I swallowed, as a pang of missing-Jonathan nostalgia hit me. We’d got together at Emery’s wedding too.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ moaned Roger. ‘That’s all it ever is round here – snog, snog, snog. It’s like being trapped in a fifth-form disco, hanging out with you lot. Don’t you ever think what it’s like for the rest of us? The ones who aren’t completely out of their heads on Love’s Young Dream? Eh?’
‘If this is about the Hunt Ball, Roger—’ I started.
‘It’s not!’ he snapped.
Nelson looked at me. ‘Shall we all go out for dinner now? Maybe do some more when we come back?’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ I said firmly.
With my flight booked, and all my possessions bar the ones I needed to take to New York checked into Nelson’s Big Yellow Storage Crates, I thought it would be prudent to pop home, just to check nothing was about to erupt while I was away. It would be absolutely typical for Daddy to turn up on CNN, accused of embezzling the entire Olympic fund at the exact time that I was trying to impress Jonathan’s super-smart friends.
The upside of Daddy’s new position of power, according to my mother, was that he was AWOL when I arrived, and, as I found out, she had no idea whether he was engaged on parliamentary or Olympic business, nor did she know when he was going to be back. Not that she seemed unduly concerned.
‘Oh, he’s got a new secretary, darling,’ she said vaguely, keeping her eyes glued to her knitting needles. ‘Olympic budget and all that. One, two, three . . . Bugger!’ She thrust the knitting at me with an imploring look. ‘Have I dropped a stitch?’
We were sitting in the kitchen, which was the coolest room in the house in the summer. Jenkins was sprawled in his basket, near her feet, panting.
‘I don’t know, Mummy, I don’t knit,’ I said.
She took it back, and frowned. ‘Christ, it’s so hard to tell with mohair.’
It wasn’t surprising that she was dropping stitches, since her hands were shaking as if she were sitting on a washing machine, but I didn’t mention that.
‘Daddy’s got a new secretary?’ I asked suspiciously. Daddy went through secretaries like most men went through shirts. ‘Just for his Olympic business?’
‘Oh yes, um, Claudia, I think she’s called.’
‘Right.’
How convenient, I seethed. I could see it now: Daddy probably emailed his secretarial requests along with his office requirements. Blonde, under twenty-three, very good at dictation . . .
Mummy looked up, her face suddenly wreathed in serenity. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I sent Claudia a little note, in private, just to remind her about Daddy’s weak heart.’ She smiled. ‘Any over-excitement and he could drop down dead.’ The needles started clicking again. ‘She wrote straight back to reassure me she’d keep an eye on it. So thoughtful.’
I swallowed. ‘That’s not entirely true, though, is it?’
‘No, darling. Well, not as far as we know. But then, who’s to say, with your father?’
My mother did a good impression of being ditsy, but sometimes she amazed even me. And when it came to her relationship with my father, frankly there were things it was best not to know.
‘You know he’s got me researching his international etiquette?’ I said. ‘I’m rather enjoying it.’
‘Is he?’ Mummy looked pleased. ‘That’s nice for you. At least that’s one assistant he can’t be accused of employing for her looks!’
Charming.
‘So, anyway,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘I’ll be away for a fortnight, to begin with. I’m staying with Jonathan in his new apartment!’
Mummy traced a shaky finger along her knitting pattern and cast a longing look at the big silver box on the Welsh dresser that used to contain her Marlboro Lights, then, with an effort, wrenched her attention back to the pattern, which was for a fluffy hippo.
‘And what about work?’ she asked tightly.
‘Gabi and Allegra are going to answer the phones for me while I’m away,’ I said, ‘but I am going to come back, so don’t let Daddy get any ideas about this job for Allegra being permanent.’
Mummy sighed and bashed her needles together. ‘Oh, darling, once you see New York, you won’t want to come back.’
‘I will,’ I insisted stoutly. ‘My life’s here. People depend on me. Clients depend on me.’
She peered at me over her knitting. ‘If you want your relationship to work out, Melissa, you should think about what’s best for Jonathan, instead of other men.’
