Little Lady Agency and The Prince (41 page)

‘Nelson,’ I hissed, swivelling back, ‘didn’t Alexander offer to take us? I know that’s how Granny’s getting there. She’s all “I don’t do BA” these days.’

‘Oh, well, Leonie and I talked about it and she was keen on easyJet, and I tend to think you should minimise the carbon footprint where you can, so . . .’

It’s very hard to get cross with someone that saintly.

‘He’s sending a car to collect us at the other end,’ he offered. ‘That should be a nice posh one, if it cheers you up.’

My phone was ringing in my handbag. ‘I haven’t finished with this!’ I warned him, and answered it.

‘Hi, can I speak to Honey Blennerhesket, please?’ said an unfamiliar voice.

‘This is Honey,’ I said, ignoring Nelson’s snort.

‘Yeah, hi, my name’s Tyra – I’m calling from the subs desk about the interview we did with Prince Nicolas? About his sailing?’

‘Oh, yes! Great! How can I help?’

‘Well, I just had a few queries . . .’ I could hear the rattle of a keyboard. ‘Like, he says at one point that his favourite yacht is a . . . where is it? A Pickleton? Was that a mistake?’

‘Ummm . . .’ I flicked my eyes sideways towards Nelson, who was suddenly concentrating very hard on driving.

‘Because the chief sub questioned it – she says there’s no such thing. And, yeah, he also said it was a “bark-rigged scoop”? No such thing either.’

‘Really? No such thing? How strange!’ I said. ‘I wonder if the tape wasn’t clear. Hang on a moment, Tyra, I’m with him right now – let me check. Nicky,’ I said, through gritted teeth, ‘you didn’t describe your boat as a Pickleton, did you?’

Nelson glared at me.

I glared at him.

‘
Did
you?’ I repeated.

‘Yah! I need to talk to Eddie Rothery in Legal, stat!’ brayed Leonie in the back.

‘Who’s that?’ enquired Tyra.

‘Um, his other press secretary,’ I said quickly. ‘Nicky?’

Nelson made a ‘Why should I?’ face.

‘
Nicky!
’ I hissed, and Nelson caved in.

‘It’s a Nicholson, darling,’ drawled Nelson, in a dreadful impression of Nicky. ‘With a ch. And it’s a sloop.’

‘Oh, yes, of course!’ I gushed down the phone while glaring fiercely at Nelson. ‘Gosh, you’re not always too clear. You really ought to speak up.’

‘Hangover,’ said Nelson. ‘Darling.’

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I hoped it wasn’t a pause of disbelief. ‘Is that . . .’

I quickly spelled out both words.

‘Oh, right,’ said the sub. ‘Glad we got that cleared up.’

‘Absolutely!’ I agreed.

‘Things like that have a nasty way of getting into
Private Eye
,’ she went on ominously.

Blanching, I made some polite chit-chat about us just being on our way to the yacht now, and quickly hung up.

‘Nelson!’ I frowned, once the phone was safely in my bag. ‘What in the name of God was that about!’

‘Oh, come on,’ he scoffed. ‘It was just deserts. I didn’t see Nicky writhing with guilt when he dropped you in it with Jonathan. How much trouble did that cause between you?’

‘That wasn’t on purpose!’

‘Wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Didn’t hear him apologise. Anyway, if he’s too bone idle to do his own research . . .’

I took deep yoga breaths. What if it did appear in
Private Eye
? I didn’t know anyone who worked on that: I couldn’t stop it. My blood ran cold.

‘It wasn’t me being bitchy,’ Nelson added. ‘I don’t care about him – it was to settle the scores for you.’

‘Nelson,’ I said in a strained voice, ‘I appreciate that you were trying to help me get my own back for . . . for all that, but don’t you see that if Nicky looks stupid, because of some PR thing I set up,
I’m
the one who looks stupid, not him?’

Nelson’s sarcastic expression shifted.

‘And it won’t just be Nicky who’s furious with me, but Alexander as well?’ I went on, dropping my voice to an undertone, in case Leonie was earwigging. ‘And probably Granny, for good measure? I’m meant to be stopping him making a fool of himself – it just makes me look
incompetent
.’

‘God, I’m sorry, Mel,’ muttered Nelson. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t think of it like that.’

‘Anything else I need to know about, before they go to press?’

He shook his head, and looked ashamed of himself.

‘Fine,’ I said. Then, because Nelson had turned uncharacteristically schoolboyish, I added, ‘I do appreciate your help with the whole thing, though. It was good of you.’ I nudged him. ‘You’ll have to think of a favour you can pull in from him sometime.’

