Since these reunions had a habit of getting testy, I made the round of greetings, acknowledged that yes, I had grown and no, I wasn’t thinking of getting married yet, then scarpered to help Mrs Lloyd set up for the caterers.
Emery was collared by Nanny Ag as we were called into supper, and dragged upstairs for ‘Baby’s bath and bed’, leaving William to fend off the terrifying directness of my cousin Polly’s questions about why he and Emery spent so much time in different countries. She returned at eight with a face like thunder, apologised for not joining us, and went straight to the kitchen to eat her supper there.
I slipped away when the trifle appeared (‘Isn’t that Auntie Enid’s trifle bowl? She left that to me in her will.’ ‘No, she didn’t, it’s definitely mine!’ . . .).
Emery was sitting cross-legged in the vast dog basket by the Aga, scoffing rice pudding out of the tin while Mrs Lloyd made sympathetic noises. When they heard me come in, the pair of them flinched defensively, then relaxed.
‘She’s got to go,’ said Emery fiercely. ‘Mrs Lloyd was telling me she’s been snooping around the kitchen, counting the empty bottles in the recycling bags.’
‘And telling me what to do,’ said Mrs Lloyd. She shut the dishwasher with a bang. ‘Not that I mind having a list of instructions.’
I knew this to be a fib, but even so.
Emery pointed her spoon at me. ‘Since Bertie’s asleep half the time under her evil regime she’s got nothing to do, so the old witch has taken to bossing everyone else around! Even Bruce who comes to do the garden. Can you believe it?’
‘Telling me what to cook for dinner, running her fingers round the grill pan,’ muttered Mrs Lloyd grimly. ‘I could go on, but I shan’t . . . And then the bins, and where I keep the bleach . . .’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘The time has come. Where is she?’
‘In her room. Preparing her spells for tomorrow.’
‘Great. Emery, go up there right now, get her down here, and ask her about soft foods or something.’
‘What?’ Emery looked blank.
‘I don’t know! I’m not the one with the baby! Ask her about how you can turn tonight’s leftovers into baby food or something. Anything that’s going to keep her occupied and down here for as long as it takes me to get that file . . .’
Emery put her hand to her mouth. She looked thrilled. ‘Gosh!’ she said. ‘Just like Nancy Drew!’
The baby monitor in her pocket crackled as Bertie let out a preliminary squawk. Even I recognised it as a warm-up to something more ear-shredding. Emery’s face puckered with concern, and she looked up at me. ‘I’m not allowed to go to him. Not until he’s been doing it for about fifteen minutes.’
I felt sorry for her. Clearly, Em’s initial lack of interest in Bertie had turned into something much more maternal, possibly as a direct result of feeling he and she were on the same side against Nanny Ag.
‘I’ll take my mobile,’ I said. ‘Text me the second she starts heading upstairs . . .’
I hid in the cloakroom under the stairs while Emery returned with Nanny Ag in full flow.
‘You can never get yourself and your staff prepared too soon,’ she was saying. Above my head, her feet clumped emphatically. ‘That was always the problem with your mother – always had lemons for her G & Ts, never Milupa . . .’
‘Still . . .’ said Emery. I could practically hear her biting her tongue.
Once they were safely out of earshot, I ran up the stairs, two at a time, and let myself into Nanny Ag’s room, avoiding all the creaking steps.
Everything was obsessively tidy, to the point where I half expected red laser beams to shoot out as soon as I moved anything and I barely had time to register her worrying ‘tell-all’ bedtime reading – Fashion Babylon, Hotel Babylon, Air Babylon – before pulling open the bottom knicker drawer and starting to rifle methodically through the layers of Damart for the file Em and I had found.
But my hands weren’t finding anything solid. Well, not more solid than a couple of reinforced corselettes.
My blood ran cold. The file wasn’t there. It was gone.
Damn! I thought, rocking back on my heels. She must have noticed we’d found it!
I probed frantically with my fingers, but there was nothing in there except pants and the odd lavender bag. Shaking, I shut the drawer and tried the others.
Socks. Blouses. Millions of underskirts. Nothing I wanted.
