‘You don’t?’ Now I really was confused.
‘No. Not in the least. In fact, I think we need to think bigger. Expand. Get an office going in Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham. Wherever you’ve got single men, you’re going to need a Honey.’
‘But I’m working three days a week in London as it is,’ I said, baffled. ‘How can I spend time in Manchester as well? And, I mean, I sort of know Edinburgh a bit, and I’ve got a few friends up there, but it’s not like . . .’
Jonathan waved his hand in front of my face. ‘You don’t need to be there.’
‘But . . .’
He clicked his finger and pointed at me. It was a brusque, glib gesture from the old days that I hated, and now it filled me with dread. ‘You franchise!’
‘I what?’
‘You franchise. Interview Honeys – I mean, come on, you wear the wig, so it’s not like you’re actually Honey Blennerhesket. She’s just a persona. A work persona. Anyone could be Honey, so long as they were clever enough and practical enough.’ He winked. ‘And had good enough legs, right? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of contacts who could take over, or Gabi even – she’s a smart cookie. She made a decent job of covering for you when you came to New York last year – why not give her a break? Just think, your very own team of Honey Bs. Isn’t that a cute idea? It came to me on my run. Honey Bees – like Honey Blennerhesket?’
I stared over the stone bridge at the lamp-lit Square du Vert-Galant beneath us, jutting into the Seine like the green prow of a little boat. A couple were sitting right on the point, dangling their legs over the edge, their arms wrapped around each other, heads leaning on each other’s shoulder. Saying nothing.
Anyone could be Honey? Did he really think that?
Jonathan, meanwhile, was steaming on and on. ‘I’ve been looking into this for a while, to tell you the truth, and you know what? The more I’ve thought about it, the more perfect it gets as a solution. You keep your agency, and some financial independence, which I absolutely respect . . .’ He held up his hands at this point to show me how much he respected it. ‘But it’s not a good use of your time any more. So you come over here with me, while the Honey Bees keep bringing in the nectar back in London. And I’ve even found a backer for the franchise operation.’
I looked at him, unable to make sense of the tumbling emotions jostling about in my head. They were like sharp little stones, while the rest of me felt numb. What was it going to be like when we were working together, if we couldn’t even see eye to eye now? Jonathan – the man who’d fallen for the woman Honey had helped me become – thought the whole agency boiled down to a wig and a Harrods discount card. He thought I could sell off slices of my business like it was a sandwich-making operation. And he hadn’t even been there during the weeks it took me to undo the chaos after Gabi’s well-meaning spell in charge!
But I am Honey, the voice in my head kept wailing. She’s part of me. I can’t sell her off!
Then I realised the voice wasn’t in my head. It was coming out of my mouth.
Jonathan stroked my arm affectionately. ‘Don’t be silly, Melissa,’ he said. ‘I thought we went through all this? I always knew the real you was underneath that Honey front – the smart, responsible, caring you. Anyway, you want to know the best bit? I think you’ll like this – it’s very English and ironic.’
‘What?’ I choked.
‘Where do you think I found the backer for the franchise operation? The operation that’s going to create independent income, without you having to do a thing?’
A variety of awful options slid in front of my mind. Granny? Surely not. Roger? No. A client?
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered.
‘Your father!’ said Jonathan triumphantly. ‘Isn’t that perfect? He’s happy to sink his entire earnings from his Cheese Diet book into the start-up. We’re still talking terms, but I’m being really tough. You’ve got to love the irony of that. You set up the agency to earn back a few thousand pounds you owed him, and now he’s having to stump up the cash to make you a rich woman!’
All the blood drained from my face. I didn’t care whether Daddy was doing it as a money-making or money-laundering scheme – he never invested unless he knew he could make money or wanted to lose it. Either way, I’d still be the butt of his jokes.
Worse than that – much worse than that – Jonathan thought it was a good idea.
