Little Lady, Big Apple

  One, I told myself, it’s not for long.

  Two, Gabi won’t do anything Nelson wouldn’t approve of.

  Three . . .

  Visions of Allegra remodelling Chelsea bachelors’ pads in the style of Hogwarts filled my head.

  I shook myself.

  Three, it might teach some clients what good value I really was.

  I fired off quick responses to each message, picked up the gossipy papers that weren’t filled with dry financial news (i.e., the ones that Jonathan didn’t already get) and bought some extra chicken breast from the deli on the corner. I also grabbed a coffee, to jumpstart my morning personality before I had to talk to Jonathan, and, after a brief power struggle near some pigeons, Braveheart and I returned home, feeling really rather New York-y.

  Jonathan was already sorting through his mail at the table and beamed approvingly at me when we walked in.

  ‘You know what I love about you?’ he asked.

  ‘My winning way with small dogs?’ I suggested, stuffing Braveheart in his crate with some chicken and MooMoo.

  ‘Well, that too. But mainly I love the way you look so gorgeous first thing in the morning!’

  I peered at him. ‘Do you have your contact lenses in, darling?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course I do! You just look . . . natural. Like a peach. That’s nice. Not like these women who have to spend hours and hours plastering themselves with make-up and mascara and what have you before they’ll even step outside.’

  My initial beam of pleasure faded slightly into wanness. Was that a compliment or a ghost dig at Cindy? The two weren’t mutually exclusive, I was beginning to realise. Cindy wasn’t a yardstick I really wanted to be measured against. I mean, if Jonathan had seen me before I’d had my magic coffee remedy, he’d know that my real natural morning state could frighten unsuspecting pensioners into thinking the Grim Reaper was near.

  But Jonathan had spotted my shopping. ‘Hey! You picked up the scandal rags? Homesick for celebrities falling out of nightclubs and showing their panties? C’mon, let’s see. You want more coffee? Here, let me get you some.’

  I gave him the New York Post, while I flicked through Star magazine, and we shovelled up our granola contentedly.

  I paused, as the comforting warmth of solid food spread over me. This was what I’d come over for, I thought happily. Little moments like this, sharing breakfast with the Man I Loved. I wasn’t saying that the expensive dinners and armfuls of roses weren’t amazing, but it was the small intimacies, seeing how clinically Jonathan spread butter on his bagel, how he dissolved exactly half a lump of sugar in his espresso, that—

  ‘Oh ho, Melissa!’ said Jonathan suddenly, peering up over the paper with a mock-disapproving look on his face. Or was it real disapproval? It was so hard to tell. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘What?’ I put my coffee cup down. ‘Oh, God, it’s not Allegra, is it? Tell me it’s nothing to do with her court case.’

  Jonathan looked puzzled. ‘Why would anyone care about Allegra? No, it’s that friend of yours.’

  ‘Which friend? Not Nelson?’

  Jonathan pretended to look disapproving. ‘No. Your ex.’

  ‘Orlando?’ I spluttered.

  He frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, pulling the paper off him.

  To my horror, on page six, there was a blurry shot of Ric pounding Angry Dog Man, with a large black Letterbox of Privacy over his eyes.

  My flowered cotton dress, meanwhile, was clearly visible in the background, accessorised with a retractable dog lead and no dog. I looked shocked, and rather stupid. Well, the portion of my face that my hat wasn’t concealing looked shocked. Thank heavens for small mercies.

  Gosh. There really was quite a lot of that skirt. Angry Dog Man might have had a point about the size of my rear end.

  ‘Oh, it’s Godric,’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought . . .’ I trailed off as the full implications rolled over my brain like molten tarmac.

  Godric. Oh, hell.

  ‘“Which rising Hollywood star-to-be was seeing stars in Central Park yesterday morning?”’ Jonathan read aloud. ‘“His agent, noted industry tigress, Paige Drogan, was quick to leap to the hot-headed hot-shot’s defence. ‘As I understand it, there was a lady’s honour at stake and my client isn’t ashamed of his good old-fashioned English manners.’”’ He looked up. ‘That is Ric Spencer, right?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ I said uncomfortably.

