Little Lady, Big Apple

by Hester Browne

  ‘I know,’ said Gabi. She squeezed my hand back. ‘I know.’

  Then the builders came back and I had to use all the charm I had in reserve to stop them brewing up again.

  We arrived at Portsmouth docks after an arduous journey during which Roger had provided a running commentary from the back seat, where I’d installed him with the map. I knew where I was going, and that way he got to feel in charge of operations, while I got to tune him out with the radio, since only the front speakers worked.

  Even so, he still managed to poke his nose into the conversation Gabi and I were having about what still needed to be done on the flat.

  ‘So are you in communication with Remington or what?’ he bellowed as I was parking. ‘What went wrong there? Been meaning to ask.’

  ‘Shut up, Roger,’ said Gabi. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘No,’ I said bravely. ‘No, we’re not currently in communication. I thought it would be best to give him some space. It’s . . . we separated over a non-negotiable issue.’

  Roger gave me a hideous knowing wink in the rear-view mirror that involved folding one half of his face into his neck. ‘Like that, was it?’

  ‘Shut up, Roger,’ said Gabi testily. ‘Are you deaf or just stupid?’

  ‘Catch yourself on, girlfriend!’ replied Roger, in the most appalling north London accent I’d ever heard. ‘I’m only arksking!’

  I looked at them suspiciously. This sort of familiar banter had all the hallmarks of emotional involvement. In so far as anyone could involve themselves emotionally with Roger Trumpet. Still, I thought, hadn’t Gabi said she needed to be practical in relationships? And what could be more practical than the vast fortune Roger clearly wasn’t spending on clothes and/or high living?

  I locked the car, and strode across the quayside, leaving Gabi to upbraid Roger in her own time. Nelson’s ship was already in dock and his diminutive crew were being welcomed back by crowds of cheering parents as if they’d been at sea for years.

  I looked about but couldn’t see Nelson. Then, as I got nearer, I spotted him by a pile of sail bags, haranguing some poor parents about their gangling teenager. He was still in his full ocean-going kit which, I was sorry to see, didn’t include a parrot, a three-cornered hat or an eyepatch. As I watched, he finished whatever he was lecturing them about, and the teenager gave him a sudden, sprawling hug, and the father shook his hand in that hearty way you only see in black and white films.

  I was very touched, on Nelson’s behalf.

  As they walked off, he spotted me, and waved.

  ‘Melissa!’ he yelled happily.

  ‘Hello, Nelson,’ I cried, throwing my arms around him. It was so nice to see him. At least some things in my life were where I’d left them. ‘Still got the two arms, I see! And both eyes!’

  ‘Touch of beer scurvy, though,’ he said, picking me up, staggering slightly, then putting me down again almost at once. ‘You might need to take me home via a pub.’

  ‘Er, no. You’re going straight home for a bath!’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea what you smell like?’

  Roger and Gabi were now hoving into view, in full heated-discussion mode.

  ‘And I don’t know why you made us come in Mel’s car when you could have driven us in that Audi TT,’ he was moaning.

  ‘Argh, shut up, Roger!’ Gabi stopped when she saw us, straightened her shoulders, and tried to smile. ‘Hello, Nelson,’ she said. ‘Welcome home! Um, can I have a word?’

  ‘Ship to shore, we have a problem,’ said Roger, holding his nose.

  I grabbed his arm. If Gabi was dumping Nelson for this cretin, she really needed her head checking. ‘Roger, we’re going to get some coffee.’

  Disregarding his gossip-hungry protests, I hauled him off to a mobile coffee wagon where we got four cappuccinos and waited at a safe distance for the conversation to draw to a close. The wind off the open water was pretty chilly as we sat on bollards, warming our hands round the paper cups.

  ‘What do you think she’s saying to him?’ asked Roger, slurping his coffee.

  Honestly. Had he no shame? ‘I don’t know. Didn’t you discuss it with her first?’

  ‘What? Why would she discuss it with me?’

  I glared at him. ‘So you could get your story straight, I’d imagine. When did it happen? That Hunt Ball that I wouldn’t go to? Did you think that just because she was wearing a wig she wasn’t someone else’s girlfriend?’

  Roger’s face turned crimson.

