Little Lady Agency and The Prince (40 page)

‘My ancestors were known for their seafaring prowess,’ Nicky pointed out, with a side-glance at Nelson.

‘And also for stealing their castle in the fifteenth century from a bunch of nuns, or so I read,’ replied Nelson casually. ‘Gambling debt, wasn’t it? With the abbess?’

‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ snapped Nicky. ‘At least I
know
what my family were doing in the fifteenth century.’

I groaned inwardly. He’d picked the wrong topic there. Nelson, with his characteristic thoroughness had traced his ancestry back to one farm near Harrogate and had turned up no fewer than ten judges, magistrates and lord lieutenants in previous generations of Barbers.

‘Mine were raising sheep in Yorkshire,’ said Nelson. ‘And chopping the hands off miscreants.’

‘Nelson,’ I said firmly, taking control of the bickering. ‘Tell Nicky about how you started sailing. Nicky, listen to him, and remember some key phrases.’

They both looked at me with ‘I’m
so
doing this under sufferance’ expressions.

‘Go on,’ I said encouragingly.

‘I learned to sail my father’s dinghy up in Yorkshire when I was about five,’ started Nelson crossly. ‘I nearly drowned because my brother Woolfe undid my life jacket as a joke.’

‘Don’t bother remembering the Yorkshire bits,’ I muttered.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ muttered Nicky.

Once Nelson got onto the joys of sailing, it was quite hard to stop him. So I didn’t try. I just kept topping up everyone’s coffee and jotting things down on my pad.

‘. . . and that’s why you should always have a manual bilge-pump as back-up.’ Without warning, Nelson stopped, and Nicky and I jerked back to wakefulness.

‘Thanks, Nelson!’ I said brightly. ‘That was really helpful! Just so Nicky knows, what sort of sailing yacht should he pretend to have had?’

‘Yah. Tell me what kind and I’ll pop out and buy one,’ drawled Nicky. ‘Might as well.’

I glared at him. If he was trying to impress me, that was absolutely the wrong way to go about it. To be honest, I didn’t like it when Nicky went back into his awful princy persona, not now I’d seen a sweeter side of him. I could only assume he was doing it for Nelson’s benefit.

Nelson’s blue eyes narrowed, then he reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. ‘Something like Roger’s yacht would do. It’s a Pickleton,’ he said, passing it over so we could see a little picture of it.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘And what . . . sort?’

Nelson looked hard at Nicky. ‘It’s a bark-rigged scoop.’

‘Bark-rigged scoop,’ I repeated. ‘Got that, Nicky?’

He nodded, bored. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘I have to go now,’ said Nelson, checking his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting at two.’

‘Thanks so much for coming over,’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘I really appreciate this help.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Nicky. ‘I really feel as if I’ve sailed round the world myself. In real time.’

Nelson glowered at him, as if he were about to deliver one of his Home Truths, then evidently decided against it. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said to me. ‘Bouillabaisse all right for dinner? There’s a new fishmonger’s open down the road, and they’re saving some fish heads for stock.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I was going to pop home this evening. Emery’s called me three times today about the christening – did I tell you Daddy’s postponed it this time? Something to do with the Cheese Diet book going into paperback and it making better coverage if Bertie’s christened in September.’

‘Why don’t you invite that girl over?’ drawled Nicky unexpectedly. ‘Leonie, wasn’t it? I’m sure she’ll be looking forward to the cruise next weekend? Maybe you can brief her too. Or debrief her,’ he added with a wink.

‘Brief her,’ I said. ‘Debrief would be her telling him what had happened.’

‘Yes,’ said Nelson, shrugging on his jacket. ‘We’ll run through the whole gin-and-tonic-making process. Call me if you need anything, won’t you? Afternoon, Nicolas.’

‘Have fun boiling your heads,’ called Nicky as he left.

We listened to Nelson clumping down the carpeted steps, and the front door banging.

Suddenly, a buzzy tension filled the little room, along with the bright afternoon sunshine as Nicky and I were left alone. I couldn’t put my finger on quite why I felt so hot and bothered but it had something to do, I think, with the clashing of antlers that had just taken place. And I wasn’t sure how much I liked the idea of Leonie getting my rightful bouillabaisse.

‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ observed Nicky, lounging comfortably on the sofa. ‘Less like a sick bay, more like . . . a lady’s boudoir.’

