‘Did I mention hidden talents?’ I asked. My tummy was quivering with the combined effort of holding it in, and noting that I hadn’t mentioned anything about an English girl, or polishing off meals, or dressing like a real woman either.
‘I’d want any girlfriend of mine to have hidden talents,’ explained Nicky, so intensely that he made me forget to breathe. ‘Especially if she was going to be my wife.’
I’m sorry to say I couldn’t stop myself. ‘And I suppose you have hidden talents to offer?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘Which are?’
‘Oh, they’re hidden.’ Without missing a beat, he signalled to the waiter for the bill, then returned his eyes to mine. ‘You’d have to find that out. Or, rather, whoever I dated would.’
Somehow, mindful of the lesson I was supposed to be giving him in not trying to get a lady into bed over dinner, I stopped myself from swooning on the spot. Instead, I pushed myself away from the table.
‘Thank you for a fabulous dinner,’ I said. ‘It’s been enchanting and instructive. And,’ I added, in more normal tones, ‘you have cheered me up. Really.’
‘Have I? Mission accomplished,’ he said, punching his PIN into the machine. ‘And you’ve given me a lot to think about too.’ He let me get out from the table. ‘I’ll be thinking about it all night.’
Ray was waiting outside with the Bentley and when he saw me he smiled and tipped his hat. ‘Good evening, miss?’ he said, opening the door for Nicky, who slid across the back seat to make room for me.
‘Lovely evening, thanks,’ I said, slipping into the car, keeping my knees neatly together in top finishing-school fashion, mainly for the benefit of the passing tourists, who stopped and stared at us, wondering if we were famous.
I had to admit, it was something one could get quite used to.
Nicky was quiet as we set off towards Victoria, but I didn’t mind savouring the unreality of the moment: the handsome prince next to me, the purring luxury car, the fashionable dinner. It was like being Cinderella – the moment I stepped into my flat and took off my wig, I’d be back to normal.
Or would I? How much of what Nicky had said tonight had been genuine? How much of what I’d said had been me and how much had been Honey’s mannerly instruction? We’d gone over an invisible line this evening and I wasn’t sure where it was. More to the point, I wasn’t sure if Nicky thought it was in the same place that I did. That was the trouble about his life. It didn’t seem to have the same reference points as mine.
Far too soon, Ray pulled up outside home, where he let the engine idle discreetly while we said our goodbyes.
I was suddenly gripped by the fear that maybe I’d been swept away more than Nicky, and that I too looked like one of the star-struck climbers who fawned over him in Boujis. OK, I might be enjoying a little escapism in my head, but the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was developing a crush on him.
‘Well, this is me,’ I said, probably a bit too cheerily. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Nicky, sliding across the back seat so I could feel his breath on my bare neck. ‘Can I cheer you up again soon? I think you need it.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, with one hand on the door. ‘Next week, we can tackle being safe in taxis.’
‘Next week? I hope not,’ he said, lowering his voice to an intimate murmur. ‘I was thinking . . . in the next day or two?’
Nicky’s eyes were almost black in the half-light, and full of suggestiveness. I gazed into them like a rabbit frozen in the headlights of an oncoming tractor.
‘Goodnight!’ I squeaked, just about managing to keep my voice normal.
‘Goodnight,’ echoed Nicky, and he leaned forward. He paused, his lips a tantalising breath away from my own, then, after a heart-stopping moment, he changed course and touched my cheek, brushing my cheek with his lips, but not gently – with a sort of reined-in, very grown-up passion. I felt his eyelashes flutter against my cheekbone and his skin, slightly rough but smooth at the same time, pressed close to mine. I could smell him: lemony cologne and champagne, and something musky and sexy and miles more dangerous than any man I’d ever kissed before.
He could have kissed me. He knew I knew he could have kissed me. But he hadn’t, and yet we were both left imagining what that unkissed kiss would have felt like.
He pulled away, to see what my reaction was, and in that second I managed to grab control of myself.
