Nicky threw himself back on his seat. ‘Are you? Well, have a nice time. I’m going home to watch Coronation Street now, as per your instructions.’
‘Oh, Nicky – it’s not for ever.’ I was about to wave goodbye to Ray when I suddenly remembered something. Reaching into my pocket, I handed Nicky his phone. ‘Yours, I believe.’
‘Are you sure it’s not for ever?’ he carried on, his eyes not leaving mine as he turned his phone back on. It abruptly bleeped with a hundred and one messages. All from frantic women, no doubt, worried about his well-being.
‘Coronation Street,’ I said, wagging my finger, and left before I could be persuaded to join him.
To my surprise, Nelson wasn’t back from work when I let myself into the flat. But then I was back a good hour or so before I’d reckoned, so I took advantage of his absence to have a really long, deep bath, nearly emptying the hot-water tank in the process.
At half seven he broke through my daydreams of Nicky in ceremonial white tie, by bellowing, ‘Sorry I’m late! How was Bonnie Prince Smarmy?’
‘Fine!’ I yelled. ‘And don’t call him that. Where’ve you been?’
I heard him wander through the flat towards the bathroom. I knew what he’d be doing: checking through the mail I hadn’t bothered to look at, picking out the overdue bills and chucking away the catalogues.
‘Oh, just having a drink after work.’
‘With who?’
‘Whom.’
‘With whom, then?’ Was it me, or did he sound a bit furtive? I sat up with a splash.
‘With Leonie.’
‘Leonie?’
‘Yes, Leonie. Your friend, Leonie. Your friend with whom you were so keen to set me up, and with whom we’re going on a lugg-sury cruise in a few weeks’ time. Seriously, Mel – how many cashmere jumper catalogues does one woman need? I’m recycling all of this.’
I stared at my crimson toenails through the rapidly dissipating Jo Malone bubbles.
‘And did you . . . did you have a good time?’ I asked.
‘What? Yes, s’pose so. She’s very knowledgeable about tax laws, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s what she does, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’ Nelson’s attention was clearly elsewhere. I wondered if it was on my overdue Visa bill or on what Leonie had been wearing. No, that was unlikely. More probably, it was on what Leonie had told him about overseas blind trusts.
‘Want me to put the dinner on?’ he asked. ‘I see you’ve got those forms back from the solicitor’s – need any help going through it?’
‘Ooh, yes,’ I said. Thanks to Nelson’s patient advice and a cheque from Alexander, my office plans were starting to edge towards reality. Jonathan would be so impressed, I thought, then felt a pang of guilt. ‘I’ll be out in five minutes.’
‘Don’t rush,’ he said, moving away from the door. ‘You’ll need a good soak to get all the second-hand charm out of your hair.’
For want of anything smart enough to say, I deliberately ran some more hot water into the bath, just to annoy him.
13
The Worst Week of My Life actually started really well. The solicitors rang first thing to let me know that my offer had been accepted and I was able to call Peter, my landlord, and thank him for the good news.
‘I’m so glad, my dear,’ he told me. ‘I know you’ll be very happy there.’
‘I will,’ I promised him, delight bubbling through my veins. ‘I definitely will.’
I managed to hold myself back from ringing Jonathan immediately, so I could keep it as a special surprise that evening. I planned to slip the spare keys on his keyring when he wasn’t looking, then reveal all. It would make a lovely change – me giving him a set of spare keys for once.
But things started to go awry when he called me to check that I was on my way to Paris, as requested.
‘It’s impossible,’ I told him, looking at my diary. ‘I can leave at lunchtime, but there are some appointments I simply can’t cancel.’
‘If you were sick, you’d have to,’ he argued.
‘But I’m not sick. You just want me to come to some meetings, and I can’t, because I have meetings here.’
Jonathan said something in French that I didn’t understand, and then I realised he was talking to Solange.
‘I’ll be there this afternoon,’ I said, over the top of him. If he couldn’t be bothered to listen to me that was his problem. ‘If you want to make them evening appointments, we can do that, but I really can’t let these particular clients down.’
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he said, finally returning his attention to me. ‘I didn’t catch that.’
