Little Lady, Big Apple

by Hester Browne

  ‘Forget it,’ I insisted. ‘It’s not your fault you’re in demand.’ I’d caught a glimpse of his printed schedule and it seemed logically impossible, with more meetings than spaces to put them in. He had, however, pencilled several ‘Melissa?’ entries, which made my heart flutter. ‘Anyway, I had a lovely time, drinking coffee, people-spotting.’

  ‘It’s not what I had in mind,’ he said, sticking his fingers into his hair. Jonathan looked stressed already and it was barely eight. It was a new kind of stress too. Not the old London stress I knew so well. ‘And, believe me, I’ll make it up to you.’ His face brightened. ‘I’ve asked Lori to help you out with any arrangements you’d like to make – you know, if you want to make a boat trip, or go up in a helicopter, or something of that sort.’

  ‘Oooh, lovely!’ It wasn’t the same as him taking me though. But, looking on the bright side, Lori seemed to know quite a lot about sample sales. She’d already emailed me links to about ten.

  As if he could read my mind, Jonathan added, ‘You know, I so wish I could be showing you round myself, but work is just insane.’ He shrugged again. ‘I’m so sorry. But how about we go out for dinner tonight? As you can see, my kitchen isn’t yet at the cordon bleu standard I need to create culinary magic myself.’

  I beamed. ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘Where do you want to eat?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere that’s special to you.’ I hesitated, not wanting to say ‘but not somewhere you used to go with your ex-wife’. ‘Somewhere with a great view,’ I added quickly, before he could say something about getting Lori to check out Zagat’s newest guide.

  ‘Well, I know just the place.’ Jonathan shot me a wicked smile, then checked his watch. ‘The walker should be here to get Braveheart at half past eight. I’ve asked that he stay there all day, until we get home. Better than being cooped up here in his box, right?’ He raised his eyebrows, hopeful that he’d done the right thing.

  I looked over at Braveheart who had set up a low-level whimpering, with his head on his paws. I’d misjudged him: he had more emotional range than Barbra Streisand. ‘And what’ll happen to him with the walker?’

  ‘Guess he’ll be in a bigger box there, with some other dogs.’ Jonathan started to pack up his papers. ‘Be good for him. He can make some buddies.’ He kissed me on the top of my head. ‘You can invite them for tea and English crumpets. Mmm, Melissa. Do you smell this delicious all the way down?’ Jonathan murmured.

  He swept my hair over one shoulder, and kissed the nape of my neck. Little tingles ran up and down my spine.

  Braveheart started yapping crossly, and Jonathan broke off with a vexed sigh.

  ‘I’ll take him with me today,’ I said impulsively. ‘He obviously needs more attention, and he really needs to learn who’s boss.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be me?’ asked Jonathan, with a wry grin. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave it up to you – after all, you’re the one with the magic touch when it comes to that mutt.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so hard, really.’

  ‘Hey! Don’t sell yourself short! He wouldn’t let Cindy pick him up, not even when he was a puppy. I was telling Kurt about your magic touch and he wants to talk to you about this dachshund of his sister’s.’ He winked. ‘Now if you need a job in New York, that might be something to think about?’

  Emboldened by this, I decided to come clean about my meeting with Paige and Godric. I was a rotten liar, and I hated the idea of not being upfront with Jonathan. Besides, if I told him from the start, he could hardly be mad.

  ‘Well, actually, I’m sort of trying to explore that avenue myself,’ I said. ‘With people, obviously, not dogs. Training, sort of.’

  Jonathan looked surprised. ‘I thought we agreed you were on vacation?’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I, er, I’ve sort of got a freelance job.’

  Jonathan’s surprise turned to suspicion. ‘Which is?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You remember the actor we met at Bonnie’s party?’

  He nodded warily. ‘Not Ric Spencer.’

  ‘Yes, well, Paige has asked me to pop along to a photoshoot he’s doing today, to keep an eye on him, as it were.’

  ‘In what way, “keeping an eye on him”?’

  ‘Just . . . keeping an eye on him. Making sure he looks OK in the pictures. Trying to get a smile out of him. Stopping him insulting the photographer so badly he walks out.’ I laughed merrily.

