‘Neither do I!’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s for Nelson’s charity. I promise you it’s less than likely to get out of hand in any way, shape or form.’
‘You’re a friend in need to Nelson,’ said Jonathan drily. ‘And your granny. And this Nicky. But soon it’ll be just you and me, right?’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘Now,’ said Jonathan in a much less brisk tone, ‘tell me about those pyjamas . . .’
8
On Wednesday afternoon, I rushed home from a tricky wardrobe consultation (Freddie Markham: allergic to all known fabrics, apart from bri-nylon and Kevlar) to get changed myself before Alexander’s driver arrived at seven o’clock to collect me.
Nelson had already left. He loved the hysterical hours before a big event. If he could have run the dinner with a series of whistles and commands, he would have done. Araminta was probably lining up right now to have her clipboards inspected, I mused, as I squeezed myself into my outfit for the evening: a crimson satin cocktail dress with a full skirt and a laced back that held me in to the point where more than two drinks was a complete no-no.
The exertion of doing up the lacing made me pant, but the effect it had was worth it – the resulting cushion of milky-white cleavage was one that Marie Antoinette would have been proud of. I slipped on the matching red stilettos, and fixed the pearl earrings Jonathan had given me for Christmas, then paused before the final part of the outfit.
My blonde Honey wig.
The first time I pinned up my hair and slipped it on I’d felt so glamorous, and special, and free of all the hang-ups and family-inspired paranoias I’d dragged around for years. Falling for Jonathan, and knowing he’d fallen for the boring Melissa under the wig, had removed some of those hang-ups, but, secretly, I still preferred the way I looked when I was spotlit by that halo of blondeness.
Plus, the wig wasn’t just about the hair. It was about letting out something else – a borrowed sass that I needed as self-defence from someone like Nicky. I hesitated for a brief second, then carried on. If you were going to fight fire with fire, you might as well make sure you had a big old flame-thrower.
I slipped the wig onto my head and tugged it into place, deliberately not looking until it was sitting in exactly the right spot.
Then, holding my breath, I let my eyes lift to see my reflection in the mirror.
Wow.
My eyes sparkled, my skin took on a pale golden glow, and a long, slow smile spread across my face as my whole body seemed to elongate then settle back into a confident curve, filling out the dress.
Usually, I didn’t spend much time looking at myself, preferring to ignore all the lumps and bumps as best I could, but as I applied my make-up, my face seemed to come to life. Darker eyeliner, flicked at the sides, brought out the gold flecks in my brown eyes. Deep red lipstick, the same scarlet as my dress, made me notice how full my lower lip was.
Standing back to see the whole effect, I was so pleased that I smiled at myself. What with work, and moving, and generally getting used to living with Jonathan, it was ages since I’d looked this nice.
But before I could preen any further, there was a ring at the door.
I grabbed my coat and bag, and when I opened the door, a grey-haired man in full green-and-gold livery was standing there, peaked cap and everything.
‘Miss Romney-Jones?’ he asked, holding out his hand to take my coat.
We descended the stairs rather awkwardly – I got the feeling he wasn’t used to collecting people from first-floor flat conversions – and he directed me to a rather lovely old Bentley, which he’d parked in the middle of the road, blocking the way imperiously until I was ready.
‘Are we going straight to the dinner?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid we have to collect Prince Nicolas from his apartment first, madam,’ said the driver.
‘Oh, good!’ At least I’d know he would be turning up, in that case. ‘I hope he’s ready!’ I joked.
There was a discreet silence from the front seat.
Once we’d got underway and I’d broken the ice a bit with some compliments about his terrific sense of direction, he became much less formal, and revealed that his name was Ray, he’d worked for Alexander for thirty-seven years ‘man and boy’, and that his least favourite task was collecting ‘that lad’ from various nightclubs.
‘Some nights I wait until four,’ he grumbled, ‘then he comes out, covered in God knows what, pardon my French, ma’am, usually with a dolly bird or two . . .’ He stopped suddenly, and I could see in the mirror that he was looking stricken.
I don’t know what it was, but people often told me the most personal things, even without my having to probe.
