Little Lady, Big Apple

  As I took a step forward and prepared to launch myself into the conversation, to my horror I heard him say, with a distinct nod towards her chest, ‘So, are those real then?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ she enquired.

  ‘The girls there.’ He nodded, as if he were genuinely interested, rather than trying to come on to her. ‘Are they real?’

  Silently, she clapped her hand to her cleavage. ‘I don’t . . .’

  That was the final straw. I couldn’t stop myself.

  ‘Pearls!’ I said, intervening briskly. ‘Ah ha ha! He means your necklace! It’s, er, cockney rhyming slang! The girls . . . pearls!’

  ‘But I’m not wearing any,’ she said coldly. ‘This is a sapphire necklace.’

  I took a closer look. Indeed it was. About three apartments’ worth too. ‘Gosh, so you are! Isn’t it gorgeous? No, it’s, um, just one of those generic terms! Means all jewellery. The girls, you know – what you keep in your jewellery box.’

  There was a brief moment while we all digested this nugget of information, broken suddenly by a dirty snigger.

  ‘As in . . . pearl necklace!’

  I glared ferociously, and he quickly shut up.

  ‘How interesting language is.’ She shot the rude man a haughty glare. ‘For a moment, I thought you were being offensive. Would you excuse me while I . . . freshen my drink?’

  She said it in a tone that clearly meant ‘go somewhere far, far away from you, you charmless oaf’.

  ‘You’ve still got half a glass of wine there,’ he pointed out.

  She paused, looked at her glass, then looked back at him. ‘I think I need something stronger.’ She flashed me a cold smile. ‘Excuse me.’

  I stepped aside to let her past, and realised that I’d managed to leave myself trapped with him. And now he was peering at me, as if he recognised me from somewhere.

  My mind whirred, trying to work out why this particular brute seemed so familiar – not easy when he was wearing sunglasses indoors. But that thick black hair, the consumptive complexion, the voice . . .

  ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ he demanded, removing the sunglasses, and I knew at once who it was.

  Godric Ponsonby.

  Or, as he’d been universally called, when I knew him for a few brief months in 1994, Oh-Godric.

  A hot flush started in my forehead and spread rapidly down throughout my body.

  Oh-Godric and I had had a fleeting flirtation, and even more fleeting backstage tussle during the final-night party of a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. My girls’ school had had to borrow some men from the nearby boys’ school, and Godric had been one of the few artistically inclined volunteers. I wasn’t acting, though – I was in charge of wardrobe, and pretty busy with it, too: the boys seemed to be constantly damaging their doublets, and insisted on personal repair attention, usually while they were still wearing them. Godric was the worst offender. He had a long list of fabric allergies too, and consequently, by the final night, we were on such intimate medical terms that snogging was more or less inevitable.

  I cringed at the memory. Even then, I wasn’t naïve enough to believe I was Godric’s first choice for drunken grappling. Emery, in the throes of her Goth Actress phase – she was growing her eyebrows out like Imogen Stubbs – was the star of the show, and had the male fairies following her around like geese. I suspected she’d given Godric the flick, and so on the last night he’d consoled himself with literally pints of punch and a quick roll around the props cupboard with me.

  Actually, it would have been quite romantic if he hadn’t had a ‘bad reaction’ to whatever everyone had been doctoring the punch with, vomited all over Bottom’s head, and broken out in hives. Matron had taken the night off so I had to drive him to the local A&E, still in his M&S opaque tights, still vomiting, and I never saw him again after that. Just as well, really, given what I knew about his, er, inside leg measurements.

  Obviously he recognised me too, at exactly the same moment, and presumably suffered the same excruciating mental slideshow.

  I wondered if he’d be discreet enough to pretend we hadn’t even met, and start again. After all, one doesn’t like to start reminiscing about love bites and curaçao vomit at a smart Manhattan cocktail party.

  ‘Melissa?’ he said, peering at me, then dropping his line of sight a bit lower. ‘Melons?’

  I ignored the Melons bit. Fine. There was no getting out of it. ‘It is!’ I said. ‘Hello!’