You can’t let him do this, barked a stern voice inside my head. You’re in no emotional state to do anything, and besides which, you’ve spent all night telling him how he needs to respect women. DUR!
‘Don’t kiss me!’ I heard my own voice gabble.
Nicky’s eyebrow hooked up in amused query. My heart melted again at the shadows falling onto his handsome face from the street lights around us, reminding me of the vulnerability he’d shown me earlier.
‘Don’t want you turning back into a frog!’ I explained goofily.
‘That’s not all princes,’ he reminded me.
‘Well, I know, but, um, I mean,’ I clutched at straws. ‘From a behaviour point of view it’s much better to . . .’
Nicky sighed. ‘Please don’t. I wouldn’t presume to kiss you anyway. Respect, and all that. I’ve learned much about nice girls tonight.’
‘Good,’ I said, opening the door and getting myself out before I said anything that might undo my previous hard work. ‘I’ll call you.’
He leaned out from the back seat. ‘I’ll be watching my phone.’
I let myself in with wobbly hands that scraped the key around the lock a few times before I could get it in. But when I climbed the stairs to find Nelson had gone out to see a film with Roger, leaving half a chicken pie in the oven and a gas bill on the table for me, it really did feel as if it were me who’d turned back into a frog, and not Nicky.
Even with Nicky doing his best to distract me, I couldn’t stop tormenting myself about Jonathan, and what I should do. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, even the most mundane paperwork, and in the end I realised I was doing exactly what I’d yelled at Jonathan for – working, instead of concentrating on our relationship. So I abandoned Freddie Curran’s wardrobe invoice, grabbed my big bag and headed for Green Park to think.
It was a fresh English summer afternoon, and the streets were busy with tourists clutching Buckingham Palace guidebooks and office workers hurrying back with Pret à Manger bags and coffee. I gave myself one lap of the paths to work things out, and set off with a determined stride.
I’d been given so much advice now that it was hard to separate what I truly felt from what everyone else thought I should feel, but two things kept coming back to me: Gabi was right when she said I could have had one tough conversation to make my feelings clear about the business, so why hadn’t I? What was I afraid of?
And Nelson was right when he said I needed someone I could relax with, and I knew I couldn’t with Jonathan. In the beginning, I thought he’d be less hyper once his personal life was happy, but now I realised stress was as much a part of Jonathan’s life as good manners were of mine.
But we’d met so perfectly! I argued. Surely a relationship that had started in such a romantic way deserved to be given every chance?
I stared at the trees and the overflowing litter bins. What was more important here? The relationship – or me and Jonathan?
The truth was, I realised sorrowfully, that Jonathan and I were more in love with the idea of each other than the reality. Romantic though the ideas of each other were, I couldn’t ignore the fact that he was a cool businessman, ten years older than me, who’d never understand the mesh of my family loyalties. And he couldn’t keep trying to make me into a soignée, driven businesswoman. It was fine for dating, but neither of us could keep that up over an entire marriage. Not unless we had two houses and permanently clashing diaries, and that wasn’t what I wanted.
But hadn’t my parents managed to stay toge
ther, despite being so different and so argumentative?
Desperate for one last shot of advice from someone who actually liked Jonathan, I did the unthinkable: I rang my mother.
From the background noise, she seemed to be in the middle of some industrial process. ‘Hello? Melissa? You’ll have to shout, I’m having my hair done!’
It wasn’t ideal, but needs must.
‘Mummy, I know this sounds weird, but . . .’ I bit my lip. ‘Are you and Daddy happy? I mean, together?’
‘Darling, I’ve been telling you for the last twenty years,’ she bellowed over the dryer, ‘your father and I are not getting divorced. It would cost a fortune!’
‘But . . .’
‘Is this about Jonathan?’ yelled Mummy. Like Granny, she could be very shrewd when she wanted.
‘Yes,’ I said, hugging my bag.
‘Trouble?’
I paused, cringing at what the woman in the next chair must be thinking. ‘Yes.’
