‘Can’t I stay and watch you be bossy?’ he pleaded, lounging on the leather sofa, one long leg swung over the arm. ‘It’s so sexy.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘and no. Out.’
‘Fine.’ He got to his feet and I pretended to be checking some files on the shelf.
‘Enjoy the afternoon,’ I said absently. ‘Buy a copy of Yachting World or something.’
‘I’d rather do the something.’ Seeing I wasn’t going to be drawn further, he sloped towards the door, but then suddenly turned back. ‘Present for you.’
And he chucked a paper bag on the desk, with the Tate Britain logo on the front.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘So you were at an art gallery this morning. I believe you! I’m glad you’re listening to some of what I say!’
He paused at the door. ‘I listen to everything you say, Melissa,’ he said, blinking slowly at me, so I got the full benefit of his long dark lashes. ‘Everything. Little presents, right?’
And he left.
When I was sure he’d gone, I tipped the postcards out onto my desk, and my heart beat faster in my chest. Every single one featured beautiful portraits of women – by Rosetti, Singer Sargent, Millais – but all with long brown hair, and brown eyes, and generous hips like cellos. Like mine.
I sank into my chair and fanned myself with them.
Honestly, I’d never had a more flattering fiver spent on me before.
20
I was usually pretty confident about what suited me and when to wear it, but packing for a weekend on a motor yacht with two princes, my flatmate, my grandmother and some paparazzi – in a heatwave? I was gripped with indecision.
‘Nelson, what am I supposed to wear?’ I wailed, staring at the explosion of clothes on my bed. ‘None of this looks right.’
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ he said, trying to find somewhere to put down the cup of tea he’d brought me. ‘You’re probably better off watching UKTV Gold until an old Agatha Christie film comes on. They usually have questionable princes wafting around in patent-leather shoes too, come to think of it.’
I ignored that.
‘What about this?’ I held up my least restrictive cocktail dress.
‘It’s a cocktail dress.’ Nelson scratched his ear. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘I’m not going to be scrubbing the decks,’ I snapped.
‘Well, presumably you’re not going to be manning the roulette wheel, either. OK, OK,’ he added hastily. ‘What have you packed so far?’
I pointed to my wig, in its little travelling box, and a large sunhat.
He raised his eyebrow at the wig. ‘Why are you taking that? Won’t it get wet? No! Don’t tell me – are you and the part-time prince planning to steal everyone’s jewels and make a break for the Swiss border?’
I gave him a patient look. ‘It won’t get wet, because I won’t get wet. I have to take it, because I’ll be photographed with Nicky, as Honey, his refined and suitable new companion. Along with you and the charitable Leonie, we’ll be sipping Martinis in a decorous fashion, rather than cavorting grotesquely, and it’ll end up in the magazine, next to his lovely interview about how sailing makes him feel spiritually closer to his seaside principality. Everyone’s happy.’
‘Apart from that Imogen woman,’ said Nelson.
‘Don’t talk about her.’ I pulled a face. ‘She’s been plaguing Nicky with phone calls – she rang while we were having lunch the other day, and I could hear her calling me a . . . tart, amongst other things.’
‘Sure it was you she was talking about, and not him?’
‘Nelson!’
‘OK, OK.’ He chewed his nail – a dead giveaway that he was nervous – and began rearranging the many hair products on my dressing table. ‘And, um, any dress code for chaps on the SS Gin Palace or whatever it’s called?’
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to wear on a yacht,’ I said.
‘But . . . if I asked you?’ he pressed, a little shyly, then added, ‘I wouldn’t want to give P. Nicky the chance to have a laugh at the expense of the English abroad.’
I felt a rush of warmth towards him. Nelson never asked my advice on sartorial matters. ‘Well . . . what you’d wear to a garden party, I expect – blazer, linen trousers, light shirt? Deck shoes?’ I wagged my finger jokingly. ‘They’re the only place it’s really OK to wear them, you know, so you might as well.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Will do.’