‘I’ll be at the Gare du Nord at four,’ I said briskly. ‘Call me if you arrange dinner discussions, otherwise I’ll look forward to us having that romantic night in that you keep promising me.’ And I hung up.
About five minutes later, Wesley Clayton-Phipps arrived, to discuss the ‘decent burial and memorial service’ for his mother’s beloved black Labrador, since she was too distressed to do it herself. It was her last link with her husband, who’d died ten years ago, and a more loyal companion to boot. I could sympathise with that.
An hour later, I helped Simon Howard draft a best man’s speech, as well as his own groom’s speech; I advised Lionel Gill on how to phrase his Soul Mates ad for the Guardian so as not to offend as many readers as last time; and instead of lunch, I went out to the latest cake shop on Gabi’s list, to enquire whether they could make a wedding cake featuring Aaron’s favourite cars round one tier, and sugar-craft shoes round another.
Gabi, of course, was disparaging about Jonathan’s bossiness, thrilled about my new property-owning status, and insanely curious about my day at the polo.
‘It was on LBC!’ she said. ‘I hear it was packed with celebs – I wish you’d learn how to use that camera on your phone, Mel. Something about a high-profile guest dismantling one bomb and the police accidentally detonating Zara Phillips’ iPod? They didn’t mention Nicky by name,’ she added. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good, I think,’ I said. We were eating sandwiches on a bench outside her office, and I didn’t want anything to do with Nicky broadcast.
‘So. Has he tried to snog you yet?’ she asked.
‘No!’
Gabi nudged me, with a naughty gleam in her eye. ‘But you want him to, right?’
‘No! I don’t! At all! He’s absolutely not my type and anyway . . .’ I stopped, before I protested too much. Gabi had eagle eyes for that sort of thing.
But she wasn’t concentrating. ‘I would,’ she said dreamily. ‘Aaron would understand. It’s a one-off, snogging a prince. Even a made-up one. Mind you, Nelson would be furious. He really can’t stand Nicolas, can he?’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘He drew a Venn diagram last night to prove how Orlando von Borsch, Hugh Grant and Nicky are one and the same person. Honestly, he’s being very off, if you ask me. He knows it’s a job. He knows I’m really only doing it for Granny.’ I sighed. ‘I know Nelson can be a bit fussy but it’s really not like him to be so childish.’
Gabi gave me a funny look. ‘You know it’s all just a big act to hide how he’s really feeling.’
‘In what way?’
She put her sandwich down carefully on the paper bag. ‘Well, think about it. He’s really going to miss you when you move to Paris. How long have you lived together?’
‘Nearly six years,’ I said.
‘Mel, I know three people who’ve got married and divorced in less time than that. Have you talked about it?’
I shook my head. ‘I did tell him about Jonathan’s September deadline, and he said something about getting a new flatmate in, but since then we haven’t really . . . you know.’
It wasn’t a subject either of us really wanted to bring up.
‘And Roger’s got Supermodel Zara to play with, and I’m getting married.’ Gabi readdressed her sandwich. ‘And you’re spending your last few months
in London being swept round town by a notorious playboy. No wonder he’s carrying on like a bear with a sore head.’
I blinked. That was a very good description of Nelson: a big brown bear, grumpy on the outside, but protective and gentle inside. With a pot of organic honey, and a warm cave he’d now have to share with a stranger. Who might not take care of him the way I had.
Unexpected tears pricked at my eyes and I was glad I had my sunglasses on.
‘So, yeah,’ said Gabi, not noticing, ‘be nice to Nelson, OK? He’s really . . .’ She paused, and looked at me. The cheeky gleam had gone from her eyes and she seemed almost serious – a condition I’d only ever seen her in during sample sales. ‘He’s a sweet man. You mean the world to him, you know.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I love him too. He’s the brother I’m glad I never had.’
Gabi opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. Then opened it again, then stopped again.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Not like you to hold back.’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, opening her can of Coke carefully, so as not to break the talon-like false nails she was ‘trialling’. ‘Just that I don’t think he sees you quite like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Get real,’ said Gabi, with a dur expression on her face. ‘Hasn’t it ever crossed your mind that most men don’t cook gourmet meals, administer hour-long foot massages, and fiddle the accounts of their flatmates? Or take it incredibly personally when the flatmate pretends to be a well-known womaniser’s girlfriend?’