‘Oh, Ray! Don’t worry,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m not Nicolas’s date, not that way! I’m just . . . accompanying him. My grandmother is an old family friend. Dilys Blennerhesket?’
A broad smile swept away the tension lines. ‘Yes, well, I’d have known that anyway from the family resemblance, ma’am!’
‘Really?’ I beamed. ‘Thank you!’
‘You’re her dead spit! Oh, now she’s a proper lady. One of the old school, if you’ll permit me to say so. And,’ he winked, ‘I’m not the only one with a high opinion of her.’
‘I adore her,’ I agreed. ‘She’s the most charming person I know.’
Ray looked like he was about to say something else, then changed his mind, as his face gloomed up again. ‘Now, if Prince Nicolas could find a lady like your grandmother, I’m sure Prince Alexander would sleep easier at night.’
‘Mmm,’ I agreed as non-controversially as I could. ‘How near are we to his flat? Perhaps I should call to make sure he’s ready.’
Nicky ignored three calls, but as we were pulling up outside a house in Eaton Square, he finally condescended to answer.
‘If he tells you he’s not in, ignore him, ma’am,’ muttered Ray. ‘My colleague Jim dropped him off from the airport an hour ago. Overnight bag, dolly bird and all.’
‘Nicolas, it’s Melissa,’ I said. ‘We’re outside your house. Are you ready?’
‘Oh, no!’ he gasped. ‘I completely forgot! Melissa, you won’t believe this, but I’m actually in Hydra on a boat with some—’
‘I know you’re at home,’ I said firmly. ‘I can see you.’
That last bit was a trick I’d learned from work. Amazingly, it never failed, even with men significantly brighter than Nicolas.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. ‘But . . . I’m naked!’ he said. ‘How much can you see?’
I decided to let that go. ‘We’re outside,’ I went on, ‘so if you could put your dinner jacket on and come down here in five minutes . . . ?’
‘Or?’
I tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. It felt quite odd, having hair that tickled my shoulders again. ‘Don’t make me call your grandfather.’
He hung up.
A mere seven minutes later, the other rear door opened, and Nicky slid in, his hair still damp from the shower.
‘Jesus!’ he said, rearing back theatrically when he saw me. ‘Why, Miss Jones, when you take off your glasses . . . you’re beautiful!’
‘Thank you,’ I said. It was hard not to turn a little pink under such intense scrutiny, and such deep brown eyes, but I was trying very hard to be cool. Honey, I knew, would be cool about this sort of attention.
‘Do you always wear wigs for dates?’ he asked, looking me up and down with his unsettlingly direct gaze. He stopped assessing and winked. ‘Is it, like, your little kinky thing?’
‘Of course not. It’s better if no one knows who I am.’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t recognise you. What did you do with Mary Poppins?’
‘She’s still here,’ I said, shifting over slightly to avoid his widespread knees. ‘Underneath.’
Nicky gave me his most Sloane-seducing gaze. ‘Are you going to let me look underneath and check?’
‘N
o,’ I said, as Ray set off towards the Hilton.
We drove round Sloane Square and Nicolas used the centrifugal force as an excuse to spread his legs further apart.
I shifted nearer the window.
He started to stretch his arm along the seat back and I twisted myself to lean against the door, out of reach. The bones in my dress dug into my ribs, but I forced a smile onto my face. He might be skilled at making passes in taxis but I was equally well-schooled in avoiding them. I hoped this was where lesson one started: teaching him that not every girl put out under duress.
‘You’ll rip your trousers if you’re not careful,’ I observed.
He arched an eyebrow at me in response, and when I refused to rise to it, he said, ‘So, if you’re in disguise this evening, what am I meant to call you?’
I hesitated.
‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘people are going to want to know who I’m with. They do that,’ he added helpfully. ‘There’ll be someone there to take names.’
‘I know,’ I said. Honestly, did he think I hadn’t been to a gazillion charity dinners thrown by my own mother alone? ‘Don’t call me Melissa. Call me . . .’
It was the logical thing to do. But it was also asking for trouble.
‘Call me Honey,’ I said. ‘Honey Blennerhesket.’
I must confess that it was rather fabulous to arrive at a hotel and have a liveried driver leap out, run round, and open the door for me.