  ‘Melissa, that sounds like a hell of a lot of work,’ said Jonathan, less merrily. ‘The guy is a moron. I mean, I know he’s British and a—’ his face twisted up very slightly ‘a friend, and you feel some kind of obligation, but c’mon . . . This is Paige’s job.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ I said. ‘It’ll be fun. It’s just for an hour or so this morning, and I’ll get to see Central Park, and maybe get some top gossip for Gabi, and—’

  ‘It’s just a one-off?’ he demanded, fixing me with a firm look.

  ‘I haven’t agreed to anything,’ I hedged. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ding!’ went Nelson in my head.

  ‘Well, OK, just do this, then tell Paige to hire him some kind of therapist,’ said Jonathan. ‘I mean it. I don’t want you spending your vacation stressing yourself out with idiots. Is Paige paying you for—’

  Before he could go on, his mobile bleeped with a message and his brow furrowed as he read it. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, under his breath. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  It was his turn to look a little evasive. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Listen, honey, I’ve got to make tracks. Call Lori if there’s anything you need,’ he said. ‘She’s more than happy to help you out. I’m going to be pretty tied up all day, but I’ll let you know about dinner. We’ll work out the logistics later, OK?’

  I smiled and gave him a kiss goodbye. Then another one, in the hallway by his antique hat-stand, then another, on the tree-shaded doorstep. Jonathan was the best kisser I’d ever kissed, bar none. It was all in the way he held me, carefully but firmly, as if I were a fragile ornament, then kissed me like I was anything but.

  Maybe it was a good job he was so busy, or else we’d never leave the house.

  Braveheart and I set off in the direction of Central Park, with me feeding him snippets of organic chicken breast and heaping him with praise every block or so, as per instructions. I had to admit that when Braveheart was behaving he looked pretty cute. While I was wearing a simple cotton dress and a large hat to keep the sun off my face, he was sporting an outrageously expensive tartan dog collar and Tiffany dog tag, with his fur gleaming in the sun like fresh ice cream after his wash and brush-up at the dogwalker’s yesterday. Frankly, Braveheart looked more Park Avenue than I did, and he was walking along like he knew it.

  I found Godric lurking by the entrance nearest the John Lennon Strawberry Fields garden, as prearranged by Paige so we’d ‘feel at home’. He was smoking a cigarette furtively, and wearing dark glasses, a dark cotton polo-neck, and a dark pair of trousers, despite the heat. He looked like a cartoon Frenchman.

  Even as I was waving at him and he was shuffling in response, my mobile rang, and a wave of advance guilt hit me in case it was Jonathan. But it wasn’t. It was Paige.

  ‘Are you there? You’re with him, right?’ she demanded, without preamble.

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ I said.

  ‘Good, because he cannot be on his own.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, regarding Godric curiously. ‘Is he liable to run off?’

  Paige laughed as if I were being deliberately obtuse. ‘Oh, you’re funny! No, he’s liable to be mobbed by fans, Melissa. He needs someone with him to make sure there are no incidents.’

  Absolutely no one was clamouring to mob Godric, as far as I could see. Apart from a pregnant woman on rollerblades who wasn’t bothering to hide her disapproval of his smoking.

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ I said. ‘There’s no sign of the photographer though.’

  A mobile pho
ne rang in the background of her office, and I heard Paige pick it up, coo, ‘Be right with ya!’ then clunk it down. ‘Tiffany!’ she snapped, off phone. ‘It’s Brad again! Do you ever listen to a goddamn word I say?’

  Godric looked as if he were about to slope off into the park, so I raised a warning finger at him, and to my surprise he stayed put. While it was working, I raised another finger at Braveheart, who obediently sat down and eyed my handbag.

  ‘Melissa? Yeah, great, you with me?’ demanded Paige. ‘As we discussed in our meeting, Ric’s had lots of pictures done before, and we just can’t get them right. I told him to bring them with him so you can get an idea.’ She clicked something in the background – her pen? Her knuckles? I couldn’t tell. ‘I keep telling him, I’m OK with a bit of smouldering, I’m cool with one moody shot, but I need some smiles! I need charm! He just does this . . . face. I don’t know how to describe it. You’ll see. He never does it when he’s working, for some reason. Just when he’s in an expensive photo session. So, yeah, this is like the seventh photographer he’s worked with, and he’s costing us, so I’d appreciate it if you could control things a little?’