I stared at her, my mind whirring. ‘No . . . No, I’m pretty sure Nelson doesn’t . . . No.’
‘Mel!’ Gabi rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she was having some kind of seizure. ‘Think about it. Jonathan’s fine with you dating this guy. In fact, he’d probably rifle through his address book for contacts while you had Nicky distracted. But Nelson – he spent the whole of that dinner looking as if he’d like to challenge Nicky to a duel. Face it! He’s in love with you!’
‘Gabi! Stop it!’ I put my hands over my ears. ‘God, I wish you hadn’t said that. It’s the kind of thing that could really ruin my last few months here.’
‘I’m just saying. I just want you to consider all your options before you commit.’ She peered at me. ‘You sure you don’t have some deep-down feelings for him? Hmm?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’ I folded my arms. Gabi had never really liked Jonathan. ‘Fond as I am of Nelson, I’m marrying Jonathan.’
Gabi balled up her sandwich bag and threw it into a nearby bin. ‘You’ve just got into the habit of seeing him like a flatmate, that’s all. I’d hate for you to suddenly see Nelson for the ideal man he really is the minute you move out and become Mrs Dr No. It’s my job as your best friend to say things you don’t want to hear. And no,’ she added, ‘you can’t sack me. Even when you’re in Paris.’
When she said that, it suddenly dawned on me how very different things were going to be, in just a few months’ time. With that, the sun went behind a cloud, and our lunch break was over.
Straight after, I rushed to Waterloo and boarded the Eurostar to Paris, determined to have a good weekend with Jonathan. I’d decided that instead of going out to some fabulous restaurant, as we usually did, we’d have a cosy evening in. Just sharing quiet time with someone was the biggest romantic compliment you could pay them, in my opinion.
But the first ghastly moment came practically the moment I set foot on the platform at the Gare du Nord.
I could tell something was up as soon as I hugged Jonathan and felt only tense muscles beneath his soft cotton shirt, instead of the yielding warmth of someone who was happy to hold me. He kissed me quite formally on the cheek, and grabbed my overnight bag off me without even joking about the weight of it.
‘Bonsoir, chéri!’ I said, trying to jolly him up. Maybe he’d just had a difficult meeting. Maybe Dean & Daniels had found out about his escape plans. ‘Tu sais, ce soir, je vachement voudrais rester chez nous et regarder un DVD romantique, et puis, nous coucher . . . tôt?’ I guessed. ‘What’s “have an early night” in French?’
‘Don’t,’ he snapped, slinging the bag over his shoulder, taking my hand and setting off towards the exit.
‘What?’
‘Don’t remind me how much you’ve got to learn about Paris.’
I stopped walking, stung. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He turned to face me, and glared. ‘I’ve just left Dom Scott. That list of clubs you gave me yesterday?’
‘Yes?’ I said, remembering Nicky’s telltale Gordon Ramsay bill more than the names themselves. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re all strip clubs. Or, alternatively, clubs where I’m reliably informed ladies take their clothes off for free.’
‘Oh,’ I managed to squeak. Damn. I knew I should have checked. But I’d been so busy. ‘Oh. I didn’t realise. I thought because Nicky lives in Paris he’d know . . .’ I ground to a halt as Jonathan’s face registered utter exasperation.
‘You asked Nicky? Jesus. Melissa, does he strike you as a reliable source? I mean, thank God I managed to cover up by pretending that it was the wrong list, that you’d been doing some research into a stag night for—’
‘Jonathan, stop!’ I faced him angrily. ‘I told you I didn’t know those sort of details about Paris! I told you! I’m going to learn, but you have to give me some time, and you just thrust this on me, at a moment when there was no way I could have explained. And I did my best, but you rushed me! You called me at the polo match!’
‘You had plenty of time to check it out.’
‘When?’ My knees were trembling with shock and fury. ‘When should I have checked them, in between getting them at the polo match, dealing with a situation there, getting home knackered, then being in work all morning today?’
