‘Oh, now don’t tell me you’re low-carbing!’ said Bonnie, taking my silence the wrong way. ‘Jonathan loves you just the way you are! He told me so! He says one of the things he loves best about dating you is that he can always order a starter and a dessert without feeling bad!’
I could almost hear the penny drop in Jennifer’s head. It probably didn’t hit much on the way down. A ghastly recognition slid over her face, and her eyes went glassy with embarrassment.
If I’d been Honey, or even Gabi, I might have made a scene and stalked out, but this wasn’t my party or Jennifer’s. It was Bonnie’s, and she’d gone to a lot of effort. I wasn’t going to let someone else spoil it, and make a show of myself into the bargain. I’d show them how we British could rise above sticky moments. Even if we did want to sprint, sobbing, from the room.
‘Oh, I can’t stand girls who go out for dinner and never eat! What on earth’s the point?’ I said, taking a Yorkshire pudding and racking my brains for the most outrageously untrue thing I could think of to break the tumbleweed. ‘Now, tell me, is it true that all shopping is free for tourists on Sundays? I’m sure I read it somewhere.’
At once, about seven different voices joined in with outraged denials, and then suggestions for outlets that had such amazing values that it might as well be free.
Jennifer melted into the background, mumbling something about having a top-secret sample sale leaflet in her bag somewhere.
I managed to keep the shocked tears pricking my eyelids at bay by frantically nodding my head and raising my eyebrows, hoping fervently that Jonathan hadn’t overheard. I couldn’t see him anywhere and, for a moment, I really wished he didn’t think I was so good at parties that I could be left alone with a crowd of complete strangers.
And then I felt a familiar hand on the small of my back, and a sudden warm breath on my neck.
‘Sorry, but I couldn’t leave you alone a minute longer,’ Jonathan murmured. ‘I’ve been studying your rear view for ten minutes now, and I don’t see why these people should have the monopoly on the front.’
He smiled at the guests around us. ‘So you’ve all met the reason I couldn’t leave London?’
Relief flooded through me as conversation started up again, and I noticed how everyone now met my eye. But even with Jonathan’s hand resting lightly on my hip, I still needed a moment to pull myself together, and, after a brief comparision of public transport systems, I excused myself. On my way out, I had a quick glass of champagne to revive myself, then, since there was no one looking, another.
My heart was still hammering as I splashed water on my wrists in the marble-lined bathroom. I gazed at my face in the vast, subtly lit mirror as I reapplied my lipstick, and wondered forlornly if Honey would have handled the situation better. I always seemed to come out with better repartee when I was wearing that wig.
No. I didn’t need the wig to be polite. Manners, that was all one needed. Besides, I reminded myself, smoothing down my Jackie O flick, all glossy and chocolate brown where the stylist had serumed me to death, Jonathan chose Melissa, not Honey. Of course his friends would be suspicious of any new girlfriend. It was only natural. I just had to persuade them that I was worthy of him.
But in this magnificent apartment, surrounded by all these people who knew Jonathan so much better than I did, it was easier said than done. Jennifer’s words seared across my brain. Was that what they were thinking – that I was just some rebound bimbo Jonathan was dating while he was still grieving over Cindy?
God. How I wished Nelson were here to give me a boot, or Gabi. I opened my bag, and took out my mobile phone, then resolutely put it back. Gabi would be in bed right now, and Nelson would be . . . well, I wasn’t going to phone Nelson at the very first inkling of trouble.
I took a deep breath. You’ll just have to show them how suitable you really are, I told myself. Then, I turned on my heel and strode back down the parqueted corridor.
Jonathan was in an excellent mood on the way back.
‘You were a big hit,’ he said, squeezing my knee in the cab. ‘Everyone was raving about how great you are. I love how you just talk to everyone.’ He gave me a look. ‘I was watching you all evening.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re meant to do at parties?’ I asked. ‘Talk to people?’
Jonathan pulled a face. ‘Well, no. Some people like to get conversation buzzing by telling the hostess she needs to lose ten pounds, then pulling her outfit to pieces.’