  ‘I wouldn’t say so in front of Gabi, but I think you’ve behaved pretty shabbily,’ I raged on. ‘Nelson’s your best friend! What were you thinking? I hope you and Gabi are really serious about each other because—’

  ‘For the love of God, Melissa, what makes you think I’m going out with Gabi?’ roared Roger. ‘I’m not deaf! Or stupid!’

  We stared at each other. I didn’t know whether to be outraged on behalf of one best friend, or awash with relief for the other. Or both.

  ‘Well, we might have had a bite to eat in London after that ball affair,’ he conceded guiltily. ‘Took her to the Bluebird, you know. Cocktail or two. Three. She can certainly put them away, can’t she? Talk about hollow legs.’

  ‘So who is she seeing?’ I demanded. ‘Don’t deny it – I called her in a bar the other night, and she wasn’t on her own.’

  Roger looked furtive, which gave him the air of a bloodhound that had done something it shouldn’t, somewhere it shouldn’t have been in the first place. ‘I, ah, I . . . if she hasn’t told you, then . . .’

  I’m afraid to say I held my cappuccino threateningly over his trousers.

  ‘Aaron! She’s got back with Aaron,’ he yelped.

  Well, that made sense. Instead of the righteous anger I expected, I was surprised to feel a sudden warm glow of relief. I liked Aaron. He was funny, and sharp, and had the measure of Gabi. I hadn’t entirely understood why they’d called off their engagement in the first place. Gabi and Aaron went together like Marks and Spencer. Or Boodle and Dunthorne. Or Fortnum and Mason.

  Then I remembered Nelson’s part in all this, and my heart jolted with sympathy. Poor Nelson! He’d come all the way back from sea to find he was dumped, before he’d even had a chance to get the kettle on.

  ‘When did that happen?’ I wailed.

  ‘Oh, when Aaron called her to say that he’d decided not to carry on with the pathology degree, and go back to working in the City.’ Roger sniffed. ‘Apparently he sent her an entire car full of flowers, and got down on one knee and begged her to marry him.’

  ‘She never said!’

  ‘Well, she’s still thinking about it.’

  ‘Why did no one tell me?’ I stared out into the dock. ‘I can’t believe she didn’t tell me this.’

  ‘Um, she thought you’d go mad. What with her being with Nelson and all that.’

  ‘So she told you?’

  ‘Yes? And what’s wrong with that?’ he huffed.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, and felt a sad sort of happiness run through me, like the cold wind coming in off the sea. I tucked my warm jacket closer around me. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased I’d made a new friend.’ Roger sounded hurt. ‘Nelson’s always droning on about how nice it is having a good girl friend like you. And Gabi and I . . . we get on. I know you don’t approve, but I’m bloody glad she came to that do with me. Top night.’

  I put my arm through his and gave it a squeeze. That way I could show affection without having to look at whatever soppy face he was pulling. ‘I’m glad, Roger,’ I said. ‘I’m really glad.’

  As Nelson would have pointed out, there were strange and mysterious powers attached to the wig.

  Over by the commemorative anchor, Nelson and Gabi seemed to have finished their little chat and now they walked over to where Roger and I were sitting. He did not have his arm around her shoulders, and she was clinging onto her Paddington bag like a life-raft.

 
; I scanned Nelson’s face for signs of distress, but he just seemed tanned and cheerful, as usual. Gabi, in fact, looked more churned up than he did.

  ‘So,’ said Nelson, rubbing his hands, ‘who’s for a pub lunch?’

  ‘Is that it?’ I hissed, as Gabi and Roger led the way to the nearest pub. ‘It’s all over and you’re wondering whether you can get an organic steak and kidney pie?’

  Nelson hung back a bit so we were well out of earshot. Then he slung one arm around my shoulders, as he was wont to do. ‘Melissa, my darling child, there were many reasons for me going on that voyage. I mean, obviously I wanted to help some young people experience the joys of proper sailing—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘I think we can take the sainthood as read.’

  ‘And the flat did need tarting up. But . . .’ He paused, and turned to face me. ‘Promise you won’t go off on one?’

  ‘Of course I won’t!’