‘But without the bed,’ I said, and felt myself blush. I opened the huge, colour-coded appointments book, and fiddled with a pen to hide my abrupt rise in temperature.

‘Hot in here, isn’t it?’ said Nicky. ‘Or is that just you?’

I pushed my chair back and got to my feet. Though I was glad I’d dressed up for work today, the lacy tops of my hold-ups, squeezing my thighs, were making me feel quite body-conscious, and Nicky’s flirtatious manner wasn’t helping. ‘Much as I’d love to sit and chat with you all afternoon, I have to boss someone into getting their hair cut. Might I chuck you out?’

‘Can’t I stay and watch you be bossy?’ he pleaded, lounging on the leather sofa, one long leg swung over the arm. ‘It’s so sexy.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘and no. Out.’

‘Fine.’ He got to his feet and I pretended to be checking some files on the shelf.

‘Enjoy the afternoon,’ I said absently. ‘Buy a copy of
Yachting World
or something.’

‘I’d rather do the something.’ Seeing I wasn’t going to be drawn further, he sloped towards the door, but then suddenly turned back. ‘Present for you.’

And he chucked a paper bag on the desk, with the Tate Britain logo on the front.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘So you
were
at an art gallery this morning. I believe you! I’m glad you’re listening to some of what I say!’

He paused at the door. ‘I listen to everything you say, Melissa,’ he said, blinking slowly at me, so I got the full benefit of his long dark lashes. ‘Everything. Little presents, right?’

And he left.

When I was sure he’d gone, I tipped the postcards out onto my desk, and my heart beat faster in my chest. Every single one featured beautiful portraits of women – by Rosetti, Singer Sargent, Millais – but all with long brown hair, and brown eyes, and generous hips like cellos. Like mine.

I sank into my chair and fanned myself with them.

Honestly, I’d never had a more flattering fiver spent on me before.

20

I was usually pretty confident about what suited me and when to wear it, but packing for a weekend on a motor yacht with two princes, my flatmate, my grandmother and some paparazzi – in a heatwave? I was gripped with indecision.

‘Nelson, what am I supposed to wear?’ I wailed, staring at the explosion of clothes on my bed. ‘None of this looks right.’

‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ he said, trying to find somewhere to put down the cup of tea he’d brought me. ‘You’re probably better off watching UKTV Gold until an old Agatha Christie film comes on. They usually have questionable princes wafting around in patent-leather shoes too, come to think of it.’

I ignored that.

‘What about this?’ I held up my least restrictive cocktail dress.

‘It’s a cocktail dress.’ Nelson scratched his ear. ‘Is that a good idea?’

‘I’m not going to be scrubbing the decks,’ I snapped.

‘Well, presumably you’re not going to be manning the roulette wheel, either. OK, OK,’ he added hastily. ‘What have you packed so far?’

I pointed to my wig, in its little travelling box, and a large sunhat.

He raised his eyebrow at the wig. ‘Why are you taking that? Won’t it get wet? No! Don’t tell me – are you and the part-time prince planning to steal everyone’s jewels and make a break for the Swiss border?’

I gave him a patient look. ‘It won’t get wet, because
I
won’t get wet. I have to take it, because I’ll be photographed with Nicky, as Honey, his refined and suitable new companion. Along with you and the charitable Leonie, we’ll be sipping Martinis in a decorous fashion, rather than cavorting grotesquely, and it’ll end up in the magazine, next to his lovely interview about how sailing makes him feel spiritually closer to his seaside principality. Everyone’s happy.’

‘Apart from that Imogen woman,’ said Nelson.

‘Don’t talk about her.’ I pulled a face. ‘She’s been
plaguing
Nicky with phone calls – she rang while we were having lunch the other day, and I could hear her calling me a . . . tart, amongst other things.’

‘Sure it was you she was talking about, and not him?’

‘Nelson!’

‘OK, OK.’ He chewed his nail – a dead giveaway that he was nervous – and began rearranging the many hair products on my dressing table. ‘And, um, any dress code for chaps on the SS Gin Palace or whatever it’s called?’

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to wear on a yacht,’ I said.

‘But . . . if I asked you?’ he pressed, a little shyly, then added, ‘I wouldn’t want to give P. Nicky the chance to have a laugh at the expense of the English abroad.’