I got up from the bench and walked over to the edge of the bridge. I looked down at the Seine flowing underneath, with the reflected lamplight glimmering on the grey water, and felt everything slipping from under me, as though I was standing on a rug on a shiny floor. This wasn’t how I’d imagined things working out. Not at all.
Jonathan appeared by my side. ‘What’s the matter, Melissa? Have you got a problem with that?’
‘Please tell me this is a joke,’ I said. My voice wobbled on the ‘joke’.
Jonathan shrugged. ‘A joke? Why would I be joking? It’s a great idea – you don’t have to get so involved yourself, plus you stand to make a lot of money, especially if we develop the internet angle.’
‘You don’t think I’d . . . I’d have a problem with my father investing in a business I started to get away from him and his meddling in my life? And I want to be involved! It’s not up to you to decide to sell off something I’ve made! Especially not to him!’
We stared at each other furiously, until finally he twisted up his face in disgust.
‘Why, Melissa, does it always come back to your family? Every time? Am I being naive here? Should I just accept now that they’re always going to be there, in the background, screwing you up? I honestly thought you were over that.’
‘You can’t get over your family, Jonathan,’ I said bitterly. ‘They aren’t measles. Just because we’re in Paris doesn’t mean they’re going to vanish from my life. And how could they, if you let Daddy buy into my business?’
‘Because I thought it’d give you the upper hand! I thought that by us both uprooting ourselves to live in Paris, we’d be able to make a fresh start. Together,’ he said, half to himself, as he chopped the side of his hand down onto the bridge, over and over. ‘No Cindy, no families, no people reminding us how we met . . .’ He turned to glare at me. ‘No sharing you with two hundred idiots in London and the Home Counties. But you’re not going to move, are you? You never really wanted to come to Paris.’
‘That’s not true,’ I protested. ‘I do! I love you!’
‘Do you? Really?’
Jonathan’s cynical tone went through me like a knife. ‘Yes! It’s just that . . .’ I struggled for the right words. ‘You always seem to be asking me to choose between you and everything else in my life that isn’t you!’
‘I give up. I give up, Melissa. What do you want me to do?’ he demanded. ‘It’s like you’re constantly putting things before me – your family, your business, London. I flew across the world to be with you! I’ve worked out a business we can run together!’
‘I know!’ I flashed back. ‘But you won’t stay in for one evening and talk to me!’
Jonathan made a ‘What?’ face. ‘You’re complaining that I take you out too much? Seriously?’
I looked into his baffled eyes, and knew there was no point trying to explain. And that made me sad.
But at least we were talking about it, weren’t we?
I swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the lovely places we go to. But you’re so good at making quick decisions, and I’m . . . not. I need more time to think about important things.’
‘The business?’ He bit his lips. ‘Or me?’
I looked down at the river. ‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted.
Jonathan fiddled with his gold cufflinks. The vintage ones I’d found for his birthday. ‘Well, you need to learn to make some decisions, Melissa. Very soon. Or else I don’t see this situation changing in the next year, two years, five years. Come and live here with me now, right now, or don’t both
er. But let’s not waste time neither of us have.’
Although I was stunned, a hot thread of anger ran through me, that he could reduce such a life-changing decision to an either/or. It might be how he got buyers to make a gut decision on a house, but I hated being backed into a corner. I’d had enough of that growing up.
‘You want me to answer that now?’ I asked incredulously.
‘If you know what the answer is, why string me along?’ Jonathan’s voice was unnaturally cool, and I hoped it was to hide his own panic. ‘Or are you waiting for half the apartment?’
I gasped as if he’d hit me. That was uncalled-for. ‘I think you’re confusing me with your ex-wife,’ I said, trying to retain some dignity. ‘And I thought you knew that I’m not like her at all.’
Jonathan’s mouth made a ‘no’ shape and he looked ashamed. ‘Melissa, I’m sorry, that was very wrong, I didn’t mean to—’
I lifted my chin. ‘I don’t need half of your anything. And I wouldn’t sell my agency to strangers for the world. It’s not about the money. It never was. If you think that, then I wonder just what else you’ve got wrong about me.’