My legs nearly buckled as I stood up. I knew I didn’t have very long, but my brain suddenly went blank as to where else she might have hidden it. I looked around frantically. The wardrobe?
As I was moving pair after pair of stout walking shoes, to no avail, a furious Welsh voice suddenly bellowed in my ear.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
I promise you, I nearly wet my pants. Bloody Emery! I’d told her to text me as soon as Nanny Ag was on the move.
I spun round, gabbling, ‘Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry, Nanny, it’s not what it looks like, I was just—’
Allegra was standing there, a huge smile splitting her pale face, her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing her usual long black dress, with trumpet sleeves that hung down halfway to her knees. What with the smug grin and the red lipstick, the effect was very Elvira Munster.
‘What are you up to, eh?’ she demanded. ‘Not like you to be getting into trouble.’
I clapped a hand to my exploding chest. ‘Allegra! You nearly killed me. Where did you spring from?’
‘Just got here. Saw the light on my way up to the loo – then I saw your fat arse sticking up while you were investigating Nanny’s drawers so I thought I’d pop in. I see her taste in quasi-nun’s outfits hasn’t changed since 1985,’ she observed, flicking through the rails. ‘Think she’s got a Madonna and whore complex?’
‘Allegra,’ I said, taking advantage of her experience in stashing contraband in a hurry, ‘if you were trying to hide something in here, where would you put it? Quickly!’
She raised her plucked eyebrows at me, and stalked immediately over to the panelled fireplace. With one practised shove of the nearest carved rosette, a hidden panel opened, to reveal not one but three box files, and a bottle of Baileys.
‘This what you were looking for?’ she asked, as I grabbed the lot.
‘How did you know that was there?’ I demanded, stacking them in my arms.
‘Oh, known for ages,’ she said. ‘One of the cleaners told me about it. How do you think I got rid of that snivelling au pair Francine?’
‘You didn’t get rid of her,’ I said, momentarily distracted from my rescue mission. ‘She left because the room was haunted.’
‘She left because there was a tape recording of you and Emery playing your recorders hidden in the fireplace,’ Allegra corrected me.
‘You conniving cow!’ I breathed. Then a sudden doorbell ring from my pocket made us both jump.
THE EAGLE IS LANDING, Emery had texted.
‘Quick,’ I said, ‘you know how fast she gets up stairs. Leave the Baileys,’ I added. ‘She’ll need it when she realises these have gone . . .’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Allegra, as I hustled her out of the room as fast as I could, turning off the lights as I passed. ‘You could at least tell me what you’re up to . . .’
Nanny Ag’s flat shoes hit the squeaky step I knew was three down from the landing, and in desperation I opened the nearest door and pushed Allegra in.
It was the green guest bathroom. Hastily, I locked the door, put a finger over my lips to silence her and opened the first box.
Quite by chance the first photograph was of Allegra in her school netball match, clearly fouling the goalkeeper by holding her back by the pigtails while kicking the goal defence. It was during her ‘heavy thighs’ phase. On the back, Nanny Ag had written: ‘Allegra Romney-Jones – might one day be arrested – father MP, mother possible sex scandal.’
‘Bloody hell!’ she roared, in outrag
e. ‘Bloody, bloody hell!’
There was a sharp knock on the door. ‘Are you all right in there?’ barked Nanny Ag. ‘Is that you, Allegra? Are you constipated again?’
I made ‘No, no!’ faces.
‘Of course not,’ she yelled back. ‘I’m just . . . waxing my legs.’
‘I expect you’re not doing it right,’ Nanny Ag bossed through the keyhole.
‘Oh, I am,’ growled Allegra, ripping up the photograph into angry shreds. ‘I’m just having trouble . . . getting rid of the annoying little ingrowers!’
Nanny Ag coughed.
‘Bye!’ shouted Allegra. ‘I’ll see you downstairs!’
Meanwhile I was sorting through the photographs, cringing on behalf of the many friends and acquaintances I now recognised. I say recognised – some of them were nearly unrecognisable.
