‘I don’t think so. Oh, um.’ I paused. I should really wind this conversation up soon, I thought. Very soon. ‘There was some talk about Muffy Churchill and Lord Freddie Windsor, but I think that was just idle rumour!’
‘You’ve never met Prince William?’ swooned Diana.
‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘No, never!’
But at the mere mention of Prince William, these three highly groomed professional women started giggling like teenagers, and squeaking stuff about Prince Harry and royal prerogative and lovely manners and how beautiful his teeth were for an Englishman.
‘He will go bald, though,’ I pointed out quickly, before we got on to how many people would fit into Westminster Abbey for the ceremony. ‘I mean, look at his dad . . .’
That just made things worse, as it turned out Kurt’s firm had had some kind of royal visit from Prince Charles who had charmed everyone by eating a digestive biscuit right there in front of them.
‘Oh, Melissa, you know what would be so cool?’ demanded Diana, shooting a quick look across at Bonnie.
‘What?’ I played along, emboldened by the second glass of champagne.
‘If you could organise my baby shower!’
Now I knew Jonathan must have put them up to it.
‘Oh, I don’t think I could, sorry. I mean, I don’t know what they are,’ I said apologetically. ‘We don’t have them in England. A pipe of port for a boy, and a charm bracelet for a girl, and that’s your lot, really.’
Diana wrinkled her brow as far as it would wrinkle, which wasn’t far. ‘A pipe? Of port? That sounds kind of . . . ew. But, no, the shower – that’s just a lovely, lovely afternoon where the mom-to-be gets together with her closest friends and spends some quality time with them, and receives beautiful gifts for the baby.’
Bonnie nodded. ‘It’s a lovely moment. The grandmothers-to-be attend too? And it’s a lovely bonding time for everyone, in the dizzy whirlwind of the whole birth experience!’ She waved her hands around to demonstrate the whirlwind effect, and Diana rolled her eyes about too, in simulation of the dizziness she was feeling.
‘And it would be so fabulous if you could do it like a traditional British tea party!’ added Diana. ‘You know, like one of those nursery teas you read about in books!’
‘Well, yes, that would be lovely,’ I said, feeling hemmed in. ‘But I’m sure there’s a tradition about who arranges it? Isn’t it meant to be your best friend, or your chief bridesmaid or something?’
Jennifer, Diana and Bonnie all drew in a sharp breath and cast their eyes down at the cocktail nibbles.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘Have I . . . ?’
Honestly, this was the trouble with Jonathan introducing me to all his friends without bothering to fill me in on where the bodies were buried.
Bonnie glanced quickly at the others, and assumed the mantle of responsibility. ‘Diana’s matron of honour was Cindy,’ she said.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love Cindy,’ Diana added, a little too quickly. ‘But – ha, ha! – I don’t want her round my baby!’
‘Not without supervision! And a fire extinguisher!’ Jennifer chimed in.
‘And of course she’s run off her feet with Parker, so I doubt if she could anyway,’ Bonnie explained. A nanosecond too late.
‘Oh,’ I said.
All four of us looked at our empty glasses.
The abrupt silence allowed the conversation from the other end of the table to cut in.
‘So what are the home-owning differences over there, Jonathan?’ Kurt had his earnest interviewing voice on. He did sound as if he were perpetually auditioning for a job on breakfast television. ‘Would you say that the UK property market would be affected by the introduction of a co-op board arrangement in state-owned blocks?’
Jonathan’s eyes were glazed like a week-old cod, but he was still making polite nodding gestures as Kurt moved condiments around to illustrate his points. When he caught me looking in his direction, Jonathan moved his eyebrow in his familiar, near-imperceptible ‘it’s just you and me in this room and no one else’ way, and my heart melted.
I knew nothing about baby showers. I didn’t even like babies all that much. But if it would get me some brownie points with Jonathan, when he was making such an effort for me, then, fine, I’d do it. I really wanted this to work. I really, really did.
And if it would show Cindy up in the process, well . . . that was just coincidental.
‘Oh, I’m honoured that you’ve asked me!’ I said brightly. ‘What a lovely way to get to know New York better. I’d love to help out. Let’s get together over coffee this week and I can give you some ideas, Diana.’
‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ she said, clapping her hands together so hard her bob bounced. And then fell back into perfect place.
‘Really, it’s a pleasure,’ I said, as Jennifer and Bonnie joined in the raptures so genuinely that I did start to feel that maybe I could turn things around. Maybe, if I just tried really hard, I could fit in with Jonathan’s friends. Maybe . . .
‘Melissa?’ said Diana, suddenly very serious.
‘Yes?’
She smiled angelically. ‘Baby says thank you.’
If I hadn’t grabbed my wineglass, I honestly think she would have placed my hand on her tiny pregnant stomach for confirmation.
I smiled nervously. ‘Brilliant!’
‘Ahh,’ said Bonnie, as if she’d just match-made us. ‘Cute!’
18
Immersing myself in Diana’s plans, however, wasn’t enough to save me from an excruciating scene when the news about Godric’s ‘felony’ became public knowledge.
Ironically – or perhaps not – it was my father who broke it.
He called me on my mobile as Jonathan and I were having a rare conversation about what he could do to the house, over an early cup of coffee before Jonathan went off to work. We were sharing a box of fresh blueberry muffins. The flowers he’d brought me home the previous evening were on the table between us. Even Braveheart was behaving himself. I should have known it couldn’t last.
‘Melissa!’ Daddy roared. ‘You sly dog!’
‘What?’
‘Dating Prince William! I’d never have guessed! He doesn’t seem the type to go for older women.’
Jonathan raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Wrong number,’ I lied.
‘It’s in the papers, you know,’ Daddy went on, less gleefully.
‘What?’ I demanded, turning cold. ‘How?’
‘Oh, Melissa . . . Anyway, what were you doing with that film star chap? And in a BMW, for heaven’s sake. Have you ditched that stuffed-shirt Yank?’
I glanced over at Jonathan to see if he’d heard. The expression on his face suggested he had. Daddy was certainly bellowing loud enough. He sounded quite refreshed.
‘My father,’ I mouthed apologetically.
But Jonathan was getting up from the table.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ I said, panicking.
‘I’m not leaving. I’m just going out for the papers,’ he replied.
‘If you’re going to nick a car, you might at least have found an Aston,’ Daddy went on. ‘Buy British and all that.’
I pressed the phone to my chest. ‘No! No, don’t go!’
Jonathan looked impassive. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your family call. Anyway, I’ll be late.’
I slumped in my chair as the front door slammed behind him.
‘Why are you ringing?’ I asked Daddy tetchily. ‘Just to have a laugh at me? And before you ask, I didn’t tell them that. Granny did. She seemed to think it would help.’
‘Your mother’s very upset. It’s shocking for her image to have a daughter who gets involved with police chases.’
I stared out of the window. It had come to something when New York felt more normal than London. ‘Which image?’
‘You haven’t seen Country Life?’
‘No, funnily enough, I haven’t been to the de
ntist recently.’ But even as I said it, Mummy’s words about lavishing Mrs Armstrong’s prize-winning lemon curd on journalists floated ominously into my mind. I pushed them aside. One family press crisis at a time.
‘Ah, well, you’ll see soon enough. Now listen, if you get a call today from anyone from London, as a result of your carryings-on, I want you to tell them that Red Leicester makes your hair shine, and you eat three ounces every day. Got that?’
‘Fine,’ I said dully, and hung up.
Braveheart and I looked at each other, and waited for Jonathan to get back.
Jonathan was not pleased. His irritation was well masked by polite amusement, but I could tell he was furious underneath.
‘Ex-girlfriend of the heir to the throne, current girlfriend of a Hollywood film star – I should be flattered you’re having breakfast with me at all,’ he said, sounding a bit too much like Alan Rickman for my liking as he slapped the papers down on the table.
‘But—’
‘Melissa, this isn’t like you.’ He looked at me, his eyes now the colour of steel.
‘It isn’t!’ I wailed. ‘It’s . . .’
My voice trailed away, as we both stared at the evidence to the contrary.