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ The mixture of grumpiness and chronic shyness hadn’t changed much in ten years. At least I knew he wasn’t deliberately being rude to that woman. Godric never did have much in the way of social confidence. From my sewing chair in the wings, I’d noted the other thesps had affected gloomy self-doubt, but with him it seemed painfully real.

  Still, that didn’t excuse much now. Good heavens above, no.

  ‘Of course I do!’ I protested. ‘It’s Godric. Godric Ponsonby!’ For a second, I moved forward to kiss him on the cheek, then thought better of it and put my hand-out to shake instead. ‘What are you doing in New York? Do you know Bonnie and Kurt?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The hosts?’ I raised my eyebrows in Bonnie’s direction but she’d vanished into the throng again. ‘Um, well, do you know Jonathan then? Jonathan Riley? The party’s in his honour.’

  ‘Who?’ he grunted. ‘No. I don’t know any of these tossers. Didn’t even want to come. It’s a crap party.’

  ‘Yes, you do! You know Jonathan,’ interrupted a small, dark woman, who’d appeared from nowhere. ‘Jonathan found you that awesome apartment in Tribeca! Hi!’ she said, grabbing his arm and looking up at me intently. ‘Paige Drogan.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m—’

  ‘No, I should do the introduction,’ grumped Godric. ‘Manners! Paige, this is Melissa Romney-Jones, Melissa, this is Paige Drogan, my agent. Don’t suppose you’ve got a job, have you, Mel?’

  But I was still gawping from the previous revelation to rise to that. ‘Your agent?’

  ‘Yeah, ’m an actor,’ he muttered.

  ‘No!’ I gasped. ‘What? A proper one?’

  Paige laughed prettily, and smoothed back her short coffee-coloured hair. She was wearing a tortoiseshell wrap dress that emphasised her pepperpot curves, finished off with bright yellow shoes. She reminded me of a wren.

  ‘He’s being very modest,’ she chuckled. ‘Ric’s about to be huge over here. He’s starring in a very significant film, which opens in a few months, and that’s going to really launch him onto the next level, but he already has a market presence with some very well-received tele-vision work. You may have seen him in ER?’

  I shook my head. ‘Um, we’re rather behind you, I think.’

  ‘And he’s working on some stage projects, aren’t you, Ric?’ She nudged him. ‘Ric?’

  He nodded sullenly.

  Paige put a little cupped hand to her ear and tilted her head to one side. ‘I can’t hear you, Ric, this party’s awful loud. What was that?’

  ‘I’m in The Real Inspector Hound,’ he managed. ‘It’s not a very good production, and the director doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but, you know . . . At least it’s proper theatre. Not like wasting time with those film wankers who—’

  ‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed Paige in a transparent attempt to drown him out. ‘Ha ha ha! Ric, honey, can you go and get me and Melissa some drinks, please?’

  ‘She’s got a drink,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Well, I’m sure she’d like another,’ said Paige firmly.

  ‘Ungh,’ grunted Ric. It was a sound I heard about nine times a day on average – a combination of resentment and resignation – and sloped off in the direction of the waiters.

  ‘I saw what you did there,’ said Paige at once. ‘With Lucy Powell? Thank you for that. Ric’s a sweetheart, but he’s kind of . . . unpolished!’

  ‘Yeeeees,’ I said, wondering if unpolished was an American
euphemism for barely socialised.

  ‘So, anyway, let’s talk about you – you’re the famous Melissa!’ She beamed at me with a scary intensity.

  I suddenly felt lanky and un-put-together, my new outfit, perfect hair and manicure notwithstanding.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said.

  ‘I’m Paige,’ she said. ‘Paige with an i. I was at Brown with Cindy, but Jonathan and I go way back too. Like Ric said, I’m an agent. For actors.’

  ‘How interesting,’ I said, ignoring the flicker of panic that ran through me at the mention of Cindy’s name. I really had to knock that on the head. It wasn’t like she was here. ‘Anyone I know?’

  Paige reeled off a list of clients, some of whom sounded vaguely familiar, then shook my hand very hard, twice, then dropped it. ‘So. You and Jonathan, huh?’

