Little Lady Agency and The Prince (36 page)

Even though that was a totally Leonie-ish comment, it came out more flirtatious than I’d meant. Or maybe I had meant it. Nicky seemed to tap into something very Honey in me. Still, it took my mind off Melissa and her troubles for a welcome hour or two.

‘OK, OK,’ said Nicky. ‘Fine with me. I like the fact that we have a little secret already. And only I know what lies beneath.’ He winked.

I winked back, then made my face cross. ‘No, no, no,’ I said sternly. ‘Do not make references to anything lying beneath anything at all. In fact, steer clear of the whole lying image altogether.’

‘Right,’ said Nicky. He reached into his manbag and pulled out a notebook and pen.

‘And lose the manbag,’ I added. ‘It’s so awfully Euro-trash.’

‘How am I meant to carry anything?’ he asked, uncapping his Montblanc by biting the top off.

‘Jacket pockets. Or a briefcase.’

He lifted a warning finger. ‘Now, there are limits, Melissa. What are you meant to do with a briefcase in a nightclub? I’d look highly suspicious.’ He jotted down,
Do not refer to lying down
. ‘I mean, I don’t mind looking
slight
ly suspicious, that’s quite hot.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘You think Rex Harrison ever looked slightly suspicious? The whole point of not being overtly sexy over dinner is that if there is some . . . attraction between you and your dinner companion, she’ll be all the more fascinated by your apparent restraint. If you’re
really
well behaved, you might even find
she
starts with the flirty comments, in the hope of penetrating your gentlemanly manner, and stripping away the politeness to get to the passionate man beneath.’

‘I see,’ said Nicky. ‘So
you’re
allowed to talk about penetrating and stripping but I’m not?’

I blushed. ‘Um, that’s just an illustration.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now what am I allowed to talk about? Tell me while you’re ordering.’

I studied the menu and tried to find something I could eat that wouldn’t lead to me licking my fingers or slurping or doing anything that might end up looking like Nigella Lawson. ‘You can talk about books you’ve read, or places you’ve been, or people you know. But no salacious gossip,’ I added. ‘Just in case it turns out they’re related. I’m terrible at that. And you know
loads
more people than me so . . . Just don’t.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Don’t so much as breathe a word about religion, politics,
Big Brother
, your exes, her exes, or what kind of diet she’s on. Write that down.’

‘Oh, Melissa, you’re so strict,’ he sighed. ‘And so wise. It’s what every man dreams of – a woman who’ll tell him what to do, but wear corsets while she does it. Do all your clients end up falling in love with you?’

‘No,’ I pinged back saucily. ‘Just my fia—’ A sudden pang hit me, so hard I felt tears spring to my eyes. No, I told myself, you
have
to get over this.

‘Just Jonathan,’ I said bravely. ‘And I’m not sure he really knows where Honey stops and Mel starts. That’s why I’m wearing the wig – partly. It’s complicated.’

Nicky looked stricken, and grabbed my hand. The bantering disappeared from his manner. ‘God, I’m sorry, that was so stupid of me. I didn’t mean to be so crass. I’m such a cretin.’

‘That’s why I’m here!’ I said, trying to be light.

‘I was having such a good time I forgot I was learning,’ he said simply. ‘You’re very easy to relax with.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who was so easy to talk to.’

‘That’s because most of the girls you meet aren’t exactly conversationalists,’ I replied, studying the menu. ‘But then I suppose you’re not dating them for their views on current affairs, are you?’

He held my gaze in an unsettlingly direct way. ‘Is that where I’m going wrong?’

Then the waiter appeared and saved me from having to come up with a smart answer.

We talked and ate and drank and talked, and though the flirtatious Nicky rose to the surface once or twice he seemed to open up throughout the evening, letting slip more of the serious, thoughtful side he’d showed me in Paris. I was surprised – in a good way – by how frank he was about his childhood in various schools, like me, and the travelling and the nannies and the feeling of never having quite enough attention.

Although the restaurant was big and filled with chatter and the clatter of fashionable dining, it felt as if it was just him and me, in a very small room. Miles and miles away from that first dinner we’d had, in Petrus.

‘So,’ he said, stirring two sugars into his espresso. ‘I suppose my grandfather’s given you instructions about finding me a more appropriate girlfriend? I know he had a special loathing for Piglet. And pretty much everyone else I’ve been out with.’