  ‘Wow. We’re Page Six celebrities once removed! “The British bruiser refused to identify the lady in question,”’ Jonathan read on, ‘“but we’d love to know what the unfortunate dog-lover said to offend him quite so much.”’ His voice slowed down and he raised his eyes from the paper. ‘Melissa, that’s you in the background, isn’t it? That’s the dress you were wearing yesterday.’

  I drew in a deep breath. There really wasn’t any point in lying; after all, hadn’t I told Jonathan where I’d been?

  ‘It is, yes,’ I admitted. ‘It happened while we were doing that photoshoot I was telling you about.’

  ‘So why didn’t you mention the punch-up last night? And the cameras? And the noted industry tigress?’

  My stomach tightened with tension, and, even though I had absolutely no reason to, I felt terribly guilty all of a sudden.

  ‘Oh, God, because it was all so embarrassing, and we were having such a lovely dinner! I didn’t want you to worry about it, and I thought I’d managed to convince the photographer that it was a silly misunderstanding, and . . .’ I spread my hands. ‘What can I say? I felt ridiculous. I hoped it would blow over.’

  Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. ‘Don’t keep secrets from me,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not a secret!’ I protested. ‘I told you I was meeting Godric yesterday.’

  ‘You didn’t say you were going to end up in the Post.’

  ‘How could I?’ I objected. ‘I had no idea! You think I wanted that to happen? I . . . I’m mortified.’

  And I was mortified too. That was truly appalling publicity to get a rising Hollywood star, especially one who was meant to have impeccable manners. Paige would be incandescent, and quite rightly so.

  ‘Mortified, why?’ said Jonathan coolly.

  ‘Because I was meant to be keeping an eye on him, and he ends up in the papers!’ I said without thinking.

  He gave me a level stare. ‘Not because my friends might see this and wonder what you’re doing being defended by another man? A good-looking Hollywood actor man?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot. Who just happens to be an ex-boyfriend of yours?’

  Jonathan said all this in a very light adult way, but I could tell from his face that he wasn’t entirely joking.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so silly!’ I burst out. ‘He’s not an ex! We had a brief snog, in a cupboard, when we were both at school! That’s years ago! Anyway, I made sure no one knew who I was and everyone knows I’m with you. Why on earth would I be . . .’ I trailed off. It was just too obvious for words, surely?

  Jonathan sighed. ‘Melissa, tell me the truth. Has Paige hired you to pretend to be this jerk’s girlfriend? Because I can kind of understand why he might have trouble getting a real one.’

  ‘No!’ I insisted. ‘Jonathan, I gave you my word that I’d never do that again. All that is absolutely, definitively in the past. Paige just wants someone to act as a sort of . . . manners coach for Godric.’

  A thick silence fell over the kitchen table.

  ‘And that is all,’ I added aloud.

  ‘I don’t mean to get heavy with you here.’ Jonathan looked wounded, but patient. ‘But I’ve been meaning to say this to you for a while. You might not think you’re putting on a wig and pretending to be Ric’s girlfriend, but, as far as I’m concerned, there’s not much difference. I know you. You get involved with these guys. You care about them. And . . . I don’t know. I worry about people taking advantage.’ He hesitated, seein
g me bridle.

  ‘And call me a jealous, mean, possessive boyfriend,’ Jonathan went on quickly, ‘but I only want you caring and getting involved with me. You want to advise Agnetha on her tea parties, or run seminars for ladies about how to organise wedding showers, that’s fine. Go ahead. But do me a favour and leave the guys out of it?’

  ‘But it’s not like that!’ I said. ‘If Godric was a useless, rude woman who needed some help presenting herself, would you still have a problem with my helping out?’

  Jonathan thought. ‘I don’t know. I think women are just as capable of forming crushes on you as men are, to be frank.’ He cut me a teasing look.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said haughtily. ‘You’re moving the goalposts.’

