‘But it’s going all right?’ She added a meaningful look. ‘He’s OK with your snoring? He’s seen you first thing in the morning?’
‘Yes,’ I said, busying myself with my desk tidy. We weren’t exactly at the manky foot-rub stage. I got the impression that Jonathan liked the finished version of womanhood, but didn’t want to see the workings, as it were. Face-packs, he said, were for spas, not sitting rooms.
‘He’s making more time for you now?’
I hesitated. ‘Um, yes. Sort of. And the house is amazing! The master bedroom has two bathrooms.’
Gabi kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the sofa, balancing her cup and saucer on the arm until she saw my expression, and replaced it carefully on the side table next to her.
‘Well, go on then,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Spill. What kind of house has the King of Realtors chosen for his domain? Does he have a walk-in tie wardrobe? Does he let you sleep on whichever side of the bed you like, or has he drawn up a rota so you don’t dent the mattress unequally? No, no!’ she cackled, delighted by her own imagination. ‘Don’t tell me. He’s worked out some kind of spreadsheet to allocate you space in his flat, and time in his schedule, depending on whether the pair of you hit pre-agreed targets.’
Honestly, she was so dreadful about Jonathan. If she had any sort of imagination, she’d realise that what was stern in the boardroom could be quite different in the bedroom . . .
I made myself blush at that. But, you know.
‘Gabi!’ I protested. ‘He’s actually quite messy, you know. His cleaner comes four times a week.’
‘Huh?’ said Gabi. ‘Really? But, be honest, has he synchronised your diary with his? The ultimate gesture?’
‘Even if I tell you that he’s been the very model of a romantic host, would you believe me?’
‘Honestly?’ She screwed up her face. ‘No. You’ve already told me his scheduling shortcomings. And frankly I don’t understand what you see in starchy, buttoned-up workaholics in any case.’
‘Good,’ I said, cutting my cake into slices. I was only going to eat two bits. Out of five. That made it sixty per cent less fat, which was almost a diet cake. ‘More for those of us who do.’
‘And is his apartment as minimalist as his social skills?’
‘Will you pack it in?’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, Jonathan doesn’t have an apartment, he has a whole house. In Greenwich Village, which has trees and cobbled streets and neighbours and everything.’
‘So he’s sold the huge apartment on Park Avenue that he had with . . . Cindy . . .’ Gabi’s voice trailed off. ‘Not that I’ve got a dossier, or anything,’ she added defensively.
‘Yes,’ I said to spare her blushes. Gabi was the sort of PA who made her job interesting by raiding the HR files like she was on an MI5 intelligence mission. ‘He’s selling it right now.’
‘He’s selling it? You mean, as in he’s . . .’
I nodded.
Gabi widened her eyes. ‘That’s so typical! And you tell me he’s not a control freak? Jonathan,’ she said, raising her hand like a lollipop lady, ‘step away from the marital breakdown drama!’
‘No, Gabi, it’s not like that – Cindy made him! She’s always on his case about it. She’s driving him round the bend . . .’ I stopped. We were getting onto quite thin ice now.
Gabi’s eyes narrowed again. ‘I see. How convenient for her. To have her ex over a barrel and on the end of a string. No wonder you’re paranoid. Did you find out if that’s where he was the other day, when he was late for your lunch meeting?’
Suddenly I didn’t really want to talk about it any more.
‘Um, he didn’t say where he was.’ I forked some cake in half, trying to ignore her very perceptive observation. ‘Ooh! Are those new shoes you’ve got on?’
Gabi, though, was not so easily thrown off the scent when it came to gossip. ‘Hobbs sale. Half price. So she hasn’t engineered a dramatic meeting then?’
Any minute now, I would stop glowing about the boat trip and the romantic dinners, and my lurking fears about Cindy and the Coven of Blonde Friends would spill out. Then there’d be no packing them away again. In desperation, I tried the distraction technique that worked so well on Braveheart. ‘Did you know in New York they say “I don’t care” instead of “I don’t mind”? I couldn’t work out why people were being so rude to me when I was trying to be nice.’
‘Really?’ Gabi looked distracted at the mention of shops. ‘Did you get my Kiehl’s stuff? Because if you haven’t I’ve just been reading about a new cleanser you can only get in New York . . .’