  What did that mean? I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and nodded.

  ‘I bet Jonathan’s glad to get his home insurance premiums down again!’ she cackled, then switched her face back to serious. ‘So you’re English?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, relieved to be on safe ground. ‘Many generations.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Married before?’

  ‘Um, no.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Cool. OK, I’m building up a picture here. What is it you do?’

  I was starting to feel slightly interviewed. ‘I run a . . . a life management consultancy,’ I said defensively.

  The upside of New York was that no one lifted their eyebrows and snorted at this, as they would have done in London. Paige, on the contrary, actually looked impressed. Though that may have just been a holding expression until she worked out what it was that I did.

  ‘Yeah? Whereabouts?’

  ‘In London? Victoria?’

  She gave me a ‘more information?’ look.

  ‘Near Buckingham Palace?’ I hazarded, with some truth economy, I must admit. Well, my office was near Buckingham Palace. Compared to, say, Brent Cross Shopping Centre.

  ‘Right,’ she said, arching her perfect brows above the frames of her square-framed glasses. ‘And what type of client relationship is your specialty? I mean,’ she added before I could reply, ‘please God tell me you’re not one of those terrible women who play with colour swatches and tell men to floss!’

  And she laughed one of those blood-chilling power-laughs. The sort with no humour involved whatsoever, the sort that give you a sort of conversational deadline: prove me wrong by the time this laugh dies away.

  The temperature seemed to ramp up a couple of degrees at this point, despite the air-conditioning, and beads of sweat began to pool in the cups of my Lycra skin-graft bra. Was it going to be this hard-going all evening? It wasn’t like mingling at London parties, where I could get by on gossip and connections. Here, I felt as if I were at some kind of large-scale interview, where the whole panel were Jonathan’s friends.

  To my horror, even as I was wishing I could click my heels and be back in Nelson’s comfy sitting room, I felt a familiar tingle up my backbone, as my whole posture started to shift. My hips went slightly forward, pushing out my ample bosom, shrinking my waist and lengthening my back.

  Honey. I dragged Honey’s personality in front of mine like a riot shield. Even though there was already a little voice in my head telling me it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘Actually, I run a life coaching agency,’ I said breezily. ‘I work with a variety of clients, mostly male, from a broad social spectrum.’

  Paige nodded more slowly, but didn’t look totally convinced, so I found myself ploughing ever onward.

  ‘It’s terribly old-fashioned, in some senses, but I find simply harnessing some of the more traditional aspects of etiquette is really rather empowering for many men.’ I smiled. ‘Providing them with social parameters from which they can build their own relationship bridges, on a professional as well as social level. And through positive role reinforcement, from a feminine perspective, I’m able to encourage them to project and visualise an idealised version of their own persona, and guide them towards attainable targets.’

  Paige was nodding hard now. ‘Uh-huh. I can see that, the way you handled that moment there with Ric. It was pretty slick. And you’re doing that over here?’

  ‘Um, I’m on holiday right now,’ I hedged. Honestly, my heart was beating so fast. Where did all this stuff come from?

  ‘But you could be, yes?’

  Jonathan was on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with a man who kept jabbing at his shoulder. ‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ I said, more to sound professional than anything else. ‘I’m sure American men have their own sets of hang-ups.’

  ‘Oh, my God, yes.’ She nodded frantically. ‘And therapy isn’t always the answer.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ I said, as if I didn’t think therapy was a licence to whinge. ‘One can’t blame one’s mother for everything.’

  Paige threw her head back and cackled. Then she snapped it back to fix me with a fierce look. ‘Listen, Melissa, I could use your help.’

  My heart sank. The last thing I needed was to get involved in someone else’s relationship. Especially someone who knew Jonathan. ‘Oh, honestly, Paige, I don’t really know much about American men and—’

  ‘It’s not an American man,’ she said. ‘Can we meet for a coffee this week? I’d really love to talk with you.’

  I made demurring noises, casting my gaze around to see if Jonathan had moved into hearing distance. ‘Well, I am meant to be on holiday, and Jonathan isn’t . . .’

  She intensified her gaze until I could almost feel it on my face. At the same time I felt my will to resist evaporate.