Nelson looked as if he was about to say something, then restrained himself. ‘Hmm,’ he said ambiguously.

As soon as we got to the airport, Leonie insisted on hustling us to check-in, so we’d get the first seat allocations. That done, she made a beeline for Duty Free and stocked up on a new pair of half-price Nicole Richie-esque sunnies, and two pots of Clarins moisturiser (for someone from her office – she was charging a very reasonable 10 per cent handling fee). I bought the usual girder-sized bar of Toblerone, which we were about to tuck into when a familiar figure sauntered across the concourse, a Louis Vuitton overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

Instantly, Leonie and I put down the chocolate and Nelson’s back stiffened.

‘Hi, there,’ said Nicky, pulling off his aviators and pretending he hadn’t noticed the stares following his progress. He was wearing a ludicrous pair of red deck trousers, with a crumpled white shirt that made his golden skin glow, finished off with a pair of tan shoes. It was hard not to stare at him.

Leonie did a sort of automatic bob, then looked flustered.

‘Hello, Nicky,’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘You remember Leonie, don’t you? Nelson’s
date
this weekend.’

‘Leonie?’ he said, taking his shades off fully. ‘From that dinner? Good God.’

To be fair to Leonie, she did warrant a Good God. Fabulous outfit and glossy new hairdo aside, she’d also slathered on a fair amount of lip gloss in Duty Free, and might have had her teeth bleached. The overall effect was very Foxy Chelsea Primary School Teacher, a look I knew Nicky would find near irresistible.

‘You get what you pay for,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And we saved a fair amount on the tickets, so . . .’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thanks for arranging the flights, Leonie. But I didn’t know you’d booked for Nicky too?’

‘She didn’t,’ said Nicky. ‘I thought it might be a good idea to be
seen
travelling on a
budget
airline. See? I do listen to what you tell me.’ He then spoiled it by adding, ‘Anyway, I must admit, I probably did get a bit of a deal on the tickets . . .’ He winked. ‘Go on, guess. Guess how much I paid.’

‘Fifty quid?’

‘No!’ he crowed smugly.

‘Forty quid?’

‘Thirty-five pounds!’ He looked round, waiting for us to be impressed.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Leonie. ‘You should have told me – I got ours for fifteen quid return.’ She pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Never mind.’

Nicky’s smugness vanished. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Oh, the prices change all the time, if you get on the right search engine. Just a matter of setting your alarm. Four fifteen’s a good time. In the morning, of course.’

Nelson and I exchanged brief, shocked glances, although I must admit I wasn’t that shocked – I’d never seen anyone haggle in Duty Free before, either.

‘I think that’s our gate being called,’ Nelson pointed out. ‘Shall we go?’

Leonie grabbed her bag. ‘Absolutely. We need to be right at the front of the queue or else we won’t get seats together. I’ll go first.’

And with a ferocity that would have made the England front row quail, she barged and elbowed her way between the crawling trolleys.

We followed her, at a little distance.

I soon realised, looking at everyone else’s bags, that I’d packed far, far too much, even taking into account my dual personality for the weekend. But the driver who met us at Nice airport didn’t comment about the weight of my bag as he heaved it into the boot of the vintage Rolls-Royce, and soon we were wafting along in air-conditioned luxury towards Monaco, through the mountain tunnels and towards the quieter, twisting coastal road, with the crystal blue sea on one side and the rocky hillsides on the other.

Nelson volunteered to sit in the front, since his father had an old Roller too, and he couldn’t resist fiddling with the various buttons and dials and asking questions about coach-builders.

If you ask me, I don’t think Nelson was that keen to sit in the back watching Nicky be charming to two women at the same time, one on each side of him in the luxurious leather bucket seats.

Not that Nicky’s charm was getting him very far with Leonie, but the more she resisted, the more he laid it on.

‘I think you’ll like the
Kitty Cat
,’ he smarmed. ‘She’s been in the family for years. We’ve had all kinds of famous people stay on her. I know it seems quite extravagant, keeping a yacht, but she really is a floating work of art, and it’s so important to maintain pieces of one’s history, don’t you think?’

He shot an approval-seeking glance at me, from the corner of his brown eyes, and casually extended his arm along the back of the seat.

‘One’s really a curator, as much as an owner,’ he added.

‘Really?’ said Leonie. ‘I understand you charter it out now. That’s quite an efficient way of maintaining it, I suppose, getting other people to fund the upkeep.’

