Little Lady, Big Apple

by Hester Browne

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and was surprised to hear how small my voice went.

  ‘Blimey. Still, I suppose he doesn’t have the expert back-up that he does here.’

  I bit my lip. That wasn’t what I’d wanted her to say.

  ‘How are things in the office?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’

  ‘When Allegra’s not here, things are fine,’ said Gabi tightly. ‘When she’s here, things are . . . less fine, but fortunately she’s only here about ten minutes a day, so it’s surprisingly manageable.’

  Before I could probe that worrying statement more carefully, Gabi went on, ‘Listen, Mel, don’t mean to be rude, but I’m expecting a call, so can I get back to you?’

  ‘Ship to shore, is it?’ I joked, but a lead weight plummeted in my stomach at the thought of Gabi and Nelson. That was seriously romantic. At least it was an ocean keeping them apart, not an appointments diary. I shoved that thought aside as totally unworthy.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nelson? How’s he getting on? Have you spoken to him recently?’

  ‘Oh, er. No. I haven’t. He told me not to ring him unless something burned down or blew up.’ She sighed. ‘It’s historically accurate, apparently. I can write to him if I want to, but he’s not sure when he’d get the letter.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, mindful of the mobile number he’d given me. Thinking about Nelson really made me want to talk to him. He’d blow away this funny mood with some of his patented Dial-a-dad ranting. ‘And the flat? How’s that going?’

  ‘It’s fine. They’ve got the carpets up. Listen, Mel, can I call you back? I, um, I don’t want to miss this call. It’s about . . . the, er, weekend.’

  ‘Right-o,’ I said, somewhat bemused, but she’d put the phone down before I could move onto pleasantries.

  I checked my watch. Quarter to twelve. What time would it be with Nelson? I opened my diary to the page where I’d written down his secret mobile number, but before I could dial it, something stopped me.

  I told myself it was because I didn’t want to disturb him in the middle of a reef-knot masterclass, but I wasn’t so sure I was being completely honest with myself.

  It felt wrong, calling him if Gabi didn’t even know about his mobile number. And there was something else too.

  I started forlornly at my empty iced latte glass. I didn’t even like iced lattes. That was another blow. They looked so yummy in Dean & Deluca.

  My mobile buzzed on the table, and I picked it up with a rush of delight, spotting the New York number on the display. I did have friends here!

  ‘Hello, Ms Romney-Jones?’

  ‘Yes, it is!’ I said. ‘Hello!’

  ‘This is Yolanda at Park Avenue Pooches. We have Braveheart washed, walked and ready for collection!’

  ‘Thanks!’ I said hollowly. ‘I’m on my way.’

  A gleaming Braveheart and I arrived at the steps of the Met at one thirty on the dot, but there was no sign of Jonathan among the crowds of tourists milling around.

  The sun was scorching hot, so I sat down on the steps in a small patch of shade, arranged my full cotton skirt so my knickers weren’t on show, and waited for him. Braveheart sat at my feet and panted, lolling his big white fluffy head. I scratched him behind the ears and he made an appreciative growling noise.

  Jonathan still hadn’t appeared by quarter to. It was very unlike him to be so late and not call, I thought, checking my phone in case he’d left a message. But he hadn’t.

  As I was looking at it, a text arrived with an incongruously English doorbell noise. A couple of tourists looked round, startled.

  ‘Where best place emergency lawyer?’

  It was from Allegra. Since she was already lawyered up to the gills with the finest nitpickers money could buy, I assumed it was a query on behalf of a client, possibly one who’d done something too humiliating to run past the family solicitor. I texted her the details of a friend of Nelson’s, who specialised in getting dodgy solicitors off the hook, then resumed my scanning of the crowd for Jonathan’s red hair.

  The phone ding-donged again.

  ‘Not big enough. Need QC.’

  Crikey. It must be serious. I was texting Allegra with firm instructions that it wasn’t her job to start initiating legal proceedings or egging anyone else on into complicated libel suits, when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Melissa? It’s Lori? From Mr Riley’s office?’

  ‘Hello, Lori,’ I said. ‘Are you calling to tell me Jonathan’s in a meeting?’