But this one was familiar. I stopped dealing out the photos and stared more carefully at one in particular, clipped to a printed sheet of notes.
The dumpy little brown-haired girl, enjoying a McDonald’s Happy Meal – didn’t I know her? There was something about the way she was snarling at the camera, with three boxes lined up in front of her, while everyone else just had one . . .
I checked the form underneath – a printed checklist with tick-boxes of popular problems, which Nanny Ag had obviously compiled for ease of gossip.
Oh, my God.
The notes, as compiled by Nanny Barnes (heretofore known as Nanny B., Nanny Ag had noted in her plain handwriting) revealed that it was one Chanel Imogen Leys, of Mon Repose, Esher, Surrey; brat rating 10; born 12 April 1980 (so not twenty-three, as Nicky thought); worst habit(s): fibbing, stealing, biting; school: home schooled since expulsion from third school for blackmail. Under ‘other details’ Nanny B. had noted: Insists that she is not Malcolm and Denise’s daughter, but is adopted love child of a princess. Wants to be a princess or an international showjumper. ‘See file 2 for more pics, inc. shoplifting folder.’
A sudden feeling of glee and relief began to rise in me.
‘Someone you know?’ asked Allegra, showing me a photograph of the world’s fattest angel in my prep school nativity play ie, me. ‘Was there ever a cloud big enough to hold that angel? What’s all this for, anyway?’
I opened an accounts book, and boggled at the figures listed. ‘That give you a clue?’ I asked Allegra, showing her.
‘Good Lord.’ Allegra grabbed it off me. ‘If I’d known people would pay that much to keep things quiet, I’d have hung on to my school diaries.’
I folded Piglet’s details in half and stuffed them in my pocket. ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I want you to hide these files somewhere so secure and cunning Nanny Ag won’t even begin to know where to look for them.’
Allegra wriggled her fingers. ‘My pleasure,’ she said evilly.
25
The day of Cuthbert Brad Lyall McDonald’s christening dawned bright and crisp, although this was in no way guaranteed to last the day, given the assortment of storm clouds heading into view, from one direction or another.
I got up early to check the chairs were set up in the chapel, and, for once, I had to admit that my father’s delusions of grandeur hit the spot. The set designers had managed to turn the semi-derelict building into a fairy-tale chapel, with ivy creeping around the empty arches and stained glass filling the large windows at the end, so that the clear morning sun filtered across the gold chairs in boiled-sweet pools of red, green and blue light. It didn’t matter that half the roof was missing, since forget-me-not-blue sky filled the gaps beautifully, leaving it open to bird song and the fresh smell of pine trees.
That might have been a tape of bird song and a pine tree candle since we didn’t actually have any in the garden, but I didn’t want to look too closely.
The crumbly old font that Emery and I used to wash our My Little Ponies in had been cleaned and treated with something so it looked like an Arthurian relic, and they’d gone round the worn plaques on the walls, restoring what they could of the long-gone Romneys, Romney-Joneses, another ‘unfortunate’ Romney-Jones who’d had three daughters and the smattering of Barclays who temporarily had the place in the 1750s.
I sighed, and felt a tiny pang of envy. Lucky Emery – with her husband and her baby she was making her own family dynasty. So was Allegra. Even Granny was getting another go at winding herself into a family tree.
All I had was myself, and my business.
I looked up at the fluffy white clouds moving across the broken roof beams.
And a flat to find, and a fresh start to make. On my own.
I shook myself. ‘And that’s plenty to be happy about,’ I said sternly.
I walked back into the kitchen to find a make-up artist and two hairdressers working busily on Mummy, Granny and Emery, while Daddy, with Bertie strapped to his chest as usual, was ordering the caterers about the priority the cheeses were to be offered in, according to various ‘private sponsorship arrangements’.
‘Ah, Melissa!’ he barked, as I walked in. ‘See if you can raise Nanny, will you? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since last night.’
‘No,’ said Emery. ‘She didn’t come to wake me up for my six o’clock milking.’ She put a finger on her chin and pretended to look concerned. ‘Poor Nanny. I wonder what’s happened to her?’
I winked. ‘Can’t think. Shall I go and find her?’
