Little Lady, Big Apple

  The charade went on for another twenty minutes, with similar results. Or, rather, lack of results. It was interesting for me though: sitting comfortably in the shade, I could watch the stream of New Yorkers walking their dogs, rollerblading, jogging, arguing, eating their lunch, sunbathing, with the Manhattan skyline rising above the trees behind like a film set. Some of the passers-by, I noticed, even glanced at Ric as if they recognised him. But then again, they might just have been wondering who the grumpy bloke having his photograph taken was.

  Eventually, I could see Dwight was struggling, as Ric’s face reddened in the sun. ‘Shall we go and get a drink?’ I called over. ‘Maybe look at a different location?’

  Gratefully, they followed me back onto the main path, and we wandered further into the park, where I insisted we stop at an ice-cream stall. Godric initially refused, and then succumbed to a chocolate-pistachio cornet, which he ate with incongruous enthusiasm for a man dressed head to toe in black.

  ‘You take the little fella to one of the Central Park dog runs?’ asked Dwight, nodding at Braveheart, who had now tired of being obedient and cute, and was charging at passers-by.

  ‘I don’t, no,’ I said. According to Cindy’s notes, Braveheart was a member of no fewer than three private dog runs, one of which even offered single-sex walking hours.

  He laughed. ‘Gotta get on the right dog run, hey? I know what you ladies are like with your dogs.’

  I started to say that he wasn’t mine, but as I looked down, I realised that his extending leash had extended so far that I couldn’t actually see him. There were bushes and such like in the way, and only his red lead vanishing into them.

  My heart sank. ‘Braveheart!’ I called, quietly at first, trying to ravel the lead back in. ‘Come! Come here!’

  I turned to Dwight. ‘Sorry about this. I’m training him. He’s rather stubborn.’

  ‘Can’t you control that thing?’ demanded Godric loftily. ‘I mean, how hard is it to control an animal you could easily stick on a barbecue? Surely he weighs less than your ludicrous handbag?’

  Godric was really starting to get on my nerves. He had absolutely no reason to be so rude, especially to people who were trying to help him.

  I got up to wind in the lead before I told Godric where to get off. It went round a wastebin, through a bush, and at last I spotted him.

  ‘Braveheart!’ I yelled furiously. He was over by a tree, enthusiastically mounting a spaniel who didn’t seem to know quite what was going on.

  Her owner, however, did, and he seemed pretty livid.

  ‘What the hell you doing?’ he screamed, flapping his hands at the dogs. ‘What the hell? Get off! Get off! Oh, my God! Call the police!’

  Braveheart flashed him an ‘oh, do just leave us to it’ look that my father would have been proud of and carried on thrashing away.

  Well, that was it. It was one thing being shown up by the rudeness of a recalcitrant semi-client, but to be shown up by my own dog? In normal circumstances, basic manners would have dictated that one ignored the thrashing and let nature take its course, but this was something else entirely.

  ‘Braveheart!’ I thundered, bright red with nine different types of embarrassment. ‘Braveheart! I can’t believe this behaviour! Come here right now! Right now!’

  Dwight and Godric flinched at the steel in my voice.

  ‘Christ,’ I heard Godric mumble, ‘Maggie effing Thatcher or what?’

  With one final thrust, Braveheart dismounted and trotted over to me, leaving the spaniel swaying slightly. I bent down to his level and gave him my Grade One Look of Severe Displeasure, complete with the Strict Finger of Disappointment. ‘Never, never do that again,’ I hissed, ‘or I will tan your sorry Scottish hide from here to Aberdeen, pedigree or no pedigree!’

  I was pleased to see him quail and lie down in grovelling supplication.

  I stood up and prepared to grovel myself to the owner. Never actually having owned a dog myself, I wasn’t sure what the correct procedure was. Did I offer to pay for the morning-after pill, or something? Should I insist that Braveheart marry her?

  ‘Hello. Melissa Romney-Jones. Hello. Gosh, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. If it’s any consolation,’ I said, trying to be wry, ‘he does have an excellent pedigree. And wonderful taste in bitches too! What a lovely dog you have. What’s she called?’