In the end, I decided to let someone else choose for me, and took myself off to Harvey Nichols. Four hours later, I floated out on an intoxicating cloud of retail therapy, clutching, in three bags, the ingredients for looking like a film star:
One pair white-silk wide-legged pants
One pair industrial pants for wearing beneath the white trousers
One navy and white striped top – très chic
One pair elegant gold sandals
One ‘uncreaseable’ little black dress
One brown-spot bikini with cute tie-sides and structurally miraculous underwiring
One mad Pucci print halter-neck dress for sitting around drinking Martinis in and generally attracting the attention of paparazzi
One large kaftan
One pair huge Sophie Loren-size shades
One delicious new silk scarf for tying around my head in jaunty nautical fashion
Plus, obviously, a new bag to stuff it all in.
Nelson’s travel plans always involved setting off ‘in good time’, a flexible formula which roughly equalled estimated journey time + one major accident en route + me forgetting one vital item and/or him insisting on going home to check the oven had been turned off. Since I’d been rushed off my feet all week, I’d left the travel arrangements to him and Leonie, who had been in touch with Alexander’s secretary.
Nicky, apparently, would ‘see us there’. I made him promise he wouldn’t be late.
Needless to say, Nelson called round at my office a good half-hour before he’d said he would, and proceeded to conduct a verbal cross-examination of my travel bag.
‘Passport?’
‘Yes! Nelson, I’m trying to finish this email before we go so . . .’
‘Euros?’
‘I doubt we’ll need any, but yes . . .’
‘Travel insurance?’
I gave up on my email. ‘Nelson, if anything goes wrong I fully expect Alexander to fly me back to London myself. Blimey, you look nice.’
Nelson did look rather dashing, in a biscuit-coloured linen suit, and an open-necked blue shirt that brought out the bright colour of his eyes.
‘Have I seen that suit before?’ I added curiously.
‘Um, maybe, maybe not. Bought it for the cricket club dinner and, er, haven’t got round to wearing it yet,’ he replied casually. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself. If a bit nautique.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ I demanded. I was wearing very smart navy sailor pants, with a sleeveless print blouse and flat pumps with adorable little gold buttons. It was hardly as if I was kitted out in a captain’s hat and eyepatch. ‘Nautique?’
‘Oh, you know, what people who don’t sail think people who do sail wear,’ he said obliquely, then distracted me by fussing furiously about the time.
We called round by Leonie’s office in Hammersmith to pick her up, but with Nelson creating a drama about stopping on a yellow line, she leaped into the back of the Range Rover before I could get a decent look at her. As usual she was travelling light, with just a very small bag.
‘Hi, Melons! Hi, Nelson!’ she yelled. ‘You don’t mind if I make a few calls, do you? I’ve had to take a half-day off. I just hope it’s going to be worth it!’
‘Go ahead!’ I said. ‘Um, Leonie, you know no one’s called me Melons since we left school?’
The thought of the mileage Nicky would get from that was too much to bear.
‘Really? Sorry!’ But she was already on the phone, yapping away.
Nelson gave
me a little smile and I put my shades on.
The traffic out of London was thick and the weather was hot. I could feel my outfit becoming less and less chic with every mile we crawled.
‘Are we flying from Farnborough?’ I asked Nelson. At least there’d be no hanging about if Alexander had sent his plane. Granny had been positively lyrical about the delights of private air travel.
‘No, Luton.’
‘Luton?’
‘Yes, Leonie booked it. There’s an easyJet flight straight to Nice.’
‘EasyJet?’ I swivelled in my seat.
Leonie gave me a thumbs-up. ‘I booked online! Bargain!’ she mouthed, in between tearing a strip off some wretched business contact.
I was startled to notice, on closer inspection, that the sensible City hairdo had gone, replaced with a funkier bob, complete with generous scattering of creamy blonde highlights. She’d evidently been to a personal shopper too, going by her complicatedly casual navy outfit. I didn’t remember her looking so . . . put-together before.
I wondered, feeling odd, if that was why Nelson had got a new suit – to make an impression with Leonie.
‘Nelson,’ I hissed, swivelling back, ‘didn’t Alexander offer to take us? I know that’s how Granny’s getting there. She’s all “I don’t do BA” these days.’
‘Oh, well, Leonie and I talked about it and she was keen on easyJet, and I tend to think you should minimise the carbon footprint where you can, so . . .’