For a good ten minutes, every time Gabi’s mouth opened to ask another question about Cindy I told her about the enormous trucks on the streets, and how breathtaking Grand Central Station was, and the super-cheap OPI nail varnish, and the bus maps that you needed to have A-level maths to figure out, and how weirdly hard it was to buy stamps. For variation, I also filled her in on Braveheart, Jonathan’s romantic meal on the river, our boating expedition, and the frosting-tastic Magnolia Bakery on Bleeker Street.
‘And do they love your accent?’ she demanded. ‘Do you tell them your gran is an Hon?’
‘No! I do not.’ I paused. ‘I’m not telling anyone very much about me, to be honest.’
‘Not even about your agency?’
‘Especially not that.’ I hesitated. This wasn’t going to play well in Gabi’s eyes either, I knew it. ‘Jonathan wants me to softpedal the whole agency thing. Because it comes over wrong to Americans,’ I added, seeing the outrage on her face. ‘The fact that it’s men, and me, and you know. And I don’t want to show him up or anything. Everyone’s so easily offended over there – they keep asking me if I mind them smoking, or drinking wine, or talking about religion.’ I stopped, as a positive thing occurred to me. ‘The good thing is, I never miss any of their jokes, not like I do here. You always know when to get your hearty laugh ready, because they check first that you won’t be offended by the punchline.’
‘Thoughtful,’ said Gabi drily. ‘So, come on – you haven’t met Cindy?’
‘No,’ I admitted. I pressed my lips against each other. Even though I didn’t really want to talk about it, something inside was urging me to get it off my chest. ‘Jonathan and I had a really good talk about her, and he doesn’t want me to spoil my trip by meeting her.’
‘How thoughtful of him,’ said Gabi sarcastically.
‘Don’t say it like you don’t believe me. Plus, he doesn’t want to see her any more than he has to. Apparently, she’s acting up about their apartment. It’s been on the market for ages, because she’s being so difficult.’
I met Gabi’s ‘for heaven’s sake’ look, and she sighed. ‘And not just because his new girlfriend is in town?’
I bit my lip, but it was too late. The floodgates were opening, sweeping away all the lovely things I wanted to remember. ‘Oh, Gabi, I feel like she’s there all the time, but in a negative way. Like, when we meet people, I can see them looking me over, to see if I’ve got anything in common with her. And Jonathan’s always telling me how he loves the fact that I’m not pushy, and not plastered in make-up, and not this, that or the other. I mean, even his new house – and it’s so gorgeous, honestly – is not on the Upper East Side, and it’s not full of her awful paintings, and it’s not somewhere that her father had to call in nine favours to get past the co-op board.’
‘But I thought it was all done and dusted, with the divorce. You told me last year that he—’
‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ I said unhappily. And I was shocked at how unhappy I felt, now I thought about it. ‘I know she’s been calling him about the apartment sale. And then she’s having Parker christened, or unspecifically named or something, and he’s still Jonathan’s nephew—’
‘For a posh family, that’s very trailer park,’ observed Gabi.
‘Quite.’ I looked into my coffee cup. I knew I should tell Gabi about what that Jennif
er woman had said at Kurt and Bonnie’s party, about the ‘rebound girl’. But suddenly, a familiar old mortification started to creep back into my stomach and I wondered if that’s what they were all saying. Maybe even saying to him right now, over well-meaning cocktails in Bemelman’s, while I was away.
‘Mel?’ said Gabi. ‘You’re . . . you’re not crying, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘I was really excited when I flew in,’ I said sadly. ‘Now . . . I’m not so much.’
She got up and came to sit on the edge of the desk, so she could put her arms round me. ‘Listen,’ she said firmly. ‘Cindy sounds like a nightmare. But you’ve known that for ages. And Jonathan is very clearly nuts about you. Who wouldn’t be? You’re beautiful, and clever, you run your own business, and you can sew bias-cut skirts. You could be on The Apprentice and The Apprentice: Martha!. What more could a corporate weasel like Jonathan want?’
‘So why does he want me to run poxy baby showers?’ I exploded.
There was a pause, then Gabi said, ‘No. Back up. You’ve lost me.’