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked, very seriously. ‘I am. He’s in conference with . . .’ She hesitated. ‘With a client, and he’s just called me to say he can’t get away? He’s very sorry, and has asked me to send you a car? It should be with you . . . now.’

  I looked up, and indeed there was a black Lincoln Continental on the other side of the road, complete with driver looking up and down the pavement.

  ‘I can see it.’ I hauled myself to my feet. Braveheart woke up with a snort of disgust and started truffling about in my bag for food.

  ‘Ah-ah!’ I said sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Just the dog, sorry. Not you.’ After a moment’s token resistance, Braveheart followed me on his lead and we both trotted down the steps. ‘When does Jonathan think he’ll be finished?’

  ‘He’ll be there as soon as he can? He’s really sorry? I’ve given the driver directions and a map for you?’

  I established that it was in fact my car and got into the back as the driver held the door for me. Braveheart initially refused to get in, and when the man tried to lift him up, he went to nip his hand.

  ‘No!’ I said, with a firm glare. ‘Bad!’ Honestly, up until now he’d been so good. Then again, I was pretty foul in hot weather myself. If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew Jonathan loved me in this huge-skirted frock, I’d have resorted to my faithful linen trousers, and hang the fact that they made my bum look the size of a wide-screen telly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lori sounded shocked. ‘It’s an unavoidable delay, I’m afraid, and he really is making every effort to be with you as soon as he can.’

  ‘No, no,’ I apologised. ‘Just the dog again!’ I made it clear to Braveheart that he wouldn’t be joining me on the leather seats. ‘Um, well, if you could thank Jonathan for the car, and let him know that I’m happy to wait, that would be kind.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Lori. ‘Please call me if you need anything.’

  Is he with Cindy? I wanted to ask, but I bit my tongue, and sat back so I could gaze out of the window. I wondered where we were going – Jonathan hadn’t said.

  If he was with her, then he really wouldn’t want to tell me where he was then. And yet she was getting priority over our lunch date . . .

  Now, come on, I tried to tell myself. She’s a client.

  Like Jonathan used to be your client? the idle voices went on.

  ‘No!’ I said aloud, so forcefully that Braveheart looked up, unaware of what he’d done now.

  I scratched his ears in apology. These idle voices weren’t so idle today. They were positively queueing up with unpleasant thoughts.

  We’d only gone a few blocks when the car pulled up and the driver got out to open my door again.

  ‘Central Park, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I was told to direct you to the boathouse?’

  Jonathan had sent a car to drive me just a few blocks to Central Park? I got out, feeling embarrassed.

  ‘I could have walked!’ I said to the driver. ‘Honestly!’

  But he just smiled politely and gave me a map of the park, prepared by Lori, with directions printed out to the Loeb Boathouse.

  Choosing as much shade as we could, Braveheart and I strolled through the park to the beautiful boathouse, where I ordered a pot of tea for myself in the restaurant, and a bowl of water for him. And we waited for Jonathan.

  And waited.

  And waited.


  We waited so long that I’d made a fresh list of to-dos, jotted down some new ideas for the agency, filed my nails, sent three texts to Gabi insisting that she find out what on earth Allegra needed legal recommendations for, drunk two pots of tea and made so many notes in my little book that the waiting staff were probably starting to mutter among themselves about restaurant inspectors.

  Every thirty minutes or so, I’d get a call from poor Lori, apologising for the delay and even though I assured her that I was having a lovely time just people-watching, I couldn’t help feeling tetchy. Then cross, then hurt, then plain worried.

  In the end, I caved in and phoned Gabi.

  ‘Is it, er, unreasonable to call the police if your date is two and a half hours late?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends where your date’s meant to be,’ she said. From the sound of the background noise, she was in a bar. A bar where people were laughing and getting drunk.

  ‘He’s out with a client,’ I quavered. ‘Lori won’t tell me anything more than that.’

  ‘Cindy?’ said Gabi immediately.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I felt sick.

  ‘You think she’s stabbed him in their empty apartment and set fire to the evidence? Or that he’s stabbed her and is clinically dismembering the corpse and constructing a watertight alibi based on train times?’