Nicky flounced straight inside, but I stopped to say thank you to Ray.
‘Any trouble, give me a call,’ he said, slipping me his card.
As I hurried through the foyer, anxious not to leave Nicky alone for too long, I couldn’t help glancing into the mirrors and reflective surfaces as I passed, and each time was quite startled by the confident blonde glancing flirtatiously back.
Startled in a good way, though.
I reached the cordoned-off area where people were drinking blue cocktails, and scanned the crowd. Gabi and Aaron were standing right next to a massive anchor-shaped vodka luge, to which Gabi kept pointing excitedly and from which Aaron kept topping up his glass. Of the three outfits she’d bought at Selfridges, Gabi had opted for the very small gold halter-neck dress and matching Gina sandals, and had forced Aaron into his black tie.
Aaron Jacobs was a futures trader in the City. He worked fifteen-hour days, earned more money than he had time to spend and adored Gabi, in much the same way that a crocodile loves the little bird that perches on his snout and picks bits out of his teeth.
Aaron had never seen me in my wig and so didn’t recognise me when I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘Gabi, seriously, I have no idea . . .’ he started, turning white underneath his tan.
‘It’s Mel, you plank,’ she said, swatting him with her teeny evening bag. ‘Ooh, you look nice,’ she added, turning to me. ‘Is that from your prince-managing dress allowance?’
‘No, it’s my own, this time. Any sign of Nicolas?’ I asked, checking the crowd. ‘We came together but he legged it inside and I can’t see him.’
‘No, but your friend Leonie’s already here,’ said Gabi. ‘Nelson did that whole “Ah, hello, you must be Leonie” routine, and the pair of them went off to check that the raffle sales girls understood exactly what they were doing with the credit card machines and could balance the float.’
So they were bonding already over financial details. ‘Excellent!’ I said. ‘And Roger? You know he’s bringing this mysterious new girlfriend of his?’
Gabi shook her head. ‘No sign. I can’t wait to meet Zara. What do you reckon? Short and so posh she’s her own half-cousin? Or fat and grateful?’
‘She’s a model,’ I reminded her.
‘So Roger says,’ she sniffed. ‘How many models has he met? She could be a hand model for H. Samuel for all he knows.’
‘How about tall and gorgeous?’ suggested Aaron.
Gabi and I both snorted with sarcastic amusement.
‘No, baby,’ said Gabi. ‘Blind and gorgeous, maybe.’
Aaron said nothing, but carried on staring over our shoulders with such intensity we were compelled to turn round.
Moving slowly through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea to let them through, came Roger, miraculously shaved and coiffed but still sporting his father’s moth-eaten old dinner jacket, thank God. On his arm, and getting all the attention, was a tawny-blonde gazelle-woman in a dress even smaller than Gabi’s. And since she was getting on for six foot, compared with Gabi’s five foot one, there was a lot more of her to cover.
‘Noooo,’ breathed Gabi.
‘Yessss,’ breathed Aaron, and got another swat for his trouble.
‘Roger!’ I said, since he was now in earshot. ‘Don’t you look marvellous! And you must be Zara!’ I extended my hand towards her. ‘What a beautiful dress!’
Her huge brown eyes went panicky, then she smiled hopefully at me, said, ‘Please!’ and she shook my hand, hard.
‘Zara’s Uzbekistani,’ said Roger. ‘She doesn’t speak much English, I’m afraid.’
‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Aaron. ‘I mean, I bet she, er, makes herself understood well enough.’
‘Aaron,’ snapped Gabi.
‘Zara, this is my friend Melissa,’ Roger said, pointing to me and speaking very slowly. ‘And Gabi, and Aaron.’ He reached into his dinner jacket, took out a tiny dictionary, and proceeded to hack up phlegm in her direction, which elicited a shy nod.
‘Challo,’ said Zara carefully. When she smiled, she looked like a baby giraffe, with her big eyes, and her ludicrously long arms and legs.
‘Hello!’ we all cried, too enthusiastically.
‘And I’m Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg,’ smarmed a voice from behind my shoulder. ‘Hello.’