My voice started cracking. This was going so wrong if felt as if it was happening to someone else.
‘Listen, Melissa,’ Jonathan began, ‘I think you’re being far too emotional about this. Should we talk about this tomorrow? You’re tired, and . . .’
Something in me just snapped.
‘You’re right – I’m tired.’ I wrenched the diamond engagement ring off my finger. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘take this.’
‘What?’ Jonathan took a little step backwards.
‘You think money and . . . stuff are important to me? They’re not.’ I tried to push the ring into his jacket pocket. He hadn’t unpicked the stitching, so the jacket would hang better, so I had to shove the ring in his trouser pocket instead.
‘Are you breaking off our engagement?’
We stood on the Pont Neuf, as if time had frozen for a second. Jonathan looked as shocked as I felt. Tourists were gawping at us now, but I barely registered their curious looks.
What was I doing?
It’s not all about flying across the world and fancy dinners, said a calm voice in my head. It’s about how you’re going to live together after you stop being the girlfriend and start being the wife. When the music stops and the nights in start. If he ever lets you have a night in.
Cash, cars and credit cards.
I drew a shuddering breath. ‘I’m saying I need some time to think. I don’t want to let you down by not turning out to be the woman you thought you were marrying. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’ll . . . I’ll call you.’
Then I turned on my heel. If I didn’t get away now, I’d cry or apologise, and I knew I didn’t want to do either. I had no idea where I was going to go, but there was absolutely no way I could stay there on that romantic old bridge, with couples walking along hand in hand, blissfully happy when my heart was breaking. I couldn’t see through the tears stinging my eyes.
‘Where are you going?’ He caught at my bare arm.
‘Home!’ I said, pulling away from his strong fingers.
‘You can’t! You don’t know where anything is!’ he said, with a mixture of concern and exasperation. Unfortunately, I mainly heard the exasperation.
‘I’m not a child, Jonathan!’ I yelled, and stormed off, walking anywhere, as fast as I could, just to get away.
I took a left turn off the bridge, following the crowds of wandering tourists, tears blinding and stinging my eyes, with no real idea where I was going. I walked through a quiet square, then down streets – anywhere that Jonathan wouldn’t follow me.
Eventually, I stumbled to a halt in front of the massive facade of Notre-Dame cathedral, its pale stonework bathed in the silvery lights, picking out the delicate tracery. I sank down onto a bench and stared up at the towers, letting tears wash down my face as an unexpected stillness fell over me, and my heartbeat began to slow down. There was something very calming about the filigree windows, carved like lace out of the solid stone – it gave my racing brain something else to focus on.
I tried to take deep breaths, between my hiccups. The flowerbeds were planted with box, and the dark, green smell reminded me of my parents’ garden. Suddenly, I felt very, very lonely and very far from home.
What had I done?
After a second’s pause, I reached for my phone and dialled.
It rang eight times and for a horrendous moment, I thought maybe he wasn’t there.
‘Hello?’ said a familiar voice. ‘If you’re going to sell me something, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m not interested, thanks.’
The sound of Nelson’s matter-of-fact tone made me want to curl up and howl, and when I opened my mouth nothing came out but dry sobs. The anger I’d felt moments ago had evaporated, and now all I felt was an awful sadness.
‘Mel?’ he said, immediately concerned. ‘Are you OK?’
‘No,’ I managed. ‘I’ve had a ghastly row with Jonathan, and I . . .’
Nelson paused to let me get myself together, then said, ‘Whatever’s happened, it’s nothing that can’t be put right. What was it about this time? His ties?’
‘Worse than that!’ I said. ‘He’s franchised the agency to Daddy and more or less told me I have to move out to Paris now, or it’s all over!’
‘Oh. Right. I see,’ said Nelson. ‘That’s pretty off.’
‘Yes!’ I howled. ‘It’s very off! And I don’t know if I can . . .’