Nothing – and I mean, nothing – I said could make him see it was just wild press exaggeration. It didn’t even stop him sweeping off to work on time. If only he’d been mad, I could have dealt with it. Biblical disappointment was so much worse.
And that wasn’t the half of it. I still had to tackle Paige. She was meant to have contained all this. She promised me she would!
With a very heavy heart, I went upstairs to dress myself into some kind of dignity. Despite the September heatwave, I pulled on stockings and suspenders, a smart summer dress and heels, then applied my most serious make-up.
I gazed at my finished reflection in the round dressing-table mirror, rehearsing my disappointment. Stern disappointment. ‘How could you, Paige?’ I started.
No, not firm enough.
‘Paige, you’ve let me down, you’ve let Ric down and, most of all, you’ve let yourself down.’
I stared at myself. There was something missing. I just looked too guilty.
I sank onto the bed. Other people would have probably snorted some cocaine or something at this point. Or had a drink. Or . . .
My eyes moved towards my overnight bag.
No. I shook myself. No, that was a very slippery slope.
Just quickly. Just for a moment or two.
No!
But I was already halfway across the room, sliding back the zip, feeling about feverishly for the forbidden bag.
And then, before I knew it, the wig was on my head, the blonde fringe was falling into my eyes, and staring out of the mirror was Honey, her eyes positively gleaming with ire.
‘Paige.’ I paused and gave myself a devastating glare of dismay. ‘Darling, what happened? I’m simply bewildered! I thought you knew everyone and could do anything!’ Rueful shake of the fringe. ‘Oh dear . . .’
Without warning, a deafening volley of outraged barking broke my attention, and I was horrified to see that not only was Braveheart on the bed, now strictly forbidden, but that he was preparing to launch himself at my head.
‘No!’ I roared as he and I tussled in a very undignified manner, his sharp little teeth locked firmly around a thick hank of real hair. ‘Braveheart! Get off!’
Breathlessly, I managed to remove him from my hair, real and fake, and stowed the wig well out of sight under my spare evening petticoat. Braveheart retreated suspiciously to the corner, where he set up a defensive growling towards the wardrobe.
‘You’re quite right,’ I said to him, brushing myself down, ‘I don’t need the wig, now, do I? No,’ I repeated, more to myself, though, than him. ‘No, I don’t.’
Erupting at Paige Drogan mightn’t change the fact that my picture was right there next to Godric’s more animated headshot, plus illustrative, insinuating copy, but it would make me feel as if it wasn’t all my fault.
‘Ms Drogan is unavailable this morning,’ Tiffany informed me, without moving her telephone headset.
‘Then I’ll wait,’ I said, settling myself into the uncomfortable chair. I ignored the tempting range of glossy periodicals on offer, choosing instead to stare straight ahead at Tiffany, until she was unnerved enough to make a few discreet calls.
Paige came hopping out of her office, beaming with delight.
‘Melissa! Just the person I wanted to see! Come on in!’
I stalked in after her and closed the door.
‘I can’t stay long,’ I said, trying to summon up the imperious tone I’d found when I was be-wigged. ‘But I needed to see you about this awful business in the papers.’
‘Hey, it’s not so awful, Melissa,’ said Paige, tipping her head to one side. ‘In fact, it’s exactly what I asked you to do! You made him look like a real knight on a white charger, rescuing you like that!’
‘Paige, he was about to be arrested for car theft!’
‘Well, even that wouldn’t have been totally bad news,’ she conceded happily. ‘Ric Spencer is impulsive! He’s gotta-have-it!’ She looked over her glasses. ‘I tell you, in six months’ time, BMW will be begging him to steal their cars. So well done, honey!’
‘Listen,’ I said furiously, ‘it might be great for Ric, but it’s not great for me. I told you Jonathan wasn’t keen on me seeing Ric at all, and now the papers are making out I’m his girlfriend! I thought we had an understanding that nothing of that nature would happen. I thought you’d be able to keep details like that out of the papers.’
Paige looked surprised. ‘What can I say? People draw their own conclusions.’
‘Yes, that I’m cheating on my boyfriend with some actor!’