‘Well, yes, but she’s still ours . . .’

‘Mm,’ said Leonie. ‘I Googled it.’

‘Her,’ said Nicky. ‘Boats are always ladies. Nelly told me that, so it must be right.’ He relaxed so that his left knee made contact with mine. Leonie was sitting with her knees clamped together, well out of reach. ‘I like to think of yachts as being very like women.’

‘Really?’ said Leonie.

‘Really?’ I said, desperately trying to think of a way to stop him saying whatever he was going to come out with.

‘Oh, yes. Tricky to steer, expensive to maintain, beautiful to look at . . .’

I started to relax, at which point he added, ‘Fairly easy to tie up . . .’

‘We must be getting near Monaco!’ I exclaimed loudly, as a crop of white apartment blocks and palm trees rose up from the craggy waterfront ahead of us. ‘Look, Leonie! Isn’t it beautiful?’

She peered out of the window at the spectacular view and I took the opportunity to point my finger warningly at Nicky.

‘Best behaviour!’ I mouthed.

He responded by taking my finger and biting the end of it gently, which utterly undermined my attempts at sternness.

I slapped his knee.

Nelson’s voice crackled through the old intercom connecting the driver to the back. ‘This was all reclaimed from the sea and Monaco itself is actually smaller than Hyde Park. And,’ he added, as Nicky’s hand trapped mine on his knee, ‘I can see you, by the way.’

The three of us sat very upright in our seats for the remaining three minutes of the journey down the twisting road to the marina.

The
Kitty Cat
was moored alongside a gigantic white motor cruiser and an even bigger fast-looking monster straight out of
Miami Vice
. Nelson, who had been making gentle scoffing noises as we followed Alexander’s driver along the quayside of gold-encrusted, million-dollar extravagances, abruptly went silent and appeared to have slipped into some kind of trance.

‘Is that it?’ asked Leonie.

Nicky nodded. ‘Not bad, eh?’

‘She’s absolutely beautiful,’ barked Nelson, as if Nicky had just insulted his mother.

I had to agree with him, even though I knew nothing about motor yachts. She wasn’t as big or as flashy as most of her show-off neighbours, but the
Kitty Cat
was pure old-fashioned glamour, with sleek art deco lines and polished wooden decks. Every inch of brass gleamed with years of polishing, the ropes were brilliant white, and the portholes sparkled in the sunshine. Well, I say portholes. They were more like windows. It was that big. Although it seemed quite small in comparison to the other boats, the
Kitty Cat
must have been nearly as long as a hockey pitch.

‘Welcome aboard!’ Alexander appeared at the top of the stairs leading up to the deck. I was pleased to see he wasn’t wearing a jolly captain’s hat like a few of the other owners I’d noticed on the way over. Instead, he looked a picture of old-school Riviera chic, in his linen shirt and chinos.

The first awful ‘Am I overdressed?’ worries began to steal over me. Was this hat a bit much? It
was
very hot in the sun, and I didn’t know when the paparazzi were scheduled for – I didn’t want them to snap me unwigged.

‘Darling!’ said Granny, appearing from behind him.

I needn’t have worried. Granny was wearing silky white palazzo pants and a floppy blouse, having apparently stepped straight out of Katherine Hepburn wardrobe services. A white scarf protected her head from the sun, and gold chains glinted round her neck. To stop her looking entirely like a stray sail, her bare feet were accented with the brightest red nail varnish I’d ever seen. The effect was unfairly glamorous.

‘How lovely to see you again,’ said Alexander, kissing me on each cheek. He greeted Nicky the same way, muttering something terse in Greek, albeit with a smile on his face, then shook Nelson’s hand, and kissed Leonie’s.

‘Ah, the Lady Luck! You have brought us beautiful weather,’ he said to Leonie, who blushed. ‘I hope we’ll have a splendid weekend! Now, what will you have to drink? You must need refreshing after your flight . . .’

We found ourselves being moved towards the sun deck of the yacht, where a sunken pit was filled with blue and white cushions, next to an oval relaxation pool, tiled in turquoise and silver. An ice bucket of champagne was waiting for us, and as we approached a crew member in a red crested polo shirt began pouring into the chilled flutes. The whole effect was so like being in a J-Lo video that I itched to wander around the deck, touching all the smooth surfaces and peering into the windows, but instead we sat and chatted politely about Marinas We Have Known and Nicky’s new interest in art galleries until a steward glided up to Alexander and muttered something in his ear, which made him nod and smile.