It’s very hard to get cross with someone that saintly.
‘He’s sending a car to collect us at the other end,’ he offered. ‘That should be a nice posh one, if it cheers you up.’
My phone was ringing in my handbag. ‘I haven’t finished with this!’ I warned him, and answered it.
‘Hi, can I speak to Honey Blennerhesket, please?’ said an unfamiliar voice.
‘This is Honey,’ I said, ignoring Nelson’s snort.
‘Yeah, hi, my name’s Tyra – I’m calling from the subs desk about the interview we did with Prince Nicolas? About his sailing?’
‘Oh, yes! Great! How can I help?’
‘Well, I just had a few queries . . .’ I could hear the rattle of a keyboard. ‘Like, he says at one point that his favourite yacht is a . . . where is it? A Pickleton? Was that a mistake?’
‘Ummm . . .’ I flicked my eyes sideways towards Nelson, who was suddenly concentrating very hard on driving.
‘Because the chief sub questioned it – she says there’s no such thing. And, yeah, he also said it was a “bark-rigged scoop”? No such thing either.’
‘Really? No such thing? How strange!’ I said. ‘I wonder if the tape wasn’t clear. Hang on a moment, Tyra, I’m with him right now – let me check. Nicky,’ I said, through gritted teeth, ‘you didn’t describe your boat as a Pickleton, did you?’
Nelson glared at me.
I glared at him.
‘Did you?’ I repeated.
‘Yah! I need to talk to Eddie Rothery in Legal, stat!’ brayed Leonie in the back.
‘Who’s that?’ enquired Tyra.
‘Um, his other press secretary,’ I said quickly. ‘Nicky?’
Nelson made a ‘Why should I?’ face.
‘Nicky!’ I hissed, and Nelson caved in.
‘It’s a Nicholson, darling,’ drawled Nelson, in a dreadful impression of Nicky. ‘With a ch. And it’s a sloop.’
‘Oh, yes, of course!’ I gushed down the phone while glaring fiercely at Nelson. ‘Gosh, you’re not always too clear. You really ought to speak up.’
‘Hangover,’ said Nelson. ‘Darling.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I hoped it wasn’t a pause of disbelief. ‘Is that . . .’
I quickly spelled out both words.
‘Oh, right,’ said the sub. ‘Glad we got that cleared up.’
‘Absolutely!’ I agreed.
‘Things like that have a nasty way of getting into Private Eye,’ she went on ominously.
Blanching, I made some polite chit-chat about us just being on our way to the yacht now, and quickly hung up.
‘Nelson!’ I frowned, once the phone was safely in my bag. ‘What in the name of God was that about!’
‘Oh, come on,’ he scoffed. ‘It was just deserts. I didn’t see Nicky writhing with guilt when he dropped you in it with Jonathan. How much trouble did that cause between you?’
‘That wasn’t on purpose!’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Didn’t hear him apologise. Anyway, if he’s too bone idle to do his own research . . .’
I took deep yoga breaths. What if it did appear in Private Eye? I didn’t know anyone who worked on that: I couldn’t stop it. My blood ran cold.
‘It wasn’t me being bitchy,’ Nelson added. ‘I don’t care about him – it was to settle the scores for you.’
‘Nelson,’ I said in a strained voice, ‘I appreciate that you were trying to help me get my own back for . . . for all that, but don’t you see that if Nicky looks stupid, because of some PR thing I set up, I’m the one who looks stupid, not him?’
Nelson’s sarcastic expression shifted.
‘And it won’t just be Nicky who’s furious with me, but Alexander as well?’ I went on, dropping my voice to an undertone, in case Leonie was earwigging. ‘And probably Granny, for good measure? I’m meant to be stopping him making a fool of himself – it just makes me look incompetent.’
‘God, I’m sorry, Mel,’ muttered Nelson. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t think of it like that.’
‘Anything else I need to know about, before they go to press?’
He shook his head, and looked ashamed of himself.
‘Fine,’ I said. Then, because Nelson had turned uncharacteristically schoolboyish, I added, ‘I do appreciate your help with the whole thing, though. It was good of you.’ I nudged him. ‘You’ll have to think of a favour you can pull in from him sometime.’
