Little Lady Agency and The Prince (31 page)

What
was
I doing?

It’s not all about flying across the world and fancy dinners, said a calm voice in my head. It’s about how you’re going to live together after you stop being the girlfriend and start being the wife. When the music stops and the nights in start. If he ever lets you have a night in.

Cash, cars and credit cards
.

I drew a shuddering breath. ‘I’m saying I need some time to
think.
I don’t want to let you down by not turning out to be the woman you thought you were marrying. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’ll . . . I’ll call you.’

Then I turned on my heel. If I didn’t get away now, I’d cry or apologise, and I knew I didn’t want to do either. I had no idea where I was going to go, but there was absolutely no way I could stay there on that romantic old bridge, with couples walking along hand in hand, blissfully happy when my heart was breaking. I couldn’t see through the tears stinging my eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ He caught at my bare arm.

‘Home!’ I said, pulling away from his strong fingers.

‘You can’t! You don’t know where anything is!’ he said, with a mixture of concern and exasperation. Unfortunately, I mainly heard the exasperation.

‘I’m not a child, Jonathan!’ I yelled, and stormed off, walking anywhere, as fast as I could, just to get away.

I took a left turn off the bridge, following the crowds of wandering tourists, tears blinding and stinging my eyes, with no real idea where I was going. I walked through a quiet square, then down streets – anywhere that Jonathan wouldn’t follow me.

Eventually, I stumbled to a halt in front of the massive facade of Notre-Dame cathedral, its pale stonework bathed in the silvery lights, picking out the delicate tracery. I sank down onto a bench and stared up at the towers, letting tears wash down my face as an unexpected stillness fell over me, and my heartbeat began to slow down. There was something very calming about the filigree windows, carved like lace out of the solid stone – it gave my racing brain something else to focus on.

I tried to take deep breaths, between my hiccups. The flowerbeds were planted with box, and the dark, green smell reminded me of my parents’ garden. Suddenly, I felt very, very lonely and very far from home.

What had I done?

After a second’s pause, I reached for my phone and dialled.

It rang eight times and for a horrendous moment, I thought maybe he wasn’t there.

‘Hello?’ said a familiar voice. ‘If you’re going to sell me something, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not interested, thanks.’

The sound of Nelson’s matter-of-fact tone made me want to curl up and howl, and when I opened my mouth nothing came out but dry sobs. The anger I’d felt moments ago had evaporated, and now all I felt was an awful sadness.

‘Mel?’ he said, immediately concerned. ‘Are you OK?’

‘No,’ I managed. ‘I’ve had a ghastly row with Jonathan, and I . . .’

Nelson paused to let me get myself together, then said, ‘Whatever’s happened, it’s nothing that can’t be put right. What was it about this time? His ties?’

‘Worse than that!’ I said. ‘He’s franchised the agency to Daddy and more or less told me I have to move out to Paris now, or it’s all over!’

‘Oh. Right. I see,’ said Nelson. ‘That’s pretty off.’

‘Yes!’ I howled. ‘It’s very off! And I don’t know if I can . . .’

I couldn’t make myself say it. Not even to Nelson.

‘Where are you?’ he asked, practically.

I couldn’t hold back the tears any more. Misery was moving up my chest in a hard lump, and I knew a great gut-wrenching sob was moments away.

‘Notre-Dame,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t believe it’s real! I just want to press rewind and go back to the start of the evening! Nelson, what am I going to do?’

Nelson made unspecific sympathy noises. I knew he’d never really liked Jonathan, but he was too gentlemanly to get into that now, unlike Gabi, who would have let rip. Instead, he said, ‘Listen, Melissa, do you want to come home? I can . . .’

He was being cut off in bleeps. I had an incoming call.

‘Wait a second,’ I said, ‘this might be Jonathan.’

I juggled the phone buttons. ‘Hello?’

‘Melissa, it’s me,’ drawled Nicky. ‘I decided to pop over to Paris for the weekend and just wondered if you were around for a spot of Sunday lunch.’ It sounded like he was calling from a club from the loud music and the squeal of overexcited It Girls. ‘Might end up being more of a tea fixture because I’ve got plans for Saturday night, but you know, if you want to bring your fiancé along . . .’