It had been bad enough having Cindy’s presence hanging over me at the party, but I wasn’t having her in the cab with us afterwards. ‘They were terribly nice people,’ I said firmly. ‘Especially Bonnie and Kurt. Remind me to have some of that Cheddar cheese they liked so much sent over when I get home.’
Jonathan turned to me, his face very serious. ‘Bonnie told me about Jennifer putting her foot in it tonight. I’m so sorry. You were very dignified, and she’s grateful to you for not taking offence. It’s my fault. If I’d been there two minutes sooner . . .’
‘Oh, that.’ I shrugged it off. ‘I just did what any well-brought-up person would do.’
‘Well, Bonnie was mortified. She’s going to speak with Jennifer. Set her straight. Jen’s always had a big mouth.’
‘Well, at least she knows I’m not a blonde bimbo now,’ I joked.
‘No.’ Jonathan looked me in the eye. ‘She’s going to tell her that I’m very serious about you, and think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Blonde, brunette or redhead.’
‘Oh,’ I said, looking down at my lap. My insides glowed with delight to hear him say that, but – well, the whole evening had been somewhat overwhelming. I couldn’t quite push that ‘rebound’ word out of my head. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘But, Melissa . . .’ He bit his lip. ‘That’s why I want you to be really careful about what you say to people about your job. It’s not that I don’t feel proud of what you do, but I—’
‘Don’t want people to think that you’re shacked up with a hooker,’ I interrupted. ‘I know. I’m not stupid! It isn’t the sort of thing I’m likely to bring up in conversation, is it?’
He gave my hand a little shake. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s complicated, and I don’t expect them to understand. I mean, I sort of explained to Kurt and Bonnie, but . . .’
‘I know,’ I replied quickly. ‘I’d hate to do anything that made you feel embarrassed. But I don’t want them to think I’m some idle It-girl who doesn’t do anything. I have a business!’
‘I’m never embarrassed by you,’ he said. ‘But I know how helpful you are, and I don’t want you to get into a situation where you’d be embarrassed. It’s not like London. People are . . . different over here. You give people like Paige Drogan an inch, they’ll take a mile. Not that I don’t think you can handle it, but, you know. Just don’t let anyone talk you into dishing out advice. You’re on holiday. Having a break. OK?’
‘Jonathan, I know. I won’t.’
‘Good,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘I knew you’d get it. I saw you talking to that idiot Ric Spencer – Paige didn’t try to palm him off on you, did she?’
‘Um, not exactly.’ I didn’t think it was the best time to mention that Paige had asked me to see her. I’d just have to invent some prior appointment to get out of it. ‘She mentioned something about you finding an apartment for him – you remember him?’
Jonathan groaned. ‘Do I? Yeah, slightly. Paige sometimes gets us to find short lets for her more high profile clients while they’re in New York, and she made me spend an interminable day with that . . . that . . .’
‘Oik?’
He clicked his fingers and pointed at me. ‘Good word. Oik. Jesus. I mean, sure, the guy can act but . . . euch. I don’t know if he means to be rude, but I’ve never come so close to punching someone in the head.’ His expression softened. ‘I only put up with it because he was from London and he kind of reminded me of you.’
‘Well,
I’m touched. Actually, I do know him, vaguely,’ I admitted.
‘Not a client? Please God.’
‘Do you mind?’ I said. ‘You think I’d release something like that back into the community? He’d hardly be an advert for the agency. No, I had a brief . . . moment with him when we were at school. Let’s not talk about Godric now.’
‘Godric?’ Jonathan looked amused. ‘Ric’s short for Godric? Now if I’d known that while I was putting up with his belly-aching . . .’
‘Family name. Some kind of inheritance issues, I think. Anyway,’ I said, more emphatically, ‘forget all that. Here we are, in a taxi, in New York, our first proper date . . .’
Jonathan gave me a stern look. ‘What are you suggesting?’
So I showed him, and such was his good mood that he went along with it for at least three blocks.
10
As it turned out, Paige didn’t allow me time to think of a reason not to see her, as she called me so early the next day I assumed it was an emergency from home.
