Little Lady Agency and The Prince (35 page)

Gabi rolled her eyes and offered me her own diary.

I glared at her. ‘But I’ll ring you this afternoon and let you know when’s a good time.’

‘How about tonight?’

‘Erm . . .’

‘Don’t pretend Nelly’s cooking you lamb chops or something. Come on, let me take you out.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I said firmly.

‘Excellent. I’ll look forward to that,’ said Nicky, with an audible smile, and he hung up.

‘That sounded a lot like flirting to me,’ observed Gabi, when I managed to get my phone back in the bag.

I shook my head weakly. ‘Yes. But no, I think he’s like that with everyone.’

Gabi did her double eye-roll. ‘Ding!’

‘Don’t you start with that,’ I said, picking up a wallpaper sample book. ‘Nelson’s bad enough.’ But to be honest, Nicky’s charm was like sinking my weary body into a warm, scented bath. It didn’t solve anything, but it felt nice. I just hoped I could get out again.

When I got back to the office with my new lamp and a pep talk from Gabi, I’d regrouped enough to deal with Ranald Harris, who’d spun himself into an appalling web of lies by fibbing on his speed-dating form, then inadvertently speed-dating four different women, to each of whom he’d told increasingly elaborate porkies, without making notes. Slowly, Ranald and I unravelled them between us, to the point where he could at least contact two of them with reasonable explanations. The other two, I told him sadly, he’d have to write off. There’s nowhere you can go once you’ve insisted you’re an international fast bowler, and/or a stage hypnotist.

Flushed with success, I called Roger about Zara, and how he could make it up to her after the jewellery clanger.

‘It’s not about
what
you give her,’ I said, for what felt like the millionth time since Friday. ‘It’s the thought you’ve put into it.’

‘I don’t have any thoughts,’ he said wildly. ‘I’m a bloke!’

‘Well, take her on a mini break or something – surprise her. What does she like doing? Which bits of England hasn’t she seen? Why don’t you take her back to Hereford and show her your apple orchards?’ I improvised.

‘Riiight,’ said Roger, in a far from encouraging manner. ‘I did hear they’ve got the new tractor now, might be quite interesting for her. By the way, sorry to hear about your bad news.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said automatically, then wondered what Nelson had told him.

‘How are you coping? Are you eating?’ Roger’s voice had taken on the ghastly solicitous tone he used when dealing with women in distress. I only had myself to blame; I’d taught him to use it instead of his old blunt ‘Why are you crying? Are you up the duff?’ approach. ‘You don’t want to eat too much,’ he went on. ‘Or drink too much. I expect Nelson’s looking after you.’

‘For your information, Roger,’ I said crossly, ‘I don’t need looking after. I haven’t broken things off with Jonathan at all. We’re just . . . thinking.’

‘You’ll go through various stages,’ he reassured me. ‘Including denial. Anger is perfectly normal.’

I bitterly regretted buying Roger
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus
.

‘Let me know how you get on with Zara, won’t you?’ I said, as sweetly as I could. ‘And for future reference, any jewellery gift that is not an engagement ring should be presented in nothing
smaller than a shoebox
. Got that?’

‘Yurp!’ said Roger, and he hung up, presumably to get the tractor polished and ready for Zara.

I made my way through a fair amount of paperwork, and was drafting a tactful email to a client who seemed to think I’d actually go to his godchild’s birthday party
for
him, as well as sort out the gift, when my mobile rang again.

I saw from the caller ID that it was my mother.

I stretched out my hand to take the call, then I chickened out. She loved Jonathan. She’d want to know what Parisian delights he’d showered on me over the weekend.

Later, I told myself, guiltily. I’d call her back later, when I wasn’t at work, and had no distractions.

I went back to my emails, and ten minutes later Daddy rang. I had a special ring tone to alert me to his calls. It was the
Blackadder
theme tune.

I definitely wasn’t talking to
him
.

When I didn’t take his call, he added a voicemail message to Mummy’s, and when Emery rang at four o’clock, I thought I’d better not answer that either. So she left a message too.

At four thirty, just as I was about to nip out to Baker & Spice for a cake reward for getting through the day, the phone rang again, and this time there was no Romney-Jones caller ID so I picked up.

Mistake.