  ‘Gabi! That’s not helping!’

  I could hear her giggling. And I could also hear male giggling. I heard her say, muffled, ‘It’s Mel. Yeah, he’s stood her up. I know!’

  ‘Who are you with?’ I demanded. ‘And where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Hush,’ she giggled, then went as serious as she could after, I estimated, three cocktails. ‘Look, take Auntie Gabi’s advice and go home. That’ll teach him to leave you hanging around. He’s an idiot. No man should keep you waiting, Mel, specially one as lucky to have you as he is. Dr No needs to learn to get his priorities straight.’

  Her voice was rising in a bit of a tirade, but at that point I spotted Jonathan’s red hair glinting in the sun as he jogged rather awkwardly down the path, and I rose to make sure it was him.

  ‘Gabi! It’s OK! I can see him. Call you later!’ I said, hanging up as quickly as I could.

  Braveheart confirmed that it was Jonathan with an attention-seeking volley of yapping.

  ‘Shh!’ I hissed to him, as heads turned. ‘Don’t look so keen.’

  Jonathan bounded up to my table and leaned on it, breathing heavily. It only took him a few moments to get his breath back; he did, after all, play competitive racquet sports three times a week.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I said, biting back the urge to say, ‘Have you been with Cindy?’

  ‘Melissa, I can’t apologise enough,’ he said, wiping the back of his hand across his pale brow, now flushed with heat and exertion. Possibly a touch of mortification too. ‘You must be seriously razzed. I’ve been trying to get away for the last ninety minutes, but it was just impossible. I am so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, surprised at how calm I sounded. ‘Lori kept me up to date with your progress. She might as well have played “Greensleeves” at me, and told me my call was important to her, though.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Forget it. You’re here now.’

  I was smiling sunnily, but my panic was simmering into crossness. If I’d kept him waiting because I was at work, he’d probably have played his ‘who comes first?’ hurt card and cancelled me until I was ready. In fact, hadn’t he made a huge deal about how I couldn’t work while I was in New York, because I was here to see him?

  ‘You brought the dog?’ he asked quizzically. ‘Thought we established that he wasn’t safe in parks?’

  ‘Of course.’ I fondled Braveheart’s white ears. ‘A dog isn’t an accessory. It’s a part of the family. If you want him to behave well, you have to show him, not just bring him out of the doggy nursery when you feel like looking like a dog-owner.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said, regarding Braveheart with suspicion. ‘But tell him to behave.’

  ‘You tell him.’

  ‘I don’t think he gets my accent,’ said Jonathan. ‘That or he just doesn’t like sharing you with me.’

  I looked up, straight into Jonathan’s eyes. ‘Well, these days I see much more of him than I do of you.’

  Jonathan bit his lower lip and looked guilty. He shoved a hand through his hair, messing up the neatly gelled waves. ‘Guess I deserved that.’

  ‘Kind of. But you’re here now, so let’s enjoy this glorious afternoon,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  He offered his arm for me to take. ‘The plan was to walk romantically through the park until we chanced upon the boating lake, then you were going to be all amazed at the beautiful lake in the middle of the city, and I was going to suggest going for a row in one of the boats.’ He smiled wryly. ‘That was the plan, anyway.’

  Poor Jonathan. I knew how he felt about his plans.

  I’m arm-in-arm with the man of my dreams, the sun is shining and getting less hot by the moment, and I’m wearing a dress that makes me feel like Gina Lollobrigida, I told myself. There is no point in spoiling that combination of positive things by being moody. None at all.

  ‘Oh, look!’ I gasped, turning in pretend surprise at the lake, then turning back to him. ‘Jonathan! I never knew there was this great big pond in the middle of New York City!’

  ‘No?’ he replied, playing along. ‘Do you want to go for a turn around the lake?’

  ‘I certainly would,’ I said, allowing him to lead off towards the hiring hut.

  Jonathan let me pick out the boat, helped me and Braveheart in, then rowed us out into the middle of the lake with long, sure strokes.

  ‘I used to row at Princeton,’ he explained unnecessarily as we cruised past less professionally manned craft. ‘Made the first boat for a season.’