  He sighed. ‘Gabi is a great girl, and I know she’s your best mate, but God in heaven . . . She was driving me insane, Mel. I don’t know whether it was some kind of phase she was going through, but honestly, she wanted me to be this Mr Darcy figure and boss her around and tell her what to do. It was unnatural. I didn’t want to upset her, though, because I didn’t want to cause trouble between you two. It could have been rather awkward.’

  I stared at him, flabbergasted. Just how long had this ailing relationship been propped up, solely to spare my feelings?

  ‘So you ran off to sea instead?’ I said incredulously. ‘That’s very English of you. Was the Foreign Legion not recruiting?’

  ‘It seemed like the best thing to do.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I mean, it played into her Jane Austen phase for a bit, the whole waving the hanky at the docks bit, but I knew the longer she was in London on her own, the more likely she was to get back with Aaron.’

  ‘And now she has.’

  ‘And now she has,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it was just something she needed to do. Anyway, everyone’s happy. She gets her Audi TT back, Aaron gets his soulmate back, I get my sofa to myself, and—’

  ‘I get to share it with you,’ I ended dully.

  Nelson exhaled. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. Gabi mentioned—’

  ‘The flat’s lovely, though,’ I said, in a voice that was a little too high. ‘They put in all the plug sockets you asked for. And I’ve found you some new energy-saving light bulbs.’

  He said nothing, but put his arm round me, kissed me affectionately on the bobble hat, and we carried on walking. ‘You’re the only girl for me, Mel,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you whatever you want for supper, and I’ll even rub your disgusting feet.’

  Nelson might not have been much of a new man, but he knew how to make me feel better. And right now, my disgusting feet needed him more than ever.

  The third positive aspect of my return to London was that I was able to attend my mother’s private view.

  I know! I was pretty bewildered to hear about it too.

  I wouldn’t even have known it was happening, had Allegra not chosen to grace the office with her presence shortly after my return.

  ‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said, with scant interest, as she swanned in with two large Smythsons bags, and helped herself to a rum truffle from the huge box on the filing cabinet, sent as a thank you from a gratefully re-barbered client.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’ve been back for three days.’ I was in the middle of writing my etiquette column for South West Now!, specifically, a response to someone whose girlfriend had worse death breath than her cat. In my whirlwind of catching up, running the absent Allegra to earth had not been a priority. ‘What on earth have you bought from Smythsons? What have they got that comes in bags that big?’

  ‘I need guest books, for the private view.’

  I rubbed my eyes gently, so as not to smudge my winged eyeliner. ‘Allegra. You’re not meant to be organising private views, unless it’s for one of my clients. While Daddy’s . . . While I’m paying you to work here, you work for my clients.’

  I’d given up trying to disentangle my father’s Olympic scammery. Ignorance wasn’t just bliss, it was a whole legal defence.

  ‘It’s Mummy’s private view,’ she said disparagingly. ‘Anyway, she said to charge it to your agency. She’ll have her agent negotiate the fee later.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mummy is holding an exhibition,’ said Allegra im-patiently.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Oh, do stop saying “what”, Melissa. It makes you sound very thick. Her work, if you must know, has been snapped up by a London art agent, who specialises in modern sculpture. Here, look at this.’

  She dug about in her bag and thrust a thick laminated invitation at me.

  It featured a grotesque creature in shocking-pink mohair. It could have been a cat, or a unicorn, but it had five legs, two and a half heads and either a horn, or a very pointy ear in the middle of its forehead. Underneath were the details of Belinda Blennerhesket’s private view party, due to take place on 31 October.

  Hallowe’en. How appropriate.

  ‘Why’s she doing it under Granny’s maiden name?’ I asked. This was some way down my list of questions, but it was the one least likely to throw Allegra into a froth of artistic outrage.

  ‘She doesn’t want Daddy taking the publicity spotlight for himself,’ she replied. ‘And I say, good on her. It’s all her own work. Well, apart from the tenders she’s put out to the local WI. They’re rather confused, what with having to knit everything wrong and put in extra legs and so on, but if you ask me, Mummy’s shown herself to be very enterprising. Fast as she knits them, I’m selling them. And not as toys, either,’ she added snottily. ‘As Art.’