‘Mummy!’ I protested. ‘You make that sound . . . awful.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’
‘Anyway,’ I went on, blushing, ‘Nelson’s here, and Gabi and—’
‘That’s another man,’ Mummy observed, clicking away. ‘You should think about soft-pedalling that too. I’m sure it must bother Jonathan, knowing another man sees you in your bathrobe every morning.’
‘He’s my flatmate,’ I exploded. Honestly, I was so sick of telling everyone there was nothing going on with me and Nelson. ‘The fact that he does see me in my bathrobe should tell you that there’s nothing going on.’ I rolled my eyes as my mother raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows with as much sarcasm as someone with maximum Botox could manage. ‘Honestly! We’re just friends.’
‘Who’s that? Nelson?’
I swivelled round as Allegra swanned in, swishing her long chiffon house-kaftan behind her.
Great. That was all I needed.
‘Shut up, Allegra,’ I said, on a wave of crossness, then immediately felt scared. Telling Allegra to shut up was second only to telling my father to get lost, and third only to putting one’s head into a crocodile’s jaws.
‘I mean,’ I added quickly, as she opened her mouth, and widened her eyes so the whites were visible around the kohl liner. ‘I don’t think you see it quite the way I do. How’s the investigation going?’
She snapped her mouth and her eyes shut, so two thick black lines and one bright red line appeared on her otherwise white face.
‘Don’t ask,’ said my mother quickly. ‘We’ve had Simon here three times this week.’
Simon was my father’s barrister. He was the heavy artillery, brought out only for High Court actions and anything that might get into the papers. He was also my godfather, being as how he’d spent more time with my father over the years than my mother had.
‘So,’ I said brightly, ‘shall we talk about my trip to America then?’
‘Oh, God, if we must,’ sighed Allegra. ‘How are you flying? Cattle?’
I bridled. ‘Do you mean economy?’
‘Allegra,’ said Mummy reproachfully. ‘Melissa isn’t married to a wealthy businessman. She’s self-employed.’
Allegra snorted and opened the fridge door to see what was in there. It seemed to be full of bottles of algae and urine samples, which I assumed were her health drinks. Then again, one never knew with Allegra.
‘I’m flying economy because there were very few seats available,’ I said. ‘It’s a popular time of year, and if I’d gone business class it would have cost more than I earn in a month.’
‘Poor you,’ said Allegra.
I didn’t bother to get annoyed. I was proud of earning my own money. Better to travel cattle and pay for it myself than fly first on someone else’s credit card, I thought – although obviously I didn’t actually say so. That would have been asking for trouble.
‘Well, if you must be a martyr about it, you’ll need these,’ said Allegra, reaching into her bag.
‘Allegra . . .’ said my mother warningly.
‘It’s perfectly innocent,’ she snapped, throwing me a little brown bottle.
‘What is it?’ There was a prescription label in Swedish, but oddly enough it wasn’t made out to Allegra Svensson.
‘Melatonin. Helps you sleep on planes. Knock back a couple of those with a glass of red wine and you’ll be out like a light until JFK. Get yourself into f
irst, ideally, drop off, and they’ll never be able to shift you.’ Allegra helped herself to a handful of Mummy’s expensive salted caramels, and swished towards the window. She peered out, opened a window, made an obscene gesture, then slammed it shut, sinking dramatically onto the window seat.
To her credit, Mummy refused to acknowledge any of this performance.
‘I wish that police protection man would bugger off. He’s making a complete dog’s breakfast of the rose garden. I mean, what can they do? Send hitmen in? I can’t believe Lars knows anyone more dangerous than Stockholm’s worst dentist.’
‘I should make tracks,’ I said, suddenly longing for the relative sanity of Nelson’s now echoing flat.
‘Do you want some jam to take back, darling?’ asked Mummy, waving vaguely in the direction of the kitchen cupboards. ‘I’ve got one or two extra jars.’
‘Ooh, yes, please,’ I said. The local WI made seriously good raspberry jam; it was one of Daddy’s perks as regular fete-opener that he got first pick of the preserves stall. ‘Is there any raspberry?’