‘Darling, could you turn that off?’ I jumped, thinking she was talking to me, but the loud whirring stopped. ‘Thank you. Tell Mario I’ll just be a moment. Now, Melissa,’ she went on, only slightly less loudly, ‘I’ll say to you what I said to Emery and Allegra when they got engaged. I know your father and I don’t have the most conventional marriage. But it works because we know the absolute worst and best about each other. Sometimes he’s utterly vile. Sometimes, though, he’s charm personified. But he’s always himself. And so am I. That’s the secret of happy marriages, in my opinion. It’s like waxing your moustache – once you’ve pretended to be something you’re not, you’ll be doing it for the rest of your life.’
I was still blenching at the thought of Daddy being charm personified.
‘Oh,’ she added, as an afterthought, ‘and always check the laundry basket for rogue underwear.’
‘Thank you,’ I said weakly.
‘I hope everything’s OK, darling?’ Mummy went on. ‘You know how much we like Jonathan.’
‘I know.’ That was part of the problem: he was the first boyfriend I’d had that they hadn’t actively repelled.
I reminded myself that my father liked him so much he’d bought the company. Or tried to.
‘Are you coming to see us soon?’ Mummy asked hopefully. ‘I know Emery would love to see you. She’s having trouble with Nanny Ag, I’m afraid. Bit of a personality clash, I think, and then there’s the christening . . .’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. My mind was about two hundred miles elsewhere. ‘Soon. Mummy, I have to go. I have to book a train ticket.’
To Paris.
I hurried back past the white houses of Belgravia to the office, stiffening my resolve with every click of my heels on the pavement. But when I shoved open the door to the office, I took an involuntary step backwards. My desk was surrounded by dozens and dozens and dozens of velvety red roses, and standing in the middle of them all was Jonathan.
18
‘Hello,’ he said, pushing a hand into his red hair. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t wait until the whole week was up. Do you mind?’
I struggled to breathe normally, and not just because I’d run up two flights of stairs.
This huge romantic gesture was so typical of Jonathan – the roses, the surprise appearance, the flying-to-win-me-back – but suddenly I felt annoyed rather than overwhelmed, as if he’d wrong-footed me here in my own office. I didn’t want grandstanding gestures. I wanted a proper talk. The proper talk we should have had ages ago.
‘No. Of course not. Can I get you a drink?’ I said involuntarily.
Jonathan looked surprised. ‘What? Oh, OK. A coffee would be nice.’
I turned on the coffee machine and tried to steady my thoughts. I couldn’t help aching at how gorgeous Jonathan looked, leaning against my desk with his suit hanging perfectly, and his hair freshly trimmed. I wished I’d washed my hair that morning.
‘If I’d known you were coming I’d have tidied up,’ I said lightly. ‘The office, and myself.’
‘Both look just as cute as ever,’ he said, running his gaze around the room. ‘Makes me feel quite nostalgic, coming in here, catching you on the hop.’ He directed his grey eyes towards me. ‘Although it’s all changed since then, of course.’
‘Well, yes and no.’ I squirmed. ‘Look, sit down.’
Jonathan raised an eyebrow and shifted a pile of paperwork off the chair. It included Gabi’s paintcharts and wallpaper samples. ‘You’re planning on decorating?’ he asked, holding one aloft.
I nodded.
‘Call me Sherlock Holmes, but that doesn’t seem like something you’d do if you were about to move to Paris,’ he observed.
‘It’s what I’d do as a business owner,’ I replied, putting out a cup and saucer for him. ‘It’s nice to freshen the place up.’
‘Shall we cut to the chase, Melissa?’ he said, and pulled my hand, so I was suddenly sitting on his knee, close enough to feel his warm skin through the fine cotton of his shirt. ‘I’ve missed you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I have to say to you to get things back on track, but just tell me, and I’ll say it.’
As his arms tightened round me, my heart lurched in my chest, as if he’d pulled it towards him on a string. How churlish was I being, for God’s sake? Here was a man who was more romantic and independent and . . . more ideal than anyone I’d ever met – and he loved me! What was I waiting for?
And yet, deep down, I knew something was missing, and it just wasn’t fair to keep ignoring it.