  ‘But how . . . ?’ The mind boggled at the thought of Mummy doctoring knitting patterns, then handing them out at WI meetings. Mummy, more to the point, the WI poster girl! I sank my elbows onto the desk and rested my fuddled head.

  Allegra smirked. ‘That child I sent the toys to? The one you went berserk about? Well, his mother runs a gallery in Cork Street, and she positively demanded to know where she could get more.’

  The smirk, already Daddy-like, increased as she said this, as if she’d known all along that the mother in question was connected to the art world’s most fashionable players. I wished I knew for sure that this was untrue, but I didn’t. Allegra was super-jammy like that. She didn’t dress like the devil’s handmaiden for nothing.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, that’s marvellous news. I can’t wait. What day is the 31st again?’

  ‘Oh, you want to come?’

  I stared at her. ‘Yes, Allegra. Since I was indirectly responsible for launching Mummy’s new career.’

  She raised her plucked eyebrows. ‘Well, I’ll have to see if I can get you on the guest list.’

  She was so getting a pay cut.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, as if she’d added telepathy to her list of spooky abilities, ‘I don’t need your job. I have a new one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m acting as a marketing consultant to some very exclusive Scandinavian cheese importers.’

  Allegra. Cheese. Importing. There were a lot of holes in those cheeses. I hoped she wasn’t planning to do anything funny with them.

  ‘Daddy negotiated it for me,’ she went on, which only added to my suspicion. ‘So between that and the gallery, I don’t know if I’ll have time to help you out any more.’ She paused. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘No, Allegra,’ I said, feeling the soothing rush of relief. ‘Thank you.’

  She swept out, snaffling another rum truffle, then paused at the door, and turned round with what I assumed was a sympathetic look. ‘Still no news from what’s-his-name?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Allegra made a moue with her red lips. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘All for the best,’ I said, and touch-typed fifteen lines of complete gibberish until she left.

  Then I had a tearful
moment, followed by four rum truffles in quick succession, and pulled myself together long enough to finish the article.

  Mummy’s private view was my first big social event since that awful last night in New York, and even getting ready for it opened up the festering wounds. I didn’t want to wear anything that reminded me of the fundraiser of doom at the Met, and, as a result, I was still standing, snivelling, in my girdle when Nelson banged on the door and demanded to know if I was weaving my outfit from scratch.

  All credit to him that he came into my room and virtually dressed me like a Barbie doll, in a not-at-all-awful outfit, while I moaned incoherently.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, buttoning up my circle skirt. ‘It’s Hallowe’en. Everyone will think you’ve come in costume.’

  ‘Cheers, Nelson.’

  ‘Can’t have you letting the side down, can we?’ Our gaze met in the mirror. Nelson’s blond brows knit in brotherly concern. ‘I think you made the right decision, Mel. You can’t live your life under someone else’s rules. Feminism and all that. And I’ll keep telling you so until you believe me.’

  ‘Suppose we’re both dumped now,’ I said morosely.

  ‘No,’ said Nelson, adding a jazzy scarf to my outfit. ‘I’m dumped. You’re the dumper. Big difference. Now, come on. Roger and Gabi say they’re coming round later to do ghost stories and apple bobbing. Never tell me again that you don’t have a rich and varied social life.’

  Autumn was well under way now, and we had to tramp through crisp fallen leaves to get to the bus stop. The coppers and golds and bronzes were like delicate little works of beaten metal against the mundane pavement slabs, but, like a very bad song, they only reminded me of Jonathan’s hair.

  I leaned my nose against the scratched glass of the bus window and sighed, making the window mist up. My mind seemed to think in terms of very bad song lyrics these days. I’d never get to feel his breath against my neck in the morning again. Never get to touch the pale gold hairs on his forearms, or trace the freckles on his back. Never hear his lecture about using Factor 40 sun cream to prevent sun damage . . .

  Nelson heard me sigh and gave me a half squeeze, half nudge.

  We were probably the only guests at the view who had come by public transport: the room was rammed with glittery bat-people in Allegra’s image, all smoking with their cigarettes at shoulder height, rubbing their noses and shrieking at their own jokes. I unwound my woolly scarf with some trepidation and handed it to the coat check girl, who looked at it as if I’d handed her a dead badger.