I felt a rush of warmth towards him. Nelson
never
asked my advice on sartorial matters. ‘Well . . . what you’d wear to a garden party, I expect – blazer, linen trousers, light shirt? Deck shoes?’ I wagged my finger jokingly. ‘They’re the only place it’s really OK to wear them, you know, so you might as well.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Will do.’

In the end, I decided to let someone else choose for me, and took myself off to Harvey Nichols. Four hours later, I floated out on an intoxicating cloud of retail therapy, clutching, in three bags, the ingredients for looking like a film star:

One pair white-silk wide-legged pants

One pair industrial pants for wearing beneath the white trousers

One navy and white striped top –
très chic

One pair elegant gold sandals

One ‘uncreaseable’ little black dress

One brown-spot bikini with cute tie-sides and structurally miraculous underwiring

One mad Pucci print halter-neck dress for sitting around drinking Martinis in and generally attracting the attention of paparazzi

One large kaftan

One pair huge Sophie Loren-size shades

One delicious new silk scarf for tying around my head in jaunty nautical fashion

Plus, obviously, a new bag to stuff it all in.

Nelson’s travel plans always involved setting off ‘in good time’, a flexible formula which roughly equalled estimated journey time + one major accident en route + me forgetting one vital item and/or him insisting on going home to check the oven had been turned off. Since I’d been rushed off my feet all week, I’d left the travel arrangements to him and Leonie, who had been in touch with Alexander’s secretary.

Nicky, apparently, would ‘see us there’. I made him promise he wouldn’t be late.

Needless to say, Nelson called round at my office a good half-hour before he’d said he would, and proceeded to conduct a verbal cross-examination of my travel bag.

‘Passport?’

‘Yes! Nelson, I’m trying to finish this email before we go so . . .’

‘Euros?’

‘I doubt we’ll need any, but yes . . .’

‘Travel insurance?’

I gave up on my email. ‘Nelson, if anything goes wrong I fully expect Alexander to fly me back to London myself. Blimey, you look nice.’

Nelson did look rather dashing, in a biscuit-coloured linen suit, and an open-necked blue shirt that brought out the bright colour of his eyes.

‘Have I seen that suit before?’ I added curiously.

‘Um, maybe, maybe not. Bought it for the cricket club dinner and, er, haven’t got round to wearing it yet,’ he replied casually. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself. If a bit
nautique
.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ I demanded. I was wearing very smart navy sailor pants, with a sleeveless print blouse and flat pumps with adorable little gold buttons. It was hardly as if I was kitted out in a captain’s hat and eyepatch. ‘
Nautique
?’

‘Oh, you know, what people who don’t sail think people who do sail wear,’ he said obliquely, then distracted me by fussing furiously about the time.

We called round by Leonie’s office in Hammersmith to pick her up, but with Nelson creating a drama about stopping on a yellow line, she leaped into the back of the Range Rover before I could get a decent look at her. As usual she was travelling light, with just a very small bag.

‘Hi, Melons! Hi, Nelson!’ she yelled. ‘You don’t mind if I make a few calls, do you? I’ve had to take a half-day off. I just hope it’s going to be worth it!’

‘Go ahead!’ I said. ‘Um, Leonie, you know no one’s called me Melons since we left school?’

The thought of the mileage Nicky would get from that was too much to bear.

‘Really? Sorry!’ But she was already on the phone, yapping away.

Nelson gave me a little smile and I put my shades on.

The traffic out of London was thick and the weather was hot. I could feel my outfit becoming less and less chic with every mile we crawled.

‘Are we flying from Farnborough?’ I asked Nelson. At least there’d be no hanging about if Alexander had sent his plane. Granny had been positively lyrical about the delights of private air travel.

‘No, Luton.’

‘Luton?’

‘Yes, Leonie booked it. There’s an easyJet flight straight to Nice.’

‘EasyJet?’ I swivelled in my seat.

Leonie gave me a thumbs-up. ‘I booked online! Bargain!’ she mouthed, in between tearing a strip off some wretched business contact.

I was startled to notice, on closer inspection, that the sensible City hairdo had gone, replaced with a funkier bob, complete with generous scattering of creamy blonde highlights. She’d evidently been to a personal shopper too, going by her complicatedly casual navy outfit. I didn’t remember her looking so . . . put-together before.

I wondered, feeling odd, if that was why Nelson had got a new suit – to make an impression with Leonie.