‘I think so,’ she said, peering at the mass of mohair skewered on her needles. ‘Have a look.’
The cupboards in our kitchen were very old, and reached from floor to ceiling, a relic from the days when three parlourmaids, a cook and a scullery maid staffed the place. I swung open the cupboard where the jam and breakfast cereals normally lived, and gasped in surprise.
Five of the six shelves were crammed with a gleaming array of jam jars: strawberry, raspberry, loganberry, apricot, blackcurrant, blackberry, marmalade and various other permutations. There must have been over a hundred cotton-topped jars in there, stretching back into the dusty depths.
‘God almighty!’ I exclaimed.
‘What? Nothing you fancy? I think there might be some lemon curd, if you look, darling,’ said Mummy, apparently unperturbed.
‘Mummy! I thought you’d got the shopping thing under control,’ I said reproachfully. ‘You promised. No more binges.’
She put down her knitting and looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, it’s the WI markets. I have to support them, as the local MP’s wife. And there are so many! You can’t just patronise one – they find out, these ladies! Anyway, it’s such good jam. And it always comes in, you know, for gifts. And when I’m giving people tea.’
I looked at her suspiciously.
‘Like the other day,’ she said defensively. ‘I had a journalist round from Country Life. I made her a lovely English cream tea, with four different sorts of preserve. It made a lovely photograph. I knew those silver preserve boats would come in useful eventually.’
She picked up her knitting again.
‘You didn’t tell them you made it, did you?’ I asked carefully.
The needles clicked quicker. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t.’
I sighed. Still, how could I get stroppy with her when my whole business was built on pretending to be someone I wasn’t?
I helped myself to a jar of raspberry jam and a couple of lemon curds.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said Mummy. ‘Daddy left a letter for you on the mantelpiece in the drawing room. It must be a business thing – he wouldn’t tell me what it was about.’
‘Plus ça change,’ said Allegra, in a ridiculously outré French accent, just in case we’d forgotten she was still lurking about, ‘plus c’est la même bloody chose!’
How I was looking forward to having that in my office. It would be like having Harold Pinter manning the phones, but without the light relief.
I wandered through to the drawing room. The en-velope was tucked behind the marble clock, amongst a crop of formal invitation cards.
I opened it and read the short crested note card inside. In my father’s unhelpful handwriting were the words:
Allegra’s blood money to be paid into your account, take off 20% of same for your etiquette advice, first of month. Will be in touch. Pls shred.
MRJ
Twenty per cent? Of how much? It was typical of my father not to commit salient details like that to paper; he was notoriously shred-happy after an unfortunate incident with one of those dreadful bin-stealing tabloid investigators. It wasn’t so much the tax details he was unhappy about, as the shopping list with twelve bottles of Scotch and his prescription cortisone cream listed for everyone to see. What made it much worse, in my eyes, was that he’d implied that the Loving Care was Mummy’s.
Anyway, I thought, tucking the card into the pocket of my linen trousers, I had other things to worry about. Knowing Allegra, she’d have negotiated her own wage direct with my father, and twenty per cent of whatever she was getting was bound to be decent, if not adequate compensation for having her around.
Back in the kitchen, Mummy was trying to make her hippo stand up on the table. I had to swallow a gasp of horror – its head was the same size as its body, none of its limbs was equal in length and it appeared to have a fin. She didn’t seem perturbed, and carried on trying to make it stand with a childlike patience.
Because of its grotesquely misshapen head, it looked as if it were trying to do some kind of yoga headstand.
‘That hippo’s got five legs,’ observed Allegra from the window seat. ‘Unless you’ve made it very anatomically correct? In which case it’s positively disturbing.’ She flicked some more V-signs out of the window at the hydrangea bushes.
‘Oh, damn,’ sighed Mummy. She tried one more time to coax it into uprightness. It flopped over. She looked crushed.
My heart went out to her. Poor Mummy. ‘He’s adorable!’ I said, wanting to cheer her up. She got so little encouragement from anyone. ‘Can I have him?’