Nelson looked as if he was about to say something, then restrained himself. ‘Hmm,’ he said ambiguously.
As soon as we got to the airport, Leonie insisted on hustling us to check-in, so we’d get the first seat allocations. That done, she made a beeline for Duty Free and stocked up on a new pair of half-price Nicole Richie-esque sunnies, and two pots of Clarins moisturiser (for someone from her office – she was charging a very reasonable 10 per cent handling fee). I bought the usual girder-sized bar of Toblerone, which we were about to tuck into when a familiar figure sauntered across the concourse, a Louis Vuitton overnight bag slung over one shoulder.
Instantly, Leonie and I put down the chocolate and Nelson’s back stiffened.
‘Hi, there,’ said Nicky, pulling off his aviators and pretending he hadn’t noticed the stares following his progress. He was wearing a ludicrous pair of red deck trousers, with a crumpled white shirt that made his golden skin glow, finished off with a pair of tan shoes. It was hard not to stare at him.
Leonie did a sort of automatic bob, then looked flustered.
‘Hello, Nicky,’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘You remember Leonie, don’t you? Nelson’s date this weekend.’
‘Leonie?’ he said, taking his shades off fully. ‘From that dinner? Good God.’
To be fair to Leonie, she did warrant a Good God. Fabulous outfit and glossy new hairdo aside, she’d also slathered on a fair amount of lip gloss in Duty Free, and might have had her teeth bleached. The overall effect was very Foxy Chelsea Primary School Teacher, a look I knew Nicky would find near irresistible.
‘You get what you pay for,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And we saved a fair amount on the tickets, so . . .’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thanks for arranging the flights, Leonie. But I didn’t know you’d booked for Nicky too?’
‘She didn’t,’ said Nicky. ‘I thought it might be a good idea to be seen travelling on a budget airline. See? I do listen to what you tell me.’ He then spoiled it by adding, ‘Anyway, I must admit, I probably did get a bit of a deal o
n the tickets . . .’ He winked. ‘Go on, guess. Guess how much I paid.’
‘Fifty quid?’
‘No!’ he crowed smugly.
‘Forty quid?’
‘Thirty-five pounds!’ He looked round, waiting for us to be impressed.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Leonie. ‘You should have told me – I got ours for fifteen quid return.’ She pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Never mind.’
Nicky’s smugness vanished. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Oh, the prices change all the time, if you get on the right search engine. Just a matter of setting your alarm. Four fifteen’s a good time. In the morning, of course.’
Nelson and I exchanged brief, shocked glances, although I must admit I wasn’t that shocked – I’d never seen anyone haggle in Duty Free before, either.
‘I think that’s our gate being called,’ Nelson pointed out. ‘Shall we go?’
Leonie grabbed her bag. ‘Absolutely. We need to be right at the front of the queue or else we won’t get seats together. I’ll go first.’
And with a ferocity that would have made the England front row quail, she barged and elbowed her way between the crawling trolleys.
We followed her, at a little distance.
I soon realised, looking at everyone else’s bags, that I’d packed far, far too much, even taking into account my dual personality for the weekend. But the driver who met us at Nice airport didn’t comment about the weight of my bag as he heaved it into the boot of the vintage Rolls-Royce, and soon we were wafting along in air-conditioned luxury towards Monaco, through the mountain tunnels and towards the quieter, twisting coastal road, with the crystal blue sea on one side and the rocky hillsides on the other.
Nelson volunteered to sit in the front, since his father had an old Roller too, and he couldn’t resist fiddling with the various buttons and dials and asking questions about coach-builders.
If you ask me, I don’t think Nelson was that keen to sit in the back watching Nicky be charming to two women at the same time, one on each side of him in the luxurious leather bucket seats.
Not that Nicky’s charm was getting him very far with Leonie, but the more she resisted, the more he laid it on.
‘I think you’ll like the Kitty Cat,’ he smarmed. ‘She’s been in the family for years. We’ve had all kinds of famous people stay on her. I know it seems quite extravagant, keeping a yacht, but she really is a floating work of art, and it’s so important to maintain pieces of one’s history, don’t you think?’
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 32