‘Oh, it’s just a conversation we had over dinner. He thinks I could set up another Little Lady Agency in New York, but organising tea parties for brides, and new mothers, and sweet sixteens, so vast quantities of presents can be handed over. Showers, they call them.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Emotional blackmail, more like. You should see the lists they make.’
‘But, Mel, more weddings?’ asked Gabi anxiously. ‘I mean, Emery’s wedding was fab, but it nearly killed you.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t want to do weddings. But I get the feeling that’s what Jonathan thinks I should be doing. I mean, I could certainly make a lot of money out of it. His friends are obsessed with etiquette, and they think I’m some kind of expert.’
‘Well, you are. To be fair,’ said Gabi, ‘I don’t know anyone else with their own set of strawberry forks.’
I gazed helplessly at her. ‘But is it really awful of me not to want to do that all the time? Even if Jonathan wants me to? Be honest. I don’t like brides. I don’t like what all that white does to women’s brains. And I prefer dealing with men. They’re just so much more straightforward.’
Gabi gave me a ‘well, duh’ look. ‘Which is probably exactly why Jonathan doesn’t want you doing it. He’s scared you’ll run off with someone better. Running off with a groom would really wreck your business.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I scoffed. ‘The whole point is that Little Lady men need help buying their own socks, and he’s already perfect!’
‘Maybe he doesn’t see it like that.’ Gabi paused. ‘I mean, not being funny or anything, but maybe he’s still sore about Cindy running off with his less thrusting and dynamic brother? That’s got to hurt, when you’re Mr Perfect.’
I considered. Jonathan was obviously still sore about his marriage breakdown, but that only proved how much he still felt about Cindy. Not good.
‘Well, yes, but I just don’t understand why he’s being like this when he’s always been so gung-ho about my so-called “business savvy”.’ I put bunny ears around it, in case Gabi thought I’d lost all remaining traces of irony.
‘Has he come straight out and told you to pack in the agency here?’
I wriggled. ‘No. But we haven’t really discussed what’s going to happen next. I didn’t want to look pushy. I’ve only been in New York ten minutes. But he has told me, quite specifically, that I’m not supposed to do anything, you know, agency-ish, while I’m out there, and he’s been a bit, well, funny . . .’
Gabi peered at me closely. ‘And you have, haven’t you?’
Honestly, she could read me like a book. I really had to learn how to be more poker-faced. ‘Sort of. Actually, no. No! Well, yes.’
Gabi giggled. ‘Oh dear, Mel. Dr No doesn’t like being disobeyed. It’s not programmed into his circuitry.’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’ I protested. ‘I just got . . . niced into it.’
She wagged her finger. ‘And that, Melissa, is your Achilles heel. The nice. God almighty. And it was a man, too, wasn’t it? Go on, tell Auntie Gabi. I have this odd feeling that Jonathan’s funny moods are about to fall into place.’
With a growing sense of panic, I confessed all about Godric, and Paige manoeuvring me into looking after him, and the photo in the paper, and how I was meant to be turning him into Mr Knightley Extreme. Back in London the whole thing suddenly looked like a disaster waiting to happen. No. A disaster that was actually happening.
‘I don’t even know what she wants me to do!’ I wailed. ‘How on earth am I meant to make him look dangerous, Gabi? I’m used to smoothing down rough edges, not roughing them up. I don’t even know what bad boys are like. I mean, the only bad boys I’ve been out with were bad in the “I didn’t pay my congestion charge and sometimes don’t brush my teeth for three days” kind of bad.’
Gabi tapped her fingers against her jawline. ‘Well, Orlando von Borsch was bad. He had slip-on shoes. And he broke your heart.’
‘I don’t think that’s quite what Paige’s after.’
‘Isn’t it? Getting a gullible MP’s daughter to arrange his tax investigation while he tops up his alligator-handbag tan on board HMS Saucy Sue or wherever he was, using the pneumatic Lady Tiziana Buckeridge as a human sunlounger—’
‘Gabi! Stop it!’
She wagged her finger again. ‘And was it not the action of a solid gold bad boy to advertise this outrageous behaviour in OK! magazine? Orlando niced you good and proper, Mel. Just because he sometimes told you that you were jolly good fun.’