‘Hello, darling!’ cooed Granny. ‘I just wanted to pass on a little compliment! I was talking to Georgie von Apfel at a party I went to with Alex at the weekend – she’s a snobby old boot, to be honest – and she said she’d bumped into a granddaughter of mine. Called Honey!’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. At the polo. She seemed . . . quite nice.’

Obviously, Granny had brushed off the small matter of Nicky and the bomb scare, because she babbled on, ‘Yes! Anyway, I didn’t disclose details, even though she was
desperate
for information. I was vague, you know. And I must say Alex was very good too – he didn’t even crack a smile.’ She paused to sigh happily. ‘He’s so discreet. Anyway, what she
did
say was that Nicky was looking positively smitten, and when you went off to make a phone call, he told her you were the most charming woman he’d ever met!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes! I think Georgie was a bit miffed, because she’s been lining her granddaughter Bitsy up for years . . . Anyway, she made a few barbed comments about the family charm, which I’m afraid were aimed at me, but in the end she couldn’t help being rather complimentary about you too. Said you made a very handsome couple and that you had the sort of forehead that could carry off a tiara. Which I think was her ham-fisted attempt at fishing for gossip about whether the two of you were romantically linked, as they say!’

‘We aren’t,’ I said. ‘But he has dumped his horrible girlfriend. Imogen Leys.’

‘Has he? Alex
will
be pleased. He only met her once, but she asked him if there were any family tiaras she could wear for their wedding, or should she get her dad to buy one? Honestly, from what I hear the girl practically had a list . . .’

‘Oh,’ I said, reassessing just how horrendous
that
dumping conversation must have been for Nicky.

‘So how was Paris this weekend?’ she asked airily. ‘Jonathan all right?’

I flinched. I hated lying to Granny. ‘Oh, you know . . .’

There was a long silence on the line. ‘Anything you’re not telling me, darling?’

I bit my lip. There was no point. She’d find out; Nicky would tell Alexander, and he would tell Granny.

‘We had a big row,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve asked for some time to think about moving to Paris. And everything else.’

‘Oh no!’ cried Granny. ‘You poor angel! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Well, not fine. But I’m managing. Jonathan . . .’ I pressed my lips together to stop the ache in my heart spreading to my throat. ‘Jonathan wanted to sell off the agency to Daddy. And I just knew things weren’t right. I was
trying
to be happy, not
being
happy. I know that doesn’t sound . . .’

‘No, no!’ I could almost see Granny holding up a long finger. ‘You don’t have to give me any reason, darling! If you don’t think it was going to work out, for whatever reason, that’s all you have to say. I must admit,’ she went on, a little naughtily, ‘I did
wonder
 . . .’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, a little bird told me that you might have stayed the night in a certain person’s apartment at the weekend . . .’

I turned bright red. ‘How did you know that?’

‘The little bird might have needed a forwarding address for some laundry. Don’t worry,’ she added, still in that same naughty voice, ‘I won’t tell a soul!’

‘It’s not what it looks like!’ I insisted hotly. ‘Nicky offered me somewhere to stay – I was in a total state. He was very gallant, if you must know.’

‘So I should think. In any case, I’m saying nothing.’

That would be a first, I thought, seeing the baroque fantasies already spinning their way around Granny’s brain. ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Nicky,’ I protested. ‘Honestly. Please don’t start thinking that. It isn’t why Jonathan and I split up.’

‘Of course not,’ said Granny.

‘I haven’t spoken to Mummy about it yet,’ I said, ‘so please don’t say anything until I know what I’m doing.’

Granny paused, and sounded more like herself. ‘I understand, darling,’ she said. ‘My lips are sealed.’

And I knew she meant that, at least.

At the end of the day, when I’d done all the chores I could find, I steeled myself to listen to the messages from home.

Mummy’s was first.

‘Hello, darling. I want to have a little chat with you about a drinks thing I’m trying to arrange? I thought it might be a good time for Jonathan to meet the vicar, and some of Daddy’s constituency people. I know they’re a bit hard work, but that’s the beauty of Jonathan – he always has something to say. And your father’s very keen to talk to him too. Says he needs his opinion on something . . .’ There was a bark of deranged laughter. ‘Can you believe that? Do call me back, darling.’

Then Daddy.