‘You could have cancelled your appointments.’
‘I told you – I could not!’
‘You could have got onto the internet last night. You could have got up an hour earlier this morning. That’s what professionals do. They go the extra mile.’
‘You can be a professional and still have a life!’ I retorted, although he was succeeding in making me feel appropriately guilty for the beef Wellington and Midsomer Murders repeat I’d enjoyed with Nelson before turning in last night. Maybe I should have got up earlier, I thought guiltily. Jonathan made room for a jog before getting into the office for seven, after all. ‘Anyway,’ I added, as it occurred to me, ‘if you had time to find out they were strip clubs, surely you had time to find out what the appropriate alternatives were?’
Jonathan narrowed his eyes at me, and I swear it was like being back in my father’s study, facing my report card showdown again. ‘I wanted you to have a role. I guess it depends what you consider your top priority. Use your brain, Melissa! You should have known they’d be tacky, coming from that moron, Nicolas.’
‘Now that’s not fair,’ I said hotly, the glimpse of Not Quite as Bad as I’d Thought Nicky still fresh in my mind. ‘It’s probably my fault for not making it clear enough. He knows what kind of business I have, advising men, and maybe he assumed I needed ideas for that sort of single-man client. I’m sure he wouldn’t deliberately want to make me look stupid like that.’
‘Wouldn’t he? Why are you so sure about that? It’s not like he’s got any reason to take the rise out of the woman who’s been employed by his grandfather to “improve” him, is it?’ said Jonathan sarcastically. ‘You’re just too trusting, Melissa. You need to—’
‘Jonathan, for heaven’s sake!’ I exploded. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a baby. If I’ve made a fool of myself, then I’ll deal with it in my own way. I’ll speak to Nicky, and I’ll speak to Alexander, and I’ll find out where the right sort of club is for Dom bloody Scott. If it makes you happy!’
We were still standing on the platform, glaring furiously at each other. Tension crackled back and forth between us, and it wasn’t the good sort.
‘Do you want to start again?’ I asked, trying to force a smile onto my face. ‘Give me my bag back, go behind that pillar, and I’ll pretend you’re ten minutes late and I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Jonathan. He rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger, and his expression softened. He looked more like himself again, but the frown lines around his grey eyes were still there. ‘I hate yelling at you, Mel. I’m just super-stressed, getting everything off the ground. I want this to work for both our sakes.’
‘I know, darling,’ I said. ‘But calm down, will you? There’s no point us both getting so tense that we drive clients away, is there? They’re meant to be the stressed ones, not us.’
Jonathan pushed his hand through his coppery hair. ‘OK. I’ll go out and meet you again, right?’
‘Right.’
I watched him spin on his heel and stride down the platform. I sank onto a metal bench, my legs as wobbly as if I’d just run a marathon. This was how whole weekends could turn bad.
I took a deep breath, pulled a smile back onto my face, tried to wipe my mind clean, and stacked up a set of conversation topics like discs on an old record player.
But although we made a great acting job of him ‘finding’ me on the bench, and apologising for being late, it didn’t quite take away the surprisingly bitter taste of those first few moments. And we both knew Jonathan would never, ever have been ten minutes late for my train.
‘So,’ I said, swaying into the sitting room in my new silk lounge pants. They were sexy and comfy – a bit of a find, if you ask me. ‘Have you got any DVDs or shall we skip straight to the early night?’
Jonathan, I noticed, was still in his suit and on his BlackBerry. ‘Sorry, sweetie?’
‘I thought we could stay in tonight,’ I said, draping myself seductively along the sofa. ‘Watch a film, call out for a takeaway? Give each other foot rubs?’
‘Foot rubs?’ Jonathan pulled a funny, mock-revolted face. ‘I’m not letting you anywhere near my feet, not if I want to keep that ring on your finger. Anyway, I’ve got a table at L’Ambroisie for seven. I moved that meeting from this morning to dinner. Do you mind? You’ll love L’Ambroisie,’ he went on, going back to his BlackBerry. ‘It’s got incredible old tapestries and the food’s to die for, apparently. The waiting list’s insane – I still don’t know how Solange managed to snag us a table.’
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 22