  ‘Um, but what do you mean by that? Roughly?’

  Paige clicked again. I guessed telepathy probably featured prominently in Tiffany’s job description.

  ‘Just talk to him. So he knows what to project? These pictures, they’re going to go out to casting agents, for all sorts of different jobs, yup? So I wanna see Hugh Grant, but I need Hugh Jackman as well. Know what I’m saying? I need Colin Firth, but also Colin Farrell. I need some range.’

  I looked at Godric, who was indeed toting a leather portfolio under one scrawny arm. So far all I was seeing was a fifth-form would-be poet with low alcohol tolerance who’d inadvisedly taken up smoking to impress my sister – but that probably wasn’t one of the looks Paige wanted. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Great,’ said Paige, over the sound of the phone ringing again. ‘Should only take an hour or two! Tiffany! Tiffany! Don’t mumble at me!’ Now there were two mobile phones ringing.

  I rang off to save her the bother of hanging up on me.

  ‘Morning, Godric!’ I said, walking over to him. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Is that your dog?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t stand yappy little dogs.’ He bent down to Braveheart’s level. ‘They should be put on spits and eaten!’

  Braveheart paused then snapped at his nose with precision timing, and Godric leaped back with a yelp.

  ‘Godric, this is Braveheart. Braveheart, this is Ric Spencer. Right, well, now you two have got to know each other,’ I said, tugging at the lead. ‘Is that your portfolio?’

  ‘Yes. It’s shit.’ Godric handed it over.

  ‘Can you take him for a moment?’ I asked and handed control of Braveheart over while I flipped through the photographs inside.

  Paige was right: they all bore the hallmarks of very expensive lighting and artistry, but Godric was projecting variations on the same emotion in every single one of them. Acute awkwardness.

  Admittedly he’d really got ‘awkward’ nailed – even in black Armani, leaning against a glass wall, he looked like a teenager waiting outside an STD clinic – but you could hardly cast him as James Bond on the basis of these. Not unless you were setting it in a prep school.

  I carried on flipping through the glossy photographs. Godric in black tie (strangulated), Godric in riding outfit (mortified), Godric on top of a skyscraper (embarrassed). Then, right at the end, were some photos of him on stage, in the sort of frilly white shirt that even Allegra would have rejected as too attention-seeking, and it could have been a different person.

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaimed, pulling them out. ‘What’s this?’

  Godric leaned over. ‘Oh, that. I was in a production of Dracula. Just a little thing, up in Edinburgh, couple of years ago. I was Jonathan Harker. Got some good reviews, actually.’

  ‘I bet.’ In these photos, Godric looked really rather foxy, with his dark fringe flopping into his eyes, and his face animated with terror. I think it was terror, anyway. There was a seven-foot bat behind him.

  ‘So how come you can’t do that in these?’ I asked, shaking the other photos. ‘Eh?’

  He shrugged and surliness returned to his face like a cloud. ‘Not an effing model, am I? Can’t stand all that stuff. It’s a waste of time.’

  Before I could give him a brisk lecture about how making an effort for an hour could help his career no end, a large man with two shoulders-full of bags hoved into view.

  ‘Ric Spencer?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Godric, without removing his shades.

  ‘Dwight Kramer. First up, let me tell you – I loved you in ER,’ said the photographer, unpacking his first bag with military precision. ‘When you gave up your kidney? My wife cried so much I thought she was ill. No, I gotta be honest’ – and he clapped a hand over his chest to demonstrate manly emotion – ‘we both cried, man.’

  ‘Oh, er, thanks,’ muttered Godric, staring at his feet. ‘I hated it.’

  Dwight boggled.

  I nudged Godric hard and spoke quickly to cover the man’s confusion. ‘Hello, Dwight, I’m Melissa. I’m, er, a friend of Ric’s. From home. In London.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Melissa!’ We shook hands warmly. ‘Do you have any particular ideas for this shoot?’ asked Dwight. ‘Any special angles? I’m very open to direction.’