  ‘Is that a fact? How far do you think your goalposts could move?’ He lifted an eyebrow and I had to look down into my granola to retain my haughtiness.

  OK. So, it was his house. I was in his country. They were his friends, and he did have a position to keep up. It wouldn’t do the whole Cindy situation any good if I kept being photographed with Godric.

  What I did in London though was definitely my own business.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Paige and tell her I can’t see Godric again. But honestly, Jonathan, you’re so wrong about Godric. He’s not a sex symbol at all. He’s just this hopelessly shy idiot, with a monobrow, who read too much Arthurian legend when he was young and thinks that women should—’

  ‘Nu-uh!’ said Jonathan, raising his finger to stop me. ‘Don’t tell me that. I want to go into the office today and tell everyone that my girlfriend is hanging with Ric Spencer!’

  ‘Jonathan, I’d be surprised if they even know who he is.’

  ‘They will now,’ he said, tucking the paper into his briefcase. ‘He’s a hot-headed hot-shot from Hollywood.’

  ‘He’s a fat-headed fuck-wit from Fulham, more like.’

  ‘Well, you are the hotline to the gossip, honey.’

  I thought Jonathan had let it go, and I was pouring myself another coffee, when he added, as an afterthought, ‘So what did this guy say about you? To get such a beating from a geek you kissed ten years ago?’

  I looked up, startled. My hands were a little shaky from my hangover, and the coffee slopped into the china saucer.

  Jonathan tipped his head to one side. ‘I mean, the girls at work will need to know that.’

  ‘The man made some personal remarks about my weight,’ I said stiffly. ‘And implied that Braveheart was out of control.’

  ‘Well, he deserved all he got then,’ said Jonathan. ‘Right, I need to scoot. Give me a ring if you have coffee with any more Hollywood actors, yeah? Got to get my story straight for the reporters.’ He paused. ‘I intend to be a red-blooded realtor from . . .’ His brow creased.

  ‘We’ll work on it,’ I said.

  When Jonathan had left, with me promising faithfully that I’d definitely get round to going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art today, I readied myself for some quality grovelling.

  In addition to rehearsing my apology to Paige for propelling her client into murky publicity waters, that involved ironing a proper dress, putting my hair in proper rollers, and finding some proper hosiery. I needed as much reinforcement as I could manage, and in times of crisis I’d always derived enormous support from knowing that I had the right shoes and underwear.

  Jonathan’s master bedroom was large and airy, and even though he was planning to have the whole thing redesigned to make maximum use of space, blah, blah, blah, walk-in closets, blah, blah, blah, I rather liked it as it was: bare floorboards with a huge brass bed in the middle, with a view of the leafy green tops of the trees outside, and the rich brown façades of the houses opposite.

  I wasn’t surprised to find he had a cleaner four days a week, even with the house in pre-decoration state, and I’d already invested an hour in ‘making nice’ with her and a box of fresh cinnamon doughnuts. Concetta told me some very shocking things about Jonathan’s bathroom habits. Then again, a man as tidy and controlled as he was had to have some area of mess, I supposed.

  Braveheart watched my preparations from the corner nearest the door and had the decency to remain silent throughout.

  ‘Don’t think you’re off the hook,’ I warned him, raising my finger. ‘I might even take you with me. As evidence.’

  He wagged his stumpy tail energetically, and sat down on my clean cardigan. Jonathan was surely impressed by Braveheart’s new tricks, I told myself. At least there was one area I’d triumphed where Cindy had failed miserably.

  As I was toying with the idea of a page-dog Braveheart meekly trotting down the aisle at my bridal heel, he launched himself against the window in a fury of barking, and the two pigeons on the windowsill flew off vertically, leaving streaks of very obvious distress all over the window.

  I sighed. That’d teach me to get ahead of myself.