Fortunately Jonathan had already left for his 6 a.m. squash date and breakfast meeting.
‘Hello?’ I mumbled into my mobile. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Hi, it’s Paige Drogan here!’ She sounded unnaturally cheery. ‘Can we meet this morning?’
I fumbled around for a reason to say no, but my brain was still fuzzy. ‘Um, well, I have . . .’
‘It’ll only be for half an hour. Can we say . . . eleven o’clock?’
With a massive effort, I rallied myself into social fib mode. ‘Oh dear, I have some appointments scheduled for today.’
There was an ominous pause. ‘I thought you said you were on vacation?’
Paige’s voice made me feel uncomfortably as if she were in the room. ‘Yes, well, I am, but I’m meeting some people while I’m—’
‘Then you’re going to be around? Great! I’ll text you my office address, and I’ll see you at eleven. Thank you so much, Melissa. I look forward to speaking with you later!’
And the line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand. My eyes were still barely focusing in the half light coming through the slatted shutters. I sniffed, suddenly conscious of the really quite awful stench of sleepiness hanging over the room. Despite the fresh white roses Jonathan had thoughtfully had delivered to put by the bed, it smelled like a rugby team had kipped on the floor overnight, in their dirty kit and with the post-match curry boxes.
Damn. I’d already failed in my intention to get up first every morning to make sure Jonathan saw me only in a fragrant, cosmetically enhanced state. But even Roger’s flat didn’t smell like this. It couldn’t be me, could it?
I rubbed my eyes and sat up, at which point I realised that Braveheart was sleeping on the bed next to me. When I nudged him with my foot, he growled in his sleep, bared his sharp little teeth, and broke wind.
No wonder Cindy and Jonathan’s relationship had taken a turn for the worse. I knew a friend of my mother’s who’d encouraged her Great Dane to sleep on her bed for the express purpose of keeping her randy husband at bay.
‘This won’t do, Braveheart,’ I sighed, and scooped him up, protesting loudly, to return him to the kitchen. His crate in the vestibule showed all the signs of a break-out from the inside.
He sat in his basket and chuntered as I made some breakfast. It was rather sad, I thought, that as long as Braveheart had some attention, he more or less behaved himself. He wasn’t an evil dog. Just a histrionic one. The more I scratched his ears and praised him for his attempts at walking to heel, the harder he tried. I’d had slower results from some clients in the sit and stay department.
If Jonathan wasn’t going to allow me to train men in New York, I thought, toasting myself a bagel, I was definitely going to sort out Braveheart.
After a challenging walk from Jane Street to Yolanda the dogsitter’s place, where I dropped Braveheart off amidst much toddler-esque howling and yapping, I got out my map and headed for Paige’s SoHo office, rehearsing my array of polite refusals as I went. I’d come up with about three by the time I got there. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think, not if I didn’t want to come across as under Jonathan’s thumb, or scared of a challenge, or a million other impressions I didn’t want to give.
It took me a little while to find Paige’s office, since once I got into SoHo I found myself awfully distracted by the numerous pavement stalls selling cheap necklaces and hand-made bags and things that would make perfect Christmas presents. Ten years in London had prepared me for the sharp elbows and huffy tuts of fierce pavement traffic, but the wafting smells of hot coffee, and cakes, and doughnuts kept throwing my attention disastrously.
Eventually, I found Paige’s office: on the eleventh storey of an impossibly elegant block, where tall columns stacked on top of columns, each with carved swags at the base, grimy with city dirt. I straightened my skirt, smoothed my hair, and was directed into the lift by the security men at the desk.
There were two other people in the lift with me, both too cool to acknowledge any other presence, and when I stepped out at the eleventh floor I was surprised to find that the inside of the office was as modern and stripped back as the outside was old-fashioned. I swallowed as I pushed open the glass door and went in. It wasn’t the ‘put you at ease’ style I’d tried to achieve in my own office. It was the sort of place where you automatically wanted to walk straight out and buy entirely different clothes to the ones you foolishly thought were pretty snazzy when you got dressed that morning.