  The man looked outraged. ‘His name is King Charles.’

  I blanched. ‘Oh, heavens, I do apologise. Um . . .’

  ‘Your freakin’ dog has just assaulted my show champion, in broad daylight, and you’re sayin’ sorry?’ His voice was getting higher and higher, and I wondered if he was maybe taking this a little too personally. ‘And God knows what disgusting British diseases he’s spreadin’!’

  So much for New Yorkers being friendly.

  ‘Now, hang on a mo,’ I said, ‘he’s actually an American dog, with Kennel Club papers and . . .’

  But the man was pointing and stepping nearer. Invading my space, as Gabi would have said.

  I kind of wished Gabi was here now. She had no problems about settling disputes in public.

  ‘Women like you are what spoil these parks for proper dog-lovers,’ he spat. ‘Coming here with your stupid little dogs, and your attitude – oh, I’m too busy to train him! That’s for someone else to do.’ He stopped flapping his hands around in imitation of some Park Avenue dog-owner, and stepped even nearer, the better to jab his finger at me. ‘Maybe if you spent less time sitting on your fat ass, which, may I add, is about to bust out of that dress – don’t you have StairMasters in Britain? – maybe if you spent more time running in the park with your dog instead of sitting there eating ice cream . . .’

  I flinched at that. I mean, criticise the dog, by all means, but . . .

  ‘What did you say?’

  I turned round. Out of nowhere, Godric was now standing right up underneath the angry man’s nose. I suddenly realised how tall he was – he stood a good head over Angry Dog Man and, as if to emphasise his outrage, he’d even removed his shades.

  Not that Angry Dog Man seemed that worried. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘What did you say to her?’ demanded Godric.

  ‘That your little doggie?’ the man sneered. ‘Well, now it all makes sense.’

  ‘Godric, just leave it,’ I said, aware of a crowd gathering a safe distance away. ‘I’m sure once we’ve all calmed down, we can—’

  ‘I am freakin’ calm, lady!’ shrieked Angry Dog Man. ‘You’re the one with the problem!’

  I quailed, despite myself. I really hate being shouted at. ‘Look, please . . .’ I stammered.

  ‘Don’t speak to her like that,’ said Godric ominously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, don’t speak to her like that. Are you stupid, or just ill-mannered? Don’t you know how to behave towards a lady?’

  ‘Godric, listen, please don’t—’

  ‘Will you can it, you fat bitch?’ Angry Dog Man snapped, and then seemed to hurtle sideways as Godric’s fist connected with his jaw and sent him reeling.

  The crowd gasped. To my horror, I heard the rattle of camera shutters, and spinning round to tell Dwight that this wasn’t really the time, I realised that it wasn’t just him taking pictures – there was another photog-rapher there too, and they were jostling one another for position, as Godric and Angry Dog Man rolled around punching each other.

  Oh, God, this was dreadful! A whole range of horrors ran through my head: Godric’s famous face maimed, Godric up in court, Paige suing me . . .

  I racked my brains for what celebrities were meant to do in this situation but all I could think of were pictures of Sean Penn brawling with the paparazzi while Madonna put a bag over her head. Clearly that wasn’t going to cut it here, so I grabbed the nearest bowl of dog drinking water, hurled it over the pair of them to shock them into breaking it up, then turned to put my hands over the camera lenses.

  ‘Quick, quick!’ I shouted, in a desperate d
istraction attempt. ‘The dogs are getting away!’

  That at least was true: the spaniel was making a break for it, with Braveheart in hot pursuit. Angry Dog Man struggled to his feet, glaring furiously between Godric – who had the classic public school slap-and-roll fight technique down pat – and his vanishing show champion. With a fearsome growl, he set off after the dog, jabbing his fist.

  ‘I’m coming back!’ he yelled, pointing at us. ‘Don’t think this is over! I know who you are! I’m coming back!’

  I dragged Godric to his feet and brushed the grass off his polo-neck. My heart was still hammering with shock, and I was glad to have some briskness to hide behind. Manners are the corset of the soul, I find.