  How did she do that? I wondered. What an amazing trick. If she could teach me how to do that, I could have Braveheart eating out of my hand in seconds.

  ‘Well, OK,’ I conceded.

  Paige smiled.

  That Sphinx-like smile was worth learning too, I thought, dazed. It just made you wonder what you hadn’t noticed.

  Fortunately Godric chose this moment to reappear, with four glasses of wine squashed in his hands, as if he was schlepping drinks from the bar at the White Horse.

  Paige rolled her eyes. ‘Ric! I keep telling you. Just ask the waiter to bring you what you want! You don’t have to carry them across the room like that! You’re not a server!’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Godric.

  I started to move backwards in my patented party extrication method: inch away until you make sufficient corridor for other people to pass between you, wave hopelessly as if being swept out to sea, then leg it.

  ‘Call me!’ mouthed Paige.

  I smiled vaguely at both her and Godric, then slid off to find the loo.

  No sooner had I extricated myself from that particular minefield than a tall woman with magically unsupported breasts appeared in front of me.

  ‘Hi!’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Jennifer Reardon. I’m a colleague of Bonnie’s. And a friend too, of course!’

  ‘Hello,’ I replied, fixing her name in my head. ‘I’m Melissa. Melissa—’

  But she interrupted me before I could finish my introduction. ‘Are you British?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. I’m—’

  ‘Oh, my God, I was right!’ she said, clapping her hand to her chest. ‘My instincts are so good for these things? I saw you talking to Ric Spencer over there, so I figured you must be the writer Bonnie was telling me about. The column in the London Times, right? Hi, I am so pleased to meet you! Now, call me nosey, but have you got any inside stuff on this new girlfriend of Jonathan’s?’ she went on, with a giggle. ‘I’ve been out of the country for a while so I’m a little behind on the gossip. He’s been really tight-lipped about her – which makes you wonder, huh?’

  I opened my mouth to put her straight but she didn’t give me a chance to speak.

  ‘She’s British too, right?’ she demanded gleefully. ‘I was at C
indy’s for dinner earlier this week – she’s his ex-wife? She might come along later, actually, if she has time – and she was telling me she heard he was dating this blonde girl called Honey or Happy or something like that. Totally too young for him, and soooo rebound! I mean, it’s an understandable reaction, breaking up with your wife of all those years, but, eek!’

  Jennifer pulled a face, then touched my forearm in an ‘oh, we’re so awful, aren’t we?’ gesture. My stomach shrank. I knew I should say something before she dug herself in any further, but my throat had suddenly gone tight with horror.

  ‘And Cindy totally thinks it’s because he’s cut up about her and Brendan, but, listen, who wouldn’t be? It’s a terrible, terrible situation, but sometimes you’ve got to go with fate, know what I mean? What’s meant for you won’t pass you by? Their baby is the cutest, cutest thing. Parker? Isn’t that an adorable name? I could eat him up! Not literally! Ah ha ha ha! He so has Cindy’s eyes. Anyway, I must catch up with Jon in a minute because I need to give him a message from Cindy. Do you know if he’s brought rebound girl along tonight?’ She craned her neck around to see past my stunned face. ‘I don’t see any blondes in here. I guess she’d stand out, right?’

  Jennifer was rattling on at about ninety miles an hour, and so probably didn’t notice the silence falling around us. I’ve been there myself – you’re so busy dishing out the gossip that you can’t hear anything but your own voice. But since I hadn’t spoken for what felt like an hour, to me the shocked hush was all too apparent.

  So much for people claiming never to eavesdrop at parties.

  ‘You know her, huh?’ she said, seeing my crestfallen expression. ‘Oh, nuts. Have I put my foot in it?’

  ‘Melissa,’ said Bonnie unwittingly, bowling up behind me with a tray full of food. ‘I had to show you these myself – aren’t they darling? Jonathan’s had three already.’ And she shoved a plate of miniature Yorkshire puddings filled with shavings of roast beef and wisps of horseradish under my nose.

  She looked up when I didn’t speak, and neither did the seven people immediately around us. I felt sick.