‘Not specifically,’ I said. ‘Although he seems quite adamant one should be with someone one loves and respects. I assume he would include you in that.’

‘The implication being what? That I don’t respect girls like Imogen?’

‘Guess so,’ I said. ‘Call me a hairy-armpit feminist, but men who don’t respect women – they’re pretty unattractive. And women who date men who don’t respect women are pretty stupid. That’s just asking to be taken advantage of. You need to stand up for yourself.’

Nicky nodded thoughtfully.

‘Personally,’ I went on, with feeling. ‘I don’t go in for
pretending
to be ditzy. It’s just a waste of time. I miss enough as it is – I don’t need to make people think I’m
more
dense. And grown women pretending to be schoolgirls is just . . . ugh.’

‘Well, I don’t know, it has its charms,’ he began, then, to my surprise, he dropped the insouciance altogether. ‘But you’re right. It’s good to be able to sit here, talking to someone properly. About . . . real things. Piglet would have played with a salad, drunk two bottles of the most expensive white wine on the list on principle, then dragged me out to a club by now.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’d have been leaving for the second club about now.’

‘And I haven’t even got on to my second coffee,’ I said.

Nicky sighed and pushed his cup away. ‘I wish I met more girls like you, Melissa. Girls who aren’t all about the money, or about being in magazines.’ He looked up at me from under his dark lashes and smiled. He had eyes like a baby calf. A very sexy baby calf. ‘I just don’t seem to meet them unless my grandfather sets me up with them. And how wrong is that?’

I struggled to maintain my grown-up composure.

‘That’s why I’m trying to keep you out of nightclubs,’ I reminded him. ‘You meet a nicer type of girl at charity sailing dinners.’

He tipped his glass towards me in a little salute of recognition. ‘And what do you think?’ he asked. ‘What do you think is important?’

‘I’m not sure I’m the right person to be asking,’ I said wryly.

‘Ah, but I think you are. I think you know perfectly well what’s important in a relationship. You’ve just told me, for a start. I hope you’re going to tell Jonathan what you’ve just told me.’

I blinked, taken aback by his insight.

‘Well?’ he repeated, tilting his head so his thick hair flopped to one side. The tealights on the table made deep chestnut highlights gleam in his fringe. ‘What’s important in a relationship?’

More frissons crackled across the table. This time, though, I knew it was because we were being really honest, not because we were playing flirtatious games.

‘Well,’ I began, sidestepping the whole Jonathan thing. ‘I think you need respect for the other person, as an adult – you need to see them as an individual, with strengths and weaknesses, and quirks and flaws. That’s what attraction’s about, really, not how blue their eyes are, or how cute their figure is. That’s what lasts fifty years. It’s that something you can’t quite put your finger on. You need to feel comfortable enough to be yourself, but not so comfortable that you stop bothering.’

‘Should I write this down?’

‘Try remembering it. Doesn’t look good, taking a check list on a date.’

‘So,’ said Nicky, holding my gaze and counting on his fingers. ‘You think I should be looking out for a sensible English girl, with her feet on the ground, and plenty to talk about. Someone who has her own money and isn’t interested in mine, who eats her meal instead of playing with it, who has enough self-confidence to dress like a real woman, can make me laugh, and who has hidden talents.’

‘Did I mention hidden talents?’ I asked. My tummy was quivering with the combined effort of holding it in, and noting that I hadn’t mentioned anything about an English girl, or polishing off meals, or dressing like a real woman either.

‘I’d want any girlfriend of mine to have hidden talents,’ explained Nicky, so intensely that he made me forget to breathe. ‘Especially if she was going to be my wife.’

I’m sorry to say I couldn’t stop myself. ‘And I suppose
you
have hidden talents to offer?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘Which are?’

‘Oh, they’re hidden.’ Without missing a beat, he signalled to the waiter for the bill, then returned his eyes to mine. ‘You’d have to find that out. Or, rather, whoever I dated would.’

Somehow, mindful of the lesson I was supposed to be giving him in not trying to get a lady into bed over dinner, I stopped myself from swooning on the spot. Instead, I pushed myself away from the table.

‘Thank you for a fabulous dinner,’ I said. ‘It’s been enchanting and instructive. And,’ I added, in more normal tones, ‘you have cheered me up. Really.’