  ‘That was terribly chivalrous of you, Godric, but next time you want to defend a lady’s honour,’ I said, brushing hard, ‘can you please check for paparazzi?’

  ‘I don’t care how fat your arse is,’ muttered Godric, ‘he had no right to talk to you like that. It was out of line. Can’t stand it when people are rude. Makes me mad. Effing American yob.’

  But he looked quietly pleased with himself, and I couldn’t help feeling flattered, in an uncommonly medieval way. Even though I was really very angry with him about behaving like that.

  Still, no one had ever defended my honour before. I mean, apart from Nelson. And never with fists.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Dwight. ‘You want to see these.’

  We spun round. He proffered his camera, showing us the images on the digital screen: close-ups of Godric’s face, doing enraged, surprised, defensive and, finally, quite chuffed.

  ‘Aren’t they great?’ he enthused. ‘I mean, yeah, extreme way to get them, but hey! It worked. There’s got to be five, six great shots there.’

  But it wasn’t those photographs I was worried about. I was more concerned about the ones in the camera now heading off at high speed towards the nearest exit.

  12

  They say that nothing spoils your appetite like a guilty conscience, and I can confirm this is true. In my experience – and believe me, I generally make Augustus Gloop look picky – extreme desire also renders me less than peckish, so a combination of the two meant that Jonathan’s promised romantic dinner was off to a bad start before the food even arrived.

  He’d gone to some effort too, to make up for missing our lunch: he picked me up in a cab at six, postponing appointments on his phone as we went, then refused to tell me where we were going. I think he might have made the cab drive round the city for a bit to confuse me – which he needn’t have bothered doing because I had no idea where we were anyway – until we ended up at a rickety-looking jetty, down by the river, next to a five-lane intersection and bridge combo.

  It wasn’t Jonathan’s usual style, I had to admit.

  ‘Um, is it some kind of special seafood place?’ I hazarded, not wanting to sound disappointed.

  ‘Not really.’ He was scanning the quayside, then suddenly strode off, pulling me by the hand after him. ‘Here we are!’

  We were standing in front of a little landing deck, with the gangplank ready extended into the launch. I looked uncertainly at the small tugboat bobbing in the choppy waters. It was a two-level tourist contraption, with rails around the top, and it didn’t look all that seaworthy to me. Underneath it, the river was churning away ominously.

  ‘Get in!’ Jonathan handed me up and over the gangplank, gesturing for me to go up the stairs to the front of the top deck. We were the only people on the boat, and when he’d fastened the chain behind him, the captain hurled the mooring rope and plank onto the deck behind us with carefree abandon, and, with a lurch, the little boat set off.

  The view, though, took my mind off any impending seasickness at once. I leaned against the front rails and watched the skyscrapers and riverside office blocks pass by in a glittering collage of glass and steel, brick and marble. The sun was setting behind them, sending fingers of orange light through the spaces, picking out flat panes of glass and frosted curlicues like multicoloured jewels, shifting with every new wave that lifted and dropped us.

  Jonathan appeared behind me, holding onto the rails to keep me steady, and I leaned back happily into his chest, feeling his chin tuck protectively over my head.

  ‘I keep forgetting the city’s so close to the water’s edge,’ I said, the stress of the morning vanishing as the wind blew strands of hair around my face. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I love this. You remember when you took me on the London Eye, and told me how proud you felt of London when you saw it all spread out underneath? Well, this is my favourite view of Manhattan. From the river, with no people in the way. In the evening, preferably.’ He lifted his hand and sketched a line along the jagged row of offices and apartments in front of us. ‘All those windows, all those apartments . . . I love looking at them, and imagining what they’ve seen going down this river, you know? The ships, the people, the seasons. We can come and go, but this all stays pretty much the same. I like that. Buildings. They’re kind of . . . comforting.’

  I didn’t say anything, but I smiled and relaxed back against him.

  Jonathan tucked his head tenderly into my neck. ‘I want to share all of my New York with you, Melissa. My house, my friends, my life.’ He paused. ‘It’s not just about where you live, what you have. It’s about who you’re with. I know you get that, and it means a lot to me.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, quavering just a little at the responsibility involved there. Could you ever really share friends who’d known one party so much longer? And how was I meant to share them with Cindy? ‘But . . .’