  I made appreciative noises. Rowers, in my experience, were disturbing. They had a bloody-mindedness rarely achieved by rugby players, and barely even understood by cricketers. Cricket might be a little complicated, but at least it had the virtue of being arranged around food and drink breaks. Rowing was just shouting and pain barriers and eight men thinking as one.

  ‘I can row too,’ I said, not wanting to sound weedy. ‘Not like, boat race rowing, though. Dinghies, like these. Nelson taught me to row his inflatable, when we were out sailing.’

  ‘Really?’ Jonathan feathered a little, to manoeuvre round another couple, then let us drift gently to a halt.

  ‘Mmm. Mainly so he could stay aboard and shout while Roger and I went ashore for supplies, I think.’

  ‘Well, you can row us back.’

  ‘Erm . . . OK.’ We should probably set off in about ten minutes then, I thought, but didn’t say anything.

  With an easy gesture, Jonathan pulled in his oars, and reached for his briefcase. He gave Braveheart a nervous glance. ‘Do I have to tell you how nervous I am about that hell-hound being in this boat with us, on a lake, when I’m trying to impress you with my casual native New Yorker thing?’

  Braveheart looked up from the wooden floor, where he was lying as if butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘He’ll be fine.’ Actually, I had the feeling he was scared. I stroked his ears again and felt him trembling slightly. ‘He’s not so naughty these days, are you? No. You’re Melissa’s little chap.’

  ‘If you say so. Now then.’ Jonathan triumphantly produced two champagne flutes, and a chilled bottle of champagne and set them on the spare seat. ‘Somewhere, in the middle of town, there is a Zabar’s hamper, in a taxi, going round and round trying to find me. I hope Lori’s caught up with it and taken it home. This is all I could fit in my briefcase. I hope you don’t mind drinking on an empty stomach?’

  I was charmed. ‘Not in the slightest! That’s just lovely.’

  And it was lovely too. The sun was fading gently in the sky and dancing on the ripples made by other, distant boats. It felt a little cooler
in the park, and I could see the very tops of the ornate apartment buildings on the Upper West Side rising gracefully above the green trees, but there were no grating sounds of traffic, just faint splashes and birdsong.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, as Jonathan handed me a flute. It was still so cold that beads of moisture clung around the glass.

  ‘Flutes, yes?’ he said, with a raised eyebrow. ‘You see? I listen to your improving words.’

  I smiled, as a warm glow spread through me. God, it was so nice to have in-jokes that didn’t involve me falling over something or being shown up by a family member. He was talking about the party where we met: the welcome party I threw at Dean & Daniels. I told him his fountain of champagne saucers was tacky, and amazingly, from that choice piece of snobbery, he decided to hire me as his pretend girlfriend.

  ‘You know, it’s exactly fifteen months since we met,’ he said, gently chinking his glass against mine. ‘That was the first thing you taught me, and I haven’t stopped learning since. To you.’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ I demurred, chinking my glass and leaning forward to let him tip up my chin with his finger, and kiss me very gently on the lips. He couldn’t really kiss me any more energetically anyway, on account of the boat and the glasses, but it was quite a sexy kiss all the same.

  ‘What have I got to teach you?’ I sighed, leaning back and admiring him in his neatly rolled shirt-sleeves. ‘You don’t need fixing up. You don’t need telling where to buy decent shoes. You don’t need to be told not to take a girl to an all-you-can-eat restaurant.’ I smiled, drunk on a moment of pure happiness. ‘I mean, look at you. You don’t need someone holding your hand while you buy a fabulous suit like that, do you?’

  ‘Well, I do have a good tailor.’ Jonathan sipped his champagne. ‘And I get help from the shopper when I go to Saks.’

  ‘But that’s the point,’ I said euphorically. ‘You go to Saks! You don’t just go to TK Maxx and pull out things at random! Besides,’ I added, ‘you always look immaculate. Even Gabi can’t fault your wardrobe.’

  ‘Well, if Gabi says so . . .’ Jonathan’s mouth twitched in amusement. ‘If she spends half the time shopping at weekends as she does online from the office she ought to know.’