‘Say you’ll come back with me,’ said Jonathan softly, raising my hand to his lips as he looked up into my eyes. ‘Please? I got you a ticket. First class. Let’s start again, from the beginning.’
I looked back at him and though I felt my heart breaking, that was the problem in a nutshell: did he think two hundred roses and a first-class single were enough to brush all the unspoken problems out of the way? Was I that easy to manage?
‘Jonathan, it’s really hard for me to say this—’ I began, but he interrupted me.
‘If it’s about the business, then I’m prepared to work something—’
‘It’s not about the business,’ I said firmly, and he stopped. ‘It’s us.’
‘Ah,’ he said instead, visibly bracing himself. ‘OK, out with it.’
I cupped Jonathan’s strong jaw in my hand, feeling the first prickles of ginger stubble against my palm. A lump was making its way into my throat and I knew it wouldn’t be long before tears followed. It was like being right at the top of a log flume, knowing the plunge was ahead, and inescapable.
‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else but you since the weekend. And about me, and about our future.’
‘Me too,’ said Jonathan.
‘But . . .’ I summoned up all my inner courage. ‘I just can’t see what that future is. I mean, I can picture us going out to dinner, and holding posh drinks parties, and even strolling round the Place des Vosges with a Bugaboo, but I just can’t see the dull everyday stuff.’
‘And that’s important to you? Dull stuff?’ His voice wasn’t cross, just confused.
‘Yes!’ I stroked the arm that was holding me on his knee.
‘Dull stuff . . . Can you be more specific?’
I racked my brains for examples. ‘Like reading the Sunday papers with a hangover, or getting messy painting the nursery. Relaxing. Not talking. Not having to try so hard to be what each other wants.’ I paused, trying to find the right words; words that would let him see it wasn’t his fault, or mine. ‘It’s been like starring in a film, being with you, Jonathan. A film where London is gorgeous and everything sparkles, and I feel a million dollars. But the thing is, my life’s more like a sitcom. Low budget. Ad breaks. I need that vegging out in front of the television time that you hate. You’re in love with a part of me, but I can’t be like that all the time. I’d end up a nervous wreck, and you’d end up disappointed, I know. I can’t bear the thought of that, when it
’s been so wonderful up to now – I’d rather end things while those memories are still perfect. I’m so sorry, Jonathan.’
‘No. God, Melissa. Please don’t give me all that Honey crap again,’ he groaned.
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ I insisted. He really wasn’t getting this. ‘I’m always Melissa, but that efficient side of me you think is so great and effortless? That’s work. I love it, but it’s my job. You want someone who’ll power through your social calendar as hard as she’ll drive your business – that’s not me. Just like I can’t force you to enjoy country walks and drooly dogs.’ I tried a sad smile. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. It’s selfish, I know, but I love you too much to let you be disappointed again.’
‘How long have you been thinking this?’ he asked, hurt. ‘Without telling me?’
‘I’ve tried not to think about it,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t really want to do it now, but I can’t not.’
‘Is there . . . someone else?’ he asked, and his face was so tight with pain he might as well have said ‘Like Cindy?’
I shook my head. ‘No, Jonathan, there’s no one else, I promise you.’
‘And it’s not just to do with that franchising business?’
I hesitated, knowing I owed it to him to be truthful. ‘That . . . that wasn’t something I was happy about. But it was more of a sign that things weren’t going to work out.’
He took my hand and kissed it again, resting his lips tenderly on each knuckle. There was a painful silence as we both digested what I’d said. I felt sick, but strangely calm.
‘I appreciate you being honest with me,’ he said, at last. ‘I’ve always loved that about you – you’re so . . . honourable. I know I’m not so great at big emotional moments. I guess that’s the problem. But you know I love you, right? Like I’ve never loved anyone else.’
He looked up at me, and his eyes, normally so cool and amused, were filled with a pleading expression I didn’t recognise. And tears. It tore at my heart to hurt him like this. ‘There’s really nothing I can say?’
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 29