‘Chall-o,’ replied Zara, her eyes glazing.
The word ‘prince’ seemed to have leaped over the language barrier easily enough.
Nicky’s arrival sent a little electric current through everyone. I could see Gabi positively quivering with excitement, and after a second or two of hot glances passing between Nicky and Zara, she couldn’t hold herself back any longer. ‘Hello, your highness,’ she said, sticking out her hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Gabi. Melissa’s friend.’
Without missing a beat, Nicky took her fingers, pressed them to his lips and said, ‘Lovely to meet you, Gabi.’
At this point Gabi nearly passed out with joy and even I had to admit I was impressed. Only Roger looked a bit sick.
‘She’s told me all about you,’ she said, nodding towards me.
‘Well, I hope she hasn’t told you anything about me,’ he drawled back, in a way that suggested he hoped very much everyone had been talking about him, for hours at least.
‘No!’ squeaked Gabi. Honestly, her voice had gone up a whole octave. I gave her a ‘Stop it!’ look. Nicky wasn’t that famous. How was I going to bring him down a peg or two if every woman he met acted like he was the most thrilling thing they’d seen since the first day of the Harvey Nicks’ sale?
Roger was casting despairing looks towards Zara, trying to catch her eye, but she was as star-struck by Nicky as Gabi was. I gave him a gentle nudge, but he only turned to me with a glum expression.
‘Come on, Rog,’ I hissed. ‘Say something to her!’
‘Like what?’ he hissed back, as Nicky admired Zara’s necklace rather too closely.
‘Like . . . Shall we go through to dinner, darling?’
I noticed for the first time that Nicolas hadn’t finished dressing properly in his rush to leave the flat. His shirt was open at the neck, with the tie undone, and his jacket hung open to show off the gaudy orange lining. His tan was honey-bronze against the whiteness of the dress shirt, and I could see a fine gold chain like a gossamer thread glittering in the dark hairs. Even as I was noting how tacky that was, a different part of my brain couldn’t help melting at the exact same tackiness. He was the magazine illustration of ‘playboy prince’
and suddenly, in a social arena, he seemed more seductive than ever. He even smelled glamorous.
As he winked at Zara and Gabi’s forehead creased in combined disapproval and lust, I battened down the rising tide of nerves that seemed to have bubbled up in me. If Roger wasn’t going to step in and tackle this shameless routine, I would.
First thing, Mel, don’t let him see you’re nervous, I told myself.
‘Would you like some help with your bow tie?’ I asked politely. ‘It’s customary to start the evening with them done up.’
‘Are you angling to do it for me?’ he replied, with a lazy wink. ‘You don’t have to make excuses to get up close and personal, you know, Honey. Just say the word.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, tingling slightly at the suggestive way he’d said ‘Honey’. ‘I thought perhaps you might be more used to the ready-tied type.’
Without letting his eyes move from mine, Nicolas grabbed the ends of the tie and knotted it into a perfect bow in a few swift movements.
‘I’ve done it a lot,’ he explained patronisingly. ‘Over the years.’
I wished I wasn’t impressed by that awful sort of showing-off, but I couldn’t help it: I was.
Not that I intended to let him see. ‘I see you’ve introduced yourself to the girls in our party but have you met Roger Trumpet?’ I asked coolly. ‘Zara’s boyfriend. And this is Aaron Jacobs, Gabi’s fiancé.’
‘I’m sure we’re all going to get on like a house on fire,’ he said, looking exclusively at Zara.
‘She’s Uzbekistani,’ explained Roger. ‘So talk slowly.’
Nicolas threw his hands in the air. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ he cried, and rattled off a lot of what I took to be Uzbekistani. I didn’t get to see Zara’s reaction, though I heard some tinkly laughter, because by then Nicolas had swept her off into the dining room, one hand moving dangerously close to her tiny model-like bottom.
Roger, Gabi, Aaron and I were left staring at each other.
‘Go on, Roger!’ I urged. ‘After him!’
‘What’s the point?’ he moaned, slumping against a pillar as if he’d just been mugged. ‘Do you know how long it took me to learn “you look nice” in Uzbekistani? Might as well just go home now.’
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 13