  He leaned back, so his arms were round me once again, and we were both looking out at the skyline scrolling along in front of us. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said, putting one finger over my lips. ‘Let’s just enjoy this view.’

  And we sailed on in silence, alone on the little boat, surrounded by our thoughts. I felt so happy, wrapped up in Jonathan’s arms, that I barely even noticed how we were pitching up and down on the wash, until we reached the restaurant at the other end and I nearly slipped off the gangplank in my high heels.

  It wasn’t just some seafood place. The menu was about a metre square, there were three waiters to our table alone, and the piano player switched to playing selections from West Side Story when we walked in, almost as if Jonathan had arranged it.

  ‘This OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely!’ I said.

  We held hands until the starters came, then talked about New York, about London, about his new colleagues, about my sightseeing, about Braveheart. We even touched again on Cindy, obliquely.

  ‘I haven’t talked like this for the longest time,’ said Jonathan suddenly.

  I put my fork down in readiness. I have a terrible habit of having my mouth full at inopportune moments.

  ‘You know why?’ he went on. ‘Trust. It’s so great to have trust.’

  I smiled nervously. ‘Good.’

  ‘I know I sometimes take the rise out of you for being a little bit . . . innocent,’ he said, stroking the inside of my wrist, ‘but I love that you’re so open with me. I can trust you absolutely.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘What’s the point otherwise?’

  ‘And I hope you trust me?’ he added. ‘You’d tell me if there was anything on your mind, wouldn’t you? Anything you weren’t happy about?’

  I bit my lip and nodded hard.

  ‘Ding!’ went Nelson’s voice in my head.

  In the candlelight, I could see Jonathan’s face was wreathed in smiles. He looked so happy. Relaxed even.

  Over the water, the lights of Manhattan had come on, and were glowing through the gathering evening dusk. The Empire State Building was lit up in red and green, and I could see the Chrysler Building rising elegantly over the peaks and spires of the dark city.

  It was perfect.

  Now wasn’t the time to admit my stupid, immature Cindy fears, or tell him about today’s Godric fias
co.

  ‘Melissa,’ said Jonathan quietly, pushing his fingers through mine. ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

  My head snapped up to look at him. It was the first time he’d said it. In my chest, my heart swooped and dived like a swallow.

  ‘I do!’ I said. ‘I mean, I love you too.’

  And undemonstrative Jonathan leaned over the table and kissed me on the lips. He tasted delicious.

  I wasn’t telling him anything after that, believe me.

  The next morning, I didn’t exactly spring out of bed, due to the crashing champagne headache pinning me to the Egyptian cotton pillows. But Jonathan was already in his shower when I prised my eyes open, and he was singing selections from High Society. He had, I noted distantly, rather a good voice.

  Not wanting him to see me looking like a toad, I stumbled out of bed and into the other bathroom, where I splashed water on my face to wake up, then lavished moisturiser penitently over the resulting pinkness. When I looked nearly human, with Jonathan still bellowing away next door, I pulled on my linen trousers, a vest and shades, and took Braveheart out for his morning constitutional. OK, so I also took the sneaky opportunity to check my mobile for business arising at home.

  There were three texts and a couple of messages. One from Nelson (‘Do not get in unlicensed minicabs!’), one from Gabi (‘Best place for men’s shirts with extra long arms?’) and one from Allegra (‘Gabi nightmare. Please sack’). As I was reading that one, another arrived, this time from Gabi (‘Tell yr sis office opens at 10!! Not 3!! Fed up of slacking! Can I fire her?’).

  Oh, God. Were they doing this in front of clients? I shook myself. Why was I surprised? The main thing was that they were actually in the office at all. Because, if they weren’t, who was answering the phone? Or checking the diary?

  I took a deep breath. I was meant to be on holiday. On holiday. I needed to prove to Jonathan that I could leave the office alone.

  And, anyway, wasn’t I going to fly back and do an emergency patch-up job fairly soon? I knew Gabi and Allegra were never going to be best mates, but they might settle down, if I left them to work things out. Stranger things had happened.