That did it. I burst into tears.

‘Melissa? Are you all right?’

‘I don’t think I
have
a fiancé any more!’ I wailed. ‘We’ve just had a big row and it’s all your fault! Partly!’

‘Well, how flattering!’ he replied, and I could just picture the smooth expression on his face. I longed to punch someone right now, and he was a great choice. ‘I did wonder how long it’d take for me to . . . Melissa?’ he asked, dropping the drawl. ‘Are you crying?’

‘Of course I’m crying!’ I yelled. ‘I’m not like you – I have
feelings
!’

The background noise changed at the end of the phone, as if Nicky had walked outside. ‘Where are you right now?’ he said, in a more worried tone.

The fight abruptly went out of me. It wasn’t his fault. That business with the clubs had been more about Jonathan’s attitude than anything else. I didn’t have energy to waste on being angry, and I didn’t know anyone else in Paris. So I told him where I was.

‘Fine. Fine. I know exactly where you are. Walk over the Pont St Louis – there’s a nice little bistro two blocks down. It’s called Le Relais de l’Ile. Go in there, sit down, and order yourself a bottle of wine.’

‘And what good’s that going to do?’ I demanded bitterly.

‘Well, you need a drink, and you can’t be alone at a time like this, can you? Take deep breaths, yes? Good. Now wait there.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m coming to get you.’

Somehow, being given instructions seemed to help focus my stunned brain and, without really knowing how I managed to get there, I was in the candlelit bistro staring at a bottle of house red while three intense men played noisy jazz in that peculiar French way. Then the full glass in front of me was empty, then the waiter must have topped it up, and then it was empty again. Then Nicky was sitting opposite me.

I knew that without looking up, because suddenly the tables around me had gone very quiet.

He slid a pair of sunglasses across the table. ‘Here, you’ll need these,’ he said.

‘So no one will recognise me with you?’ I suggested weakly.

‘No. Because you’ve got major mascara issues. It kind of suits you, though. Now, let’s get you somewhere more private.’ In a few deft movements, he got me to my feet, slapped a wodge of euros on the table, nodded to the barman, said something cheeky to a waitress and hustled me outside, where a shiny black Bentley was waiting.

I sank into the back of it, and felt the wine pressing down on my head. My brain was only processing one thought at a time.

How could Jonathan have gone behind my back like that? Was that what he and Daddy had been discussing in the study? Was that the reason he’d been so happy to spend the weekend at Romney Hall – was it just about making money?

It went absolutely against everything I’d ever believed about drinking your way out of problems, but for once all I wanted was to slide into absolute oblivion and worry about it later.

‘Here,’ said Nicky, reading my thoughts as we drove off. He shoved a silver hip flask at me, and I drained the contents, then handed it back to him.

He looked at me approvingly.

‘More,’ I slurred. ‘I’m drinking to forget. And there’s a lot to forget.’

Nicky’s eyes rounded appreciatively, and glinted in the semi-darkness of the back seat. ‘Supernanny! I knew there was some unwholesomeness in there somewhere.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘I might even join you.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked – like I cared.

‘Well, I
am
meant to be out with friends at the moment,’ he said. ‘Birthday party, actually.’

My heart sank again at the thought of an evening with Piglet and her friends. I didn’t want to see anyone right now, much less the sort of people who made having dental work seem a preferable choice. ‘Oh.’

‘But maybe you’d prefer to get wasted somewhere quieter?’ Nicky sounded almost sympathetic. Some part of my brain noticed he’d been discreet enough not to ask me for details of why I was in this state. Yet.

‘Yes,’ I said, tipping the champagne flute unsteadily to my lips. ‘Somewhere quieter.’

It occurred to me that it was a bit of a coincidence that Nicky just happened to be in Paris this weekend, and I was about to mention it to him when his phone rang. He had the grace to look apologetic as he answered, and almost immediately had to hold it away from his ear to protect himself from the shrieky onslaught.

‘No! No! Piglet . . . No, I’m not.’

My brain, now tipping slightly sideways, discerned that it was Imogen Whatsit-Whatsit.

‘Bloody hell! Will you . . . I’m not! No! . . . Well, get a cab and put it on my . . . Will you calm down? . . . No, I didn’t intend to stand you up from the . . .’

