief among his resolutions was to reconcile with his wife, Abigail. Among Jim's lessons learned: never have an affair with a supermodel. If she gets kidnapped, you become famous. And so does your infidelity. Duh. The fish and chips had really hit the fan when the London tabloids -- followed quickly by The New York Post, Entertainment Tonight, and Hard Copy -- had made public his dalliance with Meg. Previously, he'd been your average Madison Avenue CEO -- respected but anonymous, save for the occasional party photo in the back of Ad Week or Ad Age. But when the kidnapping was made public, and reporters began digging, Jim had suddenly become Meg Townsend's "older man" -- a humiliating appellation that endeared him to no one but his jealous sixtyish buddies at the New Canaan Country Club. Morons.

You CAN go home again. Or can you? Jim has a sneaking suspicion he should simply have begun life anew in Europe, rather than face the wrath of his wife and the snickers of his colleagues. He might be right.

Abigail had come to London once during the eight weeks to do a Tammy Wynette and stand by her man. But she was clearly devastated by the revelation of Jim's affair. Which actually came as a surprise to Jim. He honestly thought she'd figured it out long ago. Somehow, that had made him feel all the more guilty.

Abigail had been a good scout, had answered reporters' questions, had done the good-wife, "we all make mistakes" speech to the media, and had promptly caught the next flight home. It was clear that she was furious. What wasn't clear was what she intended to do about it.

Jim would just have to wait and see.

"What time is it there, Mr. Lefkowitz?" Sydney Chen was saying into the receiver. As per usual, her toasted bran muffin with no butter and her cardboard container of coffee sat on her desk in front of her, surrounded by sections of the morning's New York Times in disarray.

"Don't ask, Sydney. It's the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep."

"It seems like you're still functioning on New York time even though you're living in Hawaii," Sydney countered, making idiotic small talk to the former Hillyer, Jones Creative Director, now in self-imposed retirement-slash-exile in the middle of the Pacific.

Sydney had been keeping Cy posted on the company scandal during Jim Hillyer's detainment in London, ever since Cy had caught a snippet of the story on CNN one night while channel surfing on Kauai. Cy had just found out that Meg had been recovered and that Jim had been released -- and, insomniac that he was, he was phoning Sydney to dish.

Sydney stared at the computer screen in front of her as she talked, scanning the Reuters online news while she highlighted the Business section of the Times with a yellow marker and chatted with Cy. Sydney was nothing if not adept at multitasking.

"Mr. Hillyer is due back today, Mr. Lefkowitz. He's coming straight here from the airport. We have a little surprise party planned for him." As she talked, Sydney glanced toward the reception area, where Agnes had strung a tacky "Welcome Home" sign from Woolworth's across the elevator lobby. "I wish you could be here."

"I do too, Sydney. Sort of. But do me a favor, will you? Have Jim call me the second he's settled in. It's sort of urgent."

"Sure. Anything else I can tell him?"

"Nope. You'd laugh if I told you. Just have him call me."

"Okay, Mr. Lefkowitz. Will do."

"And Sydney?"

"Yes, Mr. Lefkowitz?" she said, pencil at the ready to jot down another instruction.

"Call me Cy, will you?"

What a mensch, Sydney thought.