‘Really?’ Her face illuminated with pleasure. ‘Of course, darling. Please do. You can give it to Jonathan, if you like?’
‘Um, I’ll just keep it for myself,’ I said quickly. In a box. Under the stairs. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ve got packing to do.’ I turned to Allegra and tried to look stern. ‘Don’t forget you’re coming in for a briefing at the office before I go.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ lied Allegra.
‘Well, please don’t forget. It’s important.’
‘Yadda yadda yadda,’ she replied, gazing out of the window. ‘Don’t forget your jam.’
I put the jam in my handbag, making a mental note to buy Country Life to find out exactly what Mummy had said about her preserving skills.
‘See?’ said Allegra, turning back to bestow a wolfish smile on us both. ‘I’m totally cut out for this lifestyle advice thing. Nagging, that’s all it is.’
I gripped my hippo so tightly that he developed a whole new deformity, and left.
6
There were times, living with Nelson, when it was hard to remember that I was living in the twenty-first century and had the vote. Seeing him off on his voyage of educational smugdom was one such occasion, made worse by Gabi’s insistence on behaving as if she were starring in her own historical mini-series, minus the costumes and extras cycling gratuitously past on penny-farthings.
Heaving bosoms, though, were very much on the menu. They always were with me.
With military precision, Nelson loaded up my car with his kit, Roger, Gabi and then me, so we could drop him off then wave him away at the docks where his ship was being stocked up with rations, and sails, and crew. I was pretty impressed with the Bellepheron: it was a real tall ship, with three masts decked out with beautiful white sails, and a saucy figurehead on the prow. If it hadn’t been for the boxes of microwave porridge going aboard, you’d never know you weren’t in some BBC2 period drama.
‘Will you write, Nelson?’ said Gabi, scrunching her handkerchief.
‘Gabi, we’ve been through this before – I won’t have time,’ said Nelson impatiently. ‘But we’ve got the most modern satellite navigation and communication equipment known to man, and we’re docking as often as possible to let people on and off. It’s not like I’m going to come back with scurvy and one eye.’
‘How about a bear
d?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I might manage a beard,’ he conceded wearily. ‘A small one.’
‘And a parrot?’ I suggested.
‘Don’t push it, Melissa.’
Roger slapped his arm. ‘Be safe, mate,’ he said. ‘If you fall overboard, I’m having your new cricket bat, OK?’
‘OK,’ said Nelson. ‘But not the box.’ He punched Roger’s shoulder.
‘Too small, mate,’ said Roger, and feigned kneeing Nelson’s groin in return.
Honestly, you wouldn’t think they’d known each other for over twenty years. Or maybe you would.
‘If you two have quite finished,’ Gabi piped up meaningfully.
Roger and I turned to her in surprise.
‘I’d like to say goodbye to Nelson,’ she went on. ‘Alone.’
A funny sensation swamped me, and I had to force myself to smile to stop it showing on my face. Roger, who lacked any social graces, didn’t bother to disguise his surprise at the new pecking order and dropped his jaw in outright sarcasm.
He drew breath to make his feelings known, but before he could say anything, I said quickly, ‘Of course. Come on, Roger,’ and hauled him away to an ice-cream stand.
I was quite happy to turn my back on whatever scene was playing out while I got us both mint choc chip cones. When I turned back, however, Roger was staring unashamedly, and I almost felt sorry for him.
Gabi was hanging off Nelson’s neck – inevitable, really, since he was well over six feet and she only scraped five feet two if she was wearing heels – and they seemed to be kissing, sort of. Or Gabi could have been giving him a lecture, a few centimetres away from his mouth.
Nelson, I’d noted, didn’t lecture Gabi like he lectured me. Maybe because he couldn’t get a word in.
‘Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?’ moaned Roger. ‘Watching those two carrying on, like . . . like . . . Bollocks.’
I turned my head in time to see him engulf his entire scoop of ice cream in one terrifying downward mouth movement.
‘I hope not,’ I said, with many-layered sincerity.
He disengaged himself with a slurping sound, leaving a perfect lipstick peak on each side of his ice cream.
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 8