  ‘Don’t make me look a prick,’ Godric mumbled. ‘If you can manage that. It’s about me, right, not about what a great artist you are.’

  I swallowed. I’d only been in New York a few days, but it had really struck me how much more accommodating people were, even when they didn’t really mean it. I kept reading how New Yorkers were meant to be fearsomely rude, but compared to London, where you could literally go into labour on the Tube only to have people tut about you for not moving down the carriage, the general air of friendliness was noticeable. It might have been something to do with the tipping culture, but even so . . .

  Although I knew, by London standards, Godric was just being a bit self-deprecating, maybe grumpy, by American standards he was edging towards sectionable rudeness.

  ‘Why don’t we have a walk further into the park?’ I suggested, hoping that moving out of the sun might sweeten Godric up a bit.

  ‘I’m cool with that,’ said Dwight agreeably, and we set off.

  I hung back a bit to let Godric slope on ahead. He’d handed Braveheart back to me, all the better to shuffle along with his hands in his pockets.

  Braveheart was trotting at my heels now, nosing my bag and looking positively charming. I felt a surge of warmth towards him. If Jonathan couldn’t be with me during the day, then Braveheart was the next best thing. We were sharing him.

  ‘Ric always like that?’ asked Dwight.

  ‘Oh, God, no. Sorry about that. He’s rather tired,’ I confided. ‘You know what these actors are like. Up all night rehearsing, learning lines . . .’

  ‘Drinking,’ added Dwight, with a wink.

  ‘Goodness, certainly not!’ I protested, Paige’s words about polishing Godric up into a Ye Olde English Gentleman Actor ringing in my head. ‘He’s really not like that at all. Ric’s terribly serious about his acting. He reads and reads and . . . you know.’ I made a ‘oh, Ric’ face. ‘He’s just rather wrapped up in his new role right now. Normally he’s the life and soul – the most beautiful manners.’

  As I said this, two lady joggers swerved to avoid Ric who was shuffling like a Dementor down the middle of the path.

  ‘Jet-lagged,’ I explained quickly.

  But Dwight was looking at the joggers. ‘Did you see that? Did you see who that was?’

  I craned my neck round, but they’d gone.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That was Reese Witherspoon. With a trainer, I guess. You never know who you’ll run into, walking their dogs or what have you.’

  ‘Really?’

 
‘Oh, yeah. Well, you got all the stars in those apartments over there.’ And Dwight proceeded to reel off a list of famous people who lived nearby, and then another list of what his photographer friends had caught them doing on camera. And I thought London was bad for that kind of thing. How wrong can you be?

  After a while, Dwight found a nice quiet corner of the park where the light was falling beautifully through the trees. I sat down on a bench and watched while he set up the shot, moving Godric backwards and forwards, trying to coax him into showing some of his famous dramatic sensitivity.

  But as soon as Dwight raised his camera to his eye, Godric’s face instinctively rearranged itself into the awkward photograph face much beloved of self-conscious men all over Britain: eyebrows aloft, strange, apologetic smile that suggested some gastric indiscretion, coupled with a gentle hunching of the shoulders. He did it every time: Dwight would talk, Godric would listen, stare into the distance, then look back with exactly the same expression. It was like trying to make a teddy bear sit up: things looked hopeful until you moved your hands, then it slumped down again into the same lifeless hunch.

  ‘Um, Ric, why don’t you look away for three seconds, then look back and think of your favourite thing in the whole world?’ I suggested helpfully, passing on a particularly useful Home Ec tip that had seen me illuminated with joy in numerous party photos as I thought about Nelson’s carrot cake while hugging spotty youths. ‘Try that!’

  Godric flashed a pitying glare in my direction. ‘You want me to think about Hamlet? Or the wreck of the Titanic? It doesn’t quite work, does it? We’re not all finishing school bimbos.’

  ‘OK, then, how about getting a curtain call for playing Hamlet at the National with, er, Kate Winslet?’ I suggested.

  He cast his eyes up to heaven, then glowered at me. ‘Why should I take advice from someone who clearly knows nothing about the legitimate theatre?’

  ‘Well, you’re the expert, Ric,’ I said sweetly, ‘having done so many of these photo sessions before.’ And I went back to training Braveheart to sit and stay with my final scraps of chicken.