‘Do, darling,’ said Mummy, as well as she could with someone applying lip gloss and someone else tonging her hair. ‘She’s got the family christening gown.’
Emery’s eyes shifted from side to side. ‘Actually, William was wondering if we could maybe dress him in . . .’
‘Get the gown,’ said Daddy. ‘Every Romney-Jones baby since 1870’s been christened in that. Well, the legitimate ones, anyway.’
‘Any sign of Nelson yet?’ I asked before he could elaborate.
Everyone shook their heads.
‘He’ll be here soon,’ said Granny, giving me a reassuring glance. ‘He wouldn’t miss this.’
Better get any yelling out of the way before Nelson arrived. ‘I’ll go and find Nanny,’ I said, and steeled myself for some straight talking.
Nanny Ag was waiting for me in her room, and cut straight to the chase when I asked if anything was wrong.
‘Something has gone missing from my room, Melissa,’ she hissed, probing my face for clues with the searchlight gaze that had had me singing like a canary as a child. Not any more. ‘Something personal. I’m very disappointed in Allegra. I thought we’d dealt with those kleptomaniac tendencies after—’
‘It wasn’t Allegra, it was me,’ I said.
‘No one’s at home to Interrupting Ingrid,’ she began, then stared at me in shock. ‘You stole it?’
‘I stole your horrible files. Yes!’ I snapped. ‘I can’t believe it of you. I am absolutely aghast to think you could have let us, and yourself, down so very badly. Not to mention breaking the law. People go to prison for blackmail, you know.’
Nanny Ag glared at me, but I glared back, and I was used to training my disappointed gaze on recalcitrant bankers, not small children, and the extra power showed.
‘What would your charges think if they knew you’d been spying on them?’ I went on remorselessly. ‘After the trust they’ve put in you. I’m dismayed, Nanny Ag. Dismayed. If this is found out, you might never work with children again! Think of that!’
‘I hate children!’ she snarled. ‘Do you think it’s fun, being a status symbol for social-climbing snobs who think a nanny can turn their grabby brats into little angels, because they can’t stand the sight of them themselves? Getting a clapped-out Fiat Panda to drive while the parents swan around in a BMW? It’s just about the most miserable existence known to man. And as soon as they hit adolescence, you have to start all over again! Usually with their in-bred relatives!’
I stared at her, shocked, and not a little hurt. But I quickly rallied. ‘They’re children! It’s not their fault! It’s beyond mea
n to upset and embarrass people like this. I’m asking you to stop it, right here.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll get William to start court proceedings against you. I’ve got the lot, you know. And I’ve copied all your correspondence, so the various families can be informed and they can sue you too.’
Nanny Ag looked stunned, then devious. ‘This isn’t like you, Melissa,’ she said in a wheedling voice. ‘You don’t think I was including you in all this? Of course not. You were always my favourite.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘And that was why you kept the picture of me as Boy George at a fancy-dress party, with “unlikely to do much” written on the back?’
Nanny Ag narrowed her eyes back at me. ‘Give me everything, or I accidentally put the iron through the christening gown.’ She nodded towards the back of her wardrobe, where the precious lace gown hung, then flicked a switch on the steam iron set up by the bed.
I took one look at it, then turned back to her. ‘Burn what you like. I have some burning of my own to be getting on with.’
And I left her to it.
Things started happening pretty quickly after that. The entire WI arrived in a minibus and nine cars, followed by seven cars’ worth of Cheese Diet publishers, two cars and a motorbike of photographers, three cars of journalists, reams of Emery’s vague friends, a gaggle from the Lamb and Flag, Nelson, Leonie, and the caterer’s van. As soon as Nelson arrived he was dispatched to patrol the makeshift car park in the paddock, a job he threw himself into with gusto.
Granny, Alexander and Nicky arrived in the Bentley, which I heard Daddy insist was parked as far away from his own car as possible on account of unflattering comparisons. This didn’t bother Granny in the slightest, as it gave her even further to walk, very slowly, turning heads in her enormous feather hat and matching royal fiancé.
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 39