‘Have I? Mission accomplished,’ he said, punching his PIN into the machine. ‘And you’ve given me a lot to think about too.’ He let me get out from the table. ‘I’ll be thinking about it all night.’

Ray was waiting outside with the Bentley and when he saw me he smiled and tipped his hat. ‘Good evening, miss?’ he said, opening the door for Nicky, who slid across the back seat to make room for me.

‘Lovely evening, thanks,’ I said, slipping into the car, keeping my knees neatly together in top finishing-school fashion, mainly for the benefit of the passing tourists, who stopped and stared at us, wondering if we were famous.

I had to admit, it was something one could get quite used to.

Nicky was quiet as we set off towards Victoria, but I didn’t mind savouring the unreality of the moment: the handsome prince next to me, the purring luxury car, the fashionable dinner. It was like being Cinderella – the moment I stepped into my flat and took off my wig, I’d be back to normal.

Or would I? How much of what Nicky had said tonight had been genuine? How much of what
I’d
said had been me and how much had been Honey’s mannerly instruction? We’d gone over an invisible line this evening and I wasn’t sure where it was. More to the point, I wasn’t sure if Nicky thought it was in the same place that I did. That was the trouble about his life. It didn’t seem to have the same reference points as mine.

Far too soon, Ray pulled up outside home, where he let the engine idle discreetly while we said our goodbyes.

I was suddenly gripped by the fear that maybe I’d been swept away more than Nicky, and that I too looked like one of the star-struck climbers who fawned over him in Boujis. OK, I might be enjoying a little escapism in my head, but the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was developing a crush on him.

‘Well, this is me,’ I said, probably a bit too cheerily. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Nicky, sliding across the back seat so I could feel his breath on my bare neck. ‘Can I cheer you up again soon? I think you need it.’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, with one hand on the door. ‘Next week, we can tackle being safe in taxis.’

‘Next week? I hope not,’ he said, lowering his voice to an intimate murmur. ‘I was thinking . . . in the next
day
or two?’

Nicky’s eyes were almost black in the half-light, and full of suggestiveness. I gazed into them like a rabbit frozen in the headlights of an oncoming tractor.

‘Goodnight!’ I squeaked, just about managing to keep my voice normal.

‘Goodnight,’ echoed Nicky, and he leaned forward. He paused, his lips a tantalising breath away from my own, then, after a heart-stopping moment, he changed course and touched my cheek, brushing my cheek with his lips, but not gently – with a sort of reined-in, very grown-up passion. I felt his eyelashes flutter against my cheekbone and his skin, slightly rough but smooth at the same time, pressed close to mine. I could smell him: lemony cologne and champagne, and something musky and sexy and miles more dangerous than any man I’d ever kissed before.

He could have kissed me. He knew I knew he could have kissed me. But he hadn’t, and yet we were both left imagining what that unkissed kiss would have felt like.

He pulled away, to see what my reaction was, and in that second I managed to grab control of myself.

You can’t let him do this, barked a stern voice inside my head. You’re in no emotional state to do anything, and besides which, you’ve spent all night telling him how he needs to respect women. DUR!

‘Don’t kiss me!’ I heard my own voice gabble.

Nicky’s eyebrow hooked up in amused query. My heart melted again at the shadows falling onto his handsome face from the street lights around us, reminding me of the vulnerability he’d shown me earlier.

‘Don’t want you turning back into a frog!’ I explained goofily.

‘That’s not all princes,’ he reminded me.

‘Well, I know, but, um, I mean,’ I clutched at straws. ‘From a
behaviour
point of view it’s much better to . . .’

Nicky sighed. ‘Please don’t. I wouldn’t presume to kiss you anyway. Respect, and all that. I’ve learned much about nice girls tonight.’

‘Good,’ I said, opening the door and getting myself out before I said anything that might undo my previous hard work. ‘I’ll call you.’

He leaned out from the back seat. ‘I’ll be watching my phone.’

I let myself in with wobbly hands that scraped the key around the lock a few times before I could get it in. But when I climbed the stairs to find Nelson had gone out to see a film with Roger, leaving half a chicken pie in the oven and a gas bill on the table for me, it really did feel as if it were me who’d turned back into a frog, and not Nicky.