‘With some film star,’ she corrected me. ‘Anyway, Ric dating a beautiful politician’s daughter – it just adds to the mystique, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Paige, but this simply isn’t on. I can’t have anything more to do with Godric. Jonathan means an awful lot to me, and I won’t risk hurting him, not for anything.’ I paused. ‘I’m surprised you don’t care about how he feels. He’s your friend, isn’t he?’
Paige’s surprise turned slightly patronising. ‘Melissa, Jonathan’s a professional. We’re all professionals here. Maybe it’s different in London’ – she pronounced London as if she really meant Carlisle – ‘but I think he understands that I need to work for my client. I thought you understood that too, in your line of work?’
‘Obviously not,’ I said, with a smile I didn’t feel. She had no idea what my line of work was, not really. ‘Never mind! It’s been a fascinating experience.’ I stood up and offered her my hand to shake. ‘Let me know when the retraction runs, won’t you, so I can show Jonathan?’
‘What?’
‘The correction that Godric and I aren’t dating.’
Paige shook her head sadly at me. ‘Honey, you have a lot to learn about the ways of the world.’
I was so furious with Paige, but proud of myself for actually losing my temper, that I took myself down to the Magnolia Bakery and bought the biggest, sickliest cupcake they had. I’d had smaller birthday cakes as a child.
I was licking the last of the blue icing off the paper, when my phone rang.
‘Melissa, it’s Godric.’
Oh, great.
‘Hello, Godric,’ I said heavily. ‘How are you?’
‘Shit. Do you want to have a cup of tea?’
‘I’m kind of busy,’ I fibbed, then paused, feeling a sudden twinge of sneakiness. It was all very well yelling at Paige, but she wasn’t the one saddled with a hermit’s personality in an actor’s body. Godric sounded even glummer than usual, which was saying something. It was only fair to say goodbye in person. And if I was completely honest with myself, being with Godric meant I could just be me. Melissa ‘Melons’ Romney-Jones. That was quite a big temptation right now.
; ‘Go on. Please,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I’ll pay.’
‘Are you feeling all right?’ I asked.
Godric sighed and made strange noises down the phone, which I assumed was nose-clearing. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t manly sniffling. ‘Just feeling a bit . . . I’m fine. Shut up, all right?’
No, then.
‘Listen, I know where we can get a nice cup of tea,’ I said. ‘And some treacle tart.’ No one, but no one, can feel miserable in front of a plate of treacle tart and a pot of tea, and I knew just where to get some full-on English tuck.
Godric phlegmed again, and when he’d finished, I gave him directions to Tea and Sympathy on Greenwich Avenue. If I was going to remove Godric’s one English crutch in New York – and my own last remaining friend, albeit in the loosest sense of the word – I needed a strong cup of tea to do it with.
‘Godric, I have to ask, is there something up?’ I asked, once we were installed in a corner table with a pot of Tetley’s (three bags) between us. I insisted on a corner table and kept my shades and sunhat on, just in case anyone could be bothered to recognise us.
He paused momentarily in his gradual transference of the contents of the sugar bowl into his teacup and looked up at me. He had no need of a disguise, looking, as he did, about as far from Hollywood heart-throb as it was possible to be. The bags under his eyes had tipped from ‘moody’ to ‘ill’ and his skin was the colour of wallpaper paste. If you went in for consumptives, he would have been a real pin-up. If not, you’d have been struck by his more-than-passing resemblance to the Just Say No poster-boy.
‘No,’ he lied, with a foul glare. ‘Eff off. Didn’t anyone tell you not to be so nosey?’
‘Frequently,’ I replied briskly. ‘But you look ill. And I don’t want to catch anything, not with my schedule. Does Paige know? I’m sure she has a doctor you could see. I’m sure she won’t want your upcoming promotion plans ruined.’
That got the cat out of the bag. At the mention of his big film, Godric flaked visibly.
‘Shut up,’ he whined, then looked hopeful. ‘Do you think I look ill? You know, now you mention it, I haven’t had a dump in a few days. Maybe I’m sickening for something. Maybe I need the care and attention of, um, someone to nurse me?’
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 31