‘Melissa, it’s your father. I’m trying to get hold of Jonathan – I need to . . . discuss something with him, but he’s not answering his phone. Been trying all weekend.’ I could hear weird sucking noises in the background. Was that a fault on the line? Then Daddy said, ‘By God, you finished that quickly, you greedy little bugger. A second bottle? Is it? Is it? Is it a second bottle for Bertie? Good chap! Anyway, don’t know what Jonathan’s playing at, but it’s imperative I speak to him in the next twenty-four hours. Get onto it, will you?’

Then Emery.

‘Hi, Mel, it’s Em. Listen, I need to talk to you about the naming ceremony. Daddy’s totally on my case about dates, because he wants to get some magazine to pay for the food in return for photo access or something, so I need you to come and help me. And I was wondering if Jonathan would like to be godfather? I haven’t discussed it with anyone yet, but I thought it might be an idea for Bertie to have at least one sensible man in his life. Daddy’s turning him into a clone – he’s changed the Baby Mozart CD in the cot for his Winston Churchill speeches one. Actually, Nanny Ag’s driving me a bit mad too.’ She sounded like she was calling from under the stairs or in the shed or something – her voice was nearly a whisper but it had a purposeful note to it, which I took to be the New Emery breaking through. ‘I’m supposed to be expressing milk. But I’m hiding in the stables. Oh, shit!’ The phone dropped to the floor and a muffled exchange took place. I recognised the fearsome tone of Nanny Ag above Emery’s softer whingeing.

I deleted the messages, put the phone down on the desk, and listened to the sounds of London going home for the day until the light started to fade.

17

I will say this for Nicky: he certainly did his best to take my mind off my constant, miserable, round-and-round agonising about Jonathan. Not only did he call me the next day, ‘just for a quick chat’, but he insisted on taking me out for dinner, despite my pleas that I’d be rotten company.

‘You’ll feel better once you’ve got yourself dressed up,’ he insisted, with worldly experience. ‘Girls always do.’

Annoyingly, he was right.

From the moment I hauled the strings tight on my black satin Honey corset – why not? – I felt a defiant sexiness return along with my wasp waist. As I got dressed, I saw a gratifyingly glamorous woman start to emerge in the mirror, and by the time I’d slipped into a wrap-dress, and pinned on my long blonde wig, it was as if I’d put armour around my heart, and I could tackle anything. Honey was a winner, even if I wasn’t.

And, I told myself, fastening my diamanté earrings, it was all part of Nicky’s old-fashioned-gentleman boot camp, so it was my duty to go – both as Honey to pass on my hard-earned knowledge, and as Melissa to keep up my promise to Granny.

I finished off my going-out face with a glossy slick of crimson lipstick, and smacked my lips together.

Honey smiled at me from the mirror.

Nicky texted me to say he’d booked a table at the Wolseley on Piccadilly, and was already there when I arrived, gazing around the high-ceilinged room, presumably using the mirrors to see if he recognised any of the swishy-haired clientele, or, more to the point, their husbands. I noticed he’d got one of the best tables in the central bullring area – something I’d never managed to do, even using my best wheedling skills.

When he saw me, a broad smile broke across his face.

‘Hello,’ I said, as he rose to kiss my cheek. ‘You get five points to start with, for being early.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Is it like a driving test, where you have a list you can tick when I get things right?’

‘No,’ I said, meeting his teasing dark eyes with a cool gaze. ‘I’ve got a list I cross when you get things wrong.’

‘Oh, dear,’ he said seriously. ‘And you know how much I like getting things wrong. I must try harder. You look ravishing, by the way. Blue is a marvellous colour on you. Any reason why you’re here as a blonde tonight?’

My cool gaze wavered as I touched my hair self-consciously. ‘No, I . . .’

‘I hope you’re not hiding behind it?’ he went on, lifting an eyebrow.

‘Not at all,’ I said quickly. ‘I just thought that since the Wolseley is a people-spotting kind of place, you might be spotted by someone you knew, and since I’ve already been to a couple of events with you as a blonde, it just seemed . . . logical. And it is a business meeting, to discuss your dining skills, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ asked Nicky. ‘It can’t be me taking a friend out to dinner to cheer her up after her undeserved weekend from hell?’

Friend, eh? A little tingly frisson passed between us across the table. ‘I think it would be more straightforward to chalk it up to business,’ I said. ‘That way you can write me off against tax.’