I could hear her screeching from where I was sitting.

Nicky rolled his eyes at me. ‘No, darling, I’ve had to go to an emergency meeting . . . With Melissa, yes.’ He held the phone away from his ear again and even I could hear the fury. ‘Stop it . . . No, stop it. It’s not like that . . . No, I don’t think she’ll want to talk to you. I don’t care if you need to talk to her . . . Darling, if you want to leave the party with Piers, please do . . . I . . . Piglet, there is no need for . . .’

Without even thinking about it, I took the phone off Nicky, turned it off and gave it back to him.

‘Sorry,’ I slurred politely, as he stared at me in amused awe. ‘I don’t have time to deal with people like that. I need to devote all my energy to feeling miserable. I’ve had a terrible evening.’

I shut my eyes, felt dizzy, saw Jonathan’s face, and opened them again, tearily.

‘Let me take you home,’ said Nicky gently.

Nicky was not the sort of knight in shining armour I’d have hoped for, but then nothing this evening was turning out how I’d expected.

I was too tired and too stunned and too generally freaked out to do anything other than smile, and when I did, the self-mockery left his face, and he felt like someone I’d known for ages.

After that, time seemed to compress and blur. I don’t remember going into Nicky’s apartment, although I vaguely remember some kind of even-more-elaborate-than-normal elevator, and I do have a very vivid mental picture of taking my shoes off and sinking into a deep leather sofa.

When my head spun with helicopters, I closed my eyes to stop them. When I opened them again, after I don’t know how long, Nicky was leaning over me, very close, and I could see the double layer of lashes that made his dark eyes seem so fascinating. They were so deep brown it was impossible to see where the pupils began and ended. His smell seemed familiar too; underneath the expensive cologne and lingering nightclub air was a pungent, exciting boy odour I remembered from school dances. Nothing special, or regal: just boy. And he was angling his head towards me in the way boys did then, when they wanted to make their intentions clear. Or was he checking to see I was still breathing?

Whatever it was, it filled me with a horribly inappropriate longing. Partly for Nicky, whose smooth, tanned throat I could now almost reach out and touch with a fingertip if I wanted, and partly for the chance to run away from the reality of my own hopeless world into this
Alice in Wonderland
fantasy-land of princes, and polo, and Bentleys with champagne in the back and discreet drivers in the front.

But then Jonathan’s face floated up in my mind’s eye again, and the awful jagged pain in my chest returned too.

‘You’re not asleep, then,’ Nicky whispered, and now I could almost taste that smell on the breath that brushed against my face.

I’m not sure what I said in response. Seriously, I wish I could remember. But the next thing I knew, I was struggling to open my eyes, and it was Saturday morning.

15

When I woke up the next morning, I kept my eyes closed for as long as possible. There seemed to be a fine layer of superglue sealing them shut, but, in any case, opening my eyes would mean acknowledging that now I had to work out what to do. Plus, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to see what kind of an unholy state I was in.

Instead, I lay there, letting the invisible miners clog-dancing in my head get on with their evil business and tried to think of three positive things.

Honestly, never in my life has it been so hard.

The first one I came up with, after five minutes of thinking slowly, was that at least I knew where I was.

The second was that if you’re going to get embarrassingly wasted, you might as well do it in style, on vintage champagne, with a prince, however tenuous his grip on a proper princehood might be.

Unfortunately, thinking only triggered another torrent of savage clog-dancing as the previous evening began to trickle back, and I would have rolled my head under a pillow if the mere thought of moving my head hadn’t filled me with nausea.

I tentatively ran my hands down my body, and discovered, to my surprise, that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

That was a good thing. A very good thing.

Three, I told myself, at least I hadn’t revealed the full horror of my cottage-cheesey thighs to a client.

With a huge effort I opened my eyes.

I was alone on a bed the size of a small room. It was in a massive bedroom, dominated by a majestic white-marble fireplace, and two long windows with cream curtains, through which rays of lemony sunlight streamed. Beneath my own horrible morning-after stench, I could make out the pale scent of rosewater on the crisp linen sheets, and another cloud of fragrance coming from a crystal vase of lilies on a pedestal stand.