I couldn’t make myself say it. Not even to Nelson.
‘Where are you?’ he asked, practically.
I couldn’t hold back the tears any more. Misery was moving up my chest in a hard lump, and I knew a great gut-wrenching sob was moments away.
‘Notre-Dame,’ I gasped. ‘I can’t believe it’s real! I just want to press rewind and go back to the start of the evening! Nelson, what am I going to do?’
Nelson made unspecific sympathy noises. I knew he’d never really liked Jonathan, but he was too gentlemanly to get into that now, unlike Gabi, who would have let rip. Instead, he said, ‘Listen, Melissa, do you want to come home? I can . . .’
He was being cut off in bleeps. I had an incoming call.
‘Wait a second,’ I said, ‘this might be Jonathan.’
I juggled the phone buttons. ‘Hello?’
‘Melissa, it’s me,’ drawled Nicky. ‘I decided to pop over to Paris for the weekend and just wondered if you were around for a spot of Sunday lunch.’ It sounded like he was calling from a club from the loud music and the squeal of overexcited It Girls. ‘Might end up being more of a tea fixture because I’ve got plans for Saturday night, but you know, if you want to bring your fiancé along . . .’
That did it. I burst into tears.
‘Melissa? Are you all right?’
‘I don’t think I have a fiancé any more!’ I wailed. ‘We’ve just had a big row and it’s all your fault! Partly!’
‘Well, how flattering!’ he replied, and I could just picture the smooth expression on his face. I longed to punch someone right now, and he was a great choice. ‘I did wonder how long it’d take for me to . . . Melissa?’ he asked, dropping the drawl. ‘Are you crying?’
‘Of course I’m crying!’ I yelled. ‘I’m not like you – I have feelings!’
The background noise changed at the end of the phone, as if Nicky had walked outside. ‘Where are you right now?’ he said, in a more worried tone.
The fight abruptly went out of me. It wasn’t his fault. That business with the clubs had been more about Jonathan’s attitude than anything else. I didn’t have energy to waste on being angry, and I didn’t know anyone else in Paris. So I told him where I was.
‘Fine. Fine. I know exactly where you are. Walk over the Pont St Louis – there’s a nice little bistro two blocks down. It’s called Le Relais de l’Ile. Go in there, sit down, and order yourself a bottle of wine.’
‘And w
hat good’s that going to do?’ I demanded bitterly.
‘Well, you need a drink, and you can’t be alone at a time like this, can you? Take deep breaths, yes? Good. Now wait there.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m coming to get you.’
Somehow, being given instructions seemed to help focus my stunned brain and, without really knowing how I managed to get there, I was in the candlelit bistro staring at a bottle of house red while three intense men played noisy jazz in that peculiar French way. Then the full glass in front of me was empty, then the waiter must have topped it up, and then it was empty again. Then Nicky was sitting opposite me.
I knew that without looking up, because suddenly the tables around me had gone very quiet.
He slid a pair of sunglasses across the table. ‘Here, you’ll need these,’ he said.
‘So no one will recognise me with you?’ I suggested weakly.
‘No. Because you’ve got major mascara issues. It kind of suits you, though. Now, let’s get you somewhere more private.’ In a few deft movements, he got me to my feet, slapped a wodge of euros on the table, nodded to the barman, said something cheeky to a waitress and hustled me outside, where a shiny black Bentley was waiting.
I sank into the back of it, and felt the wine pressing down on my head. My brain was only processing one thought at a time.
How could Jonathan have gone behind my back like that? Was that what he and Daddy had been discussing in the study? Was that the reason he’d been so happy to spend the weekend at Romney Hall – was it just about making money?
It went absolutely against everything I’d ever believed about drinking your way out of problems, but for once all I wanted was to slide into absolute oblivion and worry about it later.
‘Here,’ said Nicky, reading my thoughts as we drove off. He shoved a silver hip flask at me, and I drained the contents, then handed it back to him.
He looked at me approvingly.
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 24