‘Ms Drogan is very busy this morning,’ the receptionist informed me, as if it was par for the course. But before I had time to settle myself with American Vogue, Paige herself appeared, in a black outfit, complete with phone headset.
‘Put all my calls on divert. I’ll take it from here, Tiffany,’ she said, ushering me into her office with some urgency. She gestured for me to sit down, then poured me a large decaff coffee from her own personal machine, and got straight down it.
‘Melissa, I’m so pleased you could make time for me? I do appreciate that. But you’re busy so I won’t waste time – here’s the thing,’ she said, tapping the empty desk with her pen. ‘As you know, I’m working with your friend, Ric Spencer.’
She paused, and smiled before I could point out that ‘friend’ was rather overstating things. Paige had a lovely smile. I smiled back without even thinking.
‘I love your dress,’ she added. ‘So cute! Anyway, I was really impressed with how you handled Ric’s . . . communication malfunction at the party. I don’t know if you realised, but Lucy Powell is quite an influential arts writer, and—’
‘Oh, it was nothing, really. But, before we start, Paige, I have to—’
She tipped her head to one side. ‘To be honest? I’m surprised you didn’t know about Ric’s success over here – he’s hot. He’s spent the last year working on this film, and let me tell you, Melissa, when it opens, Ric is going to be seriously big. I mean, front of Vanity Fair big. You know?’ she added, peering at me. ‘You read that? The fold-out over edition, with all the hottest young actors on it? I’m speaking with some people about having him on there. We’re just talking positioning right now. I need to have him third in from the left. No further. I don’t want him on the fold.’
‘Wow,’ I said, struggling to equate this with the puking Goth with the low nylon tolerance I’d known. ‘That big, eh?’
‘Oh, yes. So, listen to me here, Ric’s got the looks, he’s got the talent, he’s got the best management in New York, but . . .’ She let her voice trail away and raised her palms to heaven.
‘But . . . ?’ I repeated.
‘But he hasn’t got the . . . tseychel. You know?’ Paige blinked rapidly.
‘Oh,’ I said. The what?
‘Yip. And you need that. You need to be able to charm people into loving you, and there’s just . . . he can’t do it,’ she finished briskly. ‘I mean, you never have to tell Colin Firth to stop staring at interview
ers’ tits, do you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘And I’ll level with you here, Melissa, I’m thinking that’s how I want to pitch Ric. Mr Darcy. You know, he’s got this great public school background, he’s got these classically brooding features, like he’s got this crumbling stately pile that’s falling into the sea because his family spent the inheritance on gambling, then duelled each other to death with blunderbusses – that sort of feel. You know? I’m talking lakes. I’m talking vintage cars in the drive, I’m talking class. Mysterious. But definitely upmarket.’
It sounded to me rather as if Paige was describing my own hellish family, but I didn’t want to sound like I was getting involved.
‘I see,’ I said.
‘I mean, is that right?’ Paige looked over the top of her scary picture-editor glasses. ‘I’ll level with you. I don’t know what sort of background he has.’ She threw her hands in the air again. ‘Ric won’t tell me. I have to drag details out of him’ – she made scarily convincing clawing gestures as she said this – ‘all it says on his résumé is that he was expelled from three schools and loves Wilkie Collins.’ She coughed. ‘His old résumé. Obviously I’ve worked on that with him since.’
‘Mmm.’ I could understand that omission. A certain proportion of the public schoolboys I knew, mostly the ones who didn’t work in the City or the armed forces, vehemently denied they’d ever been near a blazer, let alone a prep school. Being posh was arty career death in London if you wanted to be taken seriously. Bobsy Parkin’s brother Clement ran a T-shirt company in Clerkenwell and you’d think he’d grown up in a squat in Hackney. Especially now he insisted on being called DJ CP.
‘Ric’s a man of few words,’ Paige went on, ‘and when he does speak, it’s . . . kind of hard to make out what he’s saying. He sounds quite posh. But of course, when he’s acting, he’s fine! Beautiful articulation. He was in two episodes of ER and oh, my God! The way he described symptoms? I’d love to have a doctor like that. The only episodes I’ve ever understood. Ever. Period!’
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 16