I glared at her. ‘Thank you for your sage advice, Auntie Gabi. But had you met Godric Ponsonby, you’d realise how he isn’t even in Orlando’s league. Anyway,’ I added, ‘Orlando is all in the past for me. I am no longer that kind of girl. I have more self-respect these days.’
‘And how did Jonathan take the news that you and this Godric were once an item? Hmm? Doesn’t a film star rather put Cindy the Fireman’s Friend in the shade, ex-wise? You know, the more you tell me, the more I’m starting to feel sorry for Dr No.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Did I just say that?’
‘Gabi! We weren’t an item. It was just one of those school things. Years ago. I’m surprised he can remember. Anyway, you know more about bad boys than me. What can I do with him to keep Paige happy? Just so I can get out of this mess before Jonathan really kicks off.’
She pulled her lower lip sternly over her top one. ‘I think you should tell this agent that your boyfriend has instructed you, in no uncertain terms, that your in-genuity is strictly off limits, and that you can have no more to do with this project of deception.’
‘You think?’ I sighed. ‘I mean, you’re right. I should. But Paige’s kind of scary and—’
‘Of course I don’t think you should tell her that!’ roared Gabi. ‘Jesus! I know you never had much of a sense of irony, Mel, but are they draining it out of you, or something?’ She slid off the desk and refilled our coffee cups. ‘If you prove to Jonathan how well you can handle this, he won’t have a leg to stand on about making you do boring wedding parties. Much better that you just do it, then pretend that it took you so little effort you didn’t even remember to tell him about it.’
‘Exactly!’ I said, relieved that it had been Gabi who’d said that.
‘Right. OK, you want that kind of upmarket living, downtown connections bad boy thing, yeah? Well . . .’ She thought. ‘Get him a BMW from somewhere, one of those classic old-school ones, and some really English suits, from Oliver James or someone like that. As English as possible. Does he watch EastEnders out there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, just get him to drop a few “lor’ luvva duck!” type things into conversation – Americans love that sort of stuff. “You’re ’avin’ a laaaaarrrrrfff, incha?” You know, retro cockneyism. Get him to wipe his nose on the back of his hand a lot like he’s got a coke problem, and, oh yeah, have his nose broken while you’re at it. Te
ll everyone he did it boxing in that East End pub where the Krays used to hang out; no, actually, say that, but say it in such a way that it sounds like he really got it broken in a fight. About his mother.’
I boggled at her. Where was this flight of fancy coming from? Or, indeed, going? So much for the shy, missing-Nelson, period Gabi.
I wondered dubiously if this had anything to do with that nightclub she’d been in the other evening when I called. Oh dear.
‘What else?’ Her brown eyes were glittering. ‘Tell him to pay for everything in cash – it looks good and secretive. Has he got a ring? Great. Get a bigger one. One really big diamond ring on his little finger, and one of those big camel coats he can wear over his shoulders.’
‘It’s still summer, Gabi,’ I said faintly. ‘Are you thinking of the Mafia? Because I don’t think—’
‘He needs some personal pain and suffering in his past,’ she steamed on. ‘And some women who’ve broken his heart, but who he’d do anything for, even now. No kids though,’ she added, ‘that just looks careless. What’s his girlfriend history?’
‘Paige thinks there was one girl a while ago who dumped him,’ I admitted, my mind filling with Godric’s pasty gloom. ‘But apart from that I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine him with a woman.’
‘Hmm. Well, find out. Then make some up.’
‘Gabi, I don’t know if Godric can pull this off! He really hates interviews and photographs and dealing with people. He’s just not that confident. He comes across arsey, but I know he’s just shy. You know, like Roger. I can’t even see him wearing jewellery.’
Gabi looked disbelieving, as if strutting around London with a camel-hair coat over one’s shoulders, peeling off fifties from a grimy roll, was something we all did most days. ‘He’s an actor, isn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, but you can only really make out what he’s saying when he’s on stage, or on the telly or something.’ I stopped as light belatedly dawned on my thick head. ‘But this is perfect, because he can just act someone else. Ace!’ I bounced up off my seat and gave her a big hug. ‘God, I knew you’d work it out for me! I knew it was a good idea to come back!’
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 26