  We set off through Greenwich Village towards Paige’s office – Braveheart on a very tight leash, and me taking care to walk in the shade so I didn’t arrive feeling any more flustered than I already felt. The chess players were out in the park already, ignoring the NYU students streaming past, and the old lady who read tarot cards in a booth on Sullivan Street had one customer in, and one reading the paper outside.

  I kept telling myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but if I was being completely honest, there was a new small voice in my head, and it was more cross than anything else – cross that I hadn’t contained the situation as well as I’d have liked. I hated that feeling of leaving a job half done.

  Particularly when I knew I could have done it so much better. Had I been properly assigned to it. In my professional Honey Blennerhesket capacity.

  I stopped outside Dean & Deluca’s and looked at myself sternly in the glass. I saw a tallish, dark-haired girl in a tight-around-the-bosom vintage frock, gripping her handbag and frowning. Without thinking, I put a hand to my hair, and, for a second, wished I had my blonde wig to slip on. I knew where I was when Honey . . .

  Melissa, I reminded myself. You’re perfectly capable of dealing with this as Melissa. Honey is just a state of mind. That wig does not have magic powers. And Jonathan’s right. Maybe it is time to stop blurring the lines in your life.

  I pushed the frown out of my forehead with my spare hand. And before Braveheart could follow his twitching black nose into the deli, I swept us both off to Paige’s office.

  To my surprise, Braveheart was ushered in with great cooing and fussing and given a bowl of water by the receptionist, while I sat on the black leather sofa and ran through my apology again in my head. Not too effusive, I told myself. Retain pride. You weren’t actually told what to do here.

  ‘Melissa,’ said Paige, shortly, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘Hello, Paige,’ I said, pulling myself together.

  ‘Come in.’ She nodded her head towards her office and we sat down.

  ‘I won’t take up too much of your time, Paige,’ I started. ‘I’ve come to apologise for the fiasco yesterday. It was entirely my fault – well, the fault of Jonathan’s dog, which I know I should have had under proper control, but even so, Ric—’

  ‘Melissa,’ said Paige, holding up both her forefingers, then moving them from side to side, as if she were playing with an invisible cat’s cradle. Then she pointed them at me. ‘Stop you there.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, rather thrown by the fact that Paige didn’t seem as raging mad as I’d expected.

  ‘I should be apologising to you,’ she began. ‘In fact, I thought that’s what you were here for! Let me assure you right now, that New York is not like this at all! What must you think of us, getting you into a fight in your first week in the city! Oh, my God!’ she laughed. ‘Isn’t that just the most awful thing? I hope you haven’t put that on your postcards home! Hi, Mom! Today I was nearly beaten up in Central Park and was rescued by a film star! Well, hey, come to think of it – maybe you should!’

  ‘Um,
actually, no,’ I said. In my immediate mortification at the bad publicity, I hadn’t even considered that I should have been angry about it. Still, it had been sort of my fault . . .

  Paige leaned forward in her seat, as if we were suddenly old friends again. ‘Ric is a tricky customer,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think? But, you know, he’s a genius, and sometimes you have to cut them a little slack. However, I can see we’ve got a problem here, and I’m asking you, as a fellow Brit – what can we do? What’s the best way to help him out?’

  I looked at Paige carefully. Obviously Godric still hadn’t told her exactly how we knew each other. And I wasn’t going to put her straight.

  ‘I can see how he comes across badly,’ I agreed. ‘But he’s really not as rude as he makes out, not intentionally. I mean, I think he’s more . . . shy than anything else? Lacking in social confidence?’

  ‘Like a rough diamond, you mean?’ Paige looked eager for my opinion. I felt quite flattered. I’d got rather used to second-guessing how I was getting things wrong over here.

  ‘Yes! I mean, does he have a girlfriend, for instance?’ I paused. ‘I’m not totally stupid, Paige. I know that if he did have a wife and two kids you might not want to make a big deal of it, but does he have a girlfriend?’

  She hesitated. ‘I get the feeling there was one, quite recently, back in England. He refuses to discuss his private life? Says it’s none of my effing business.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘Ric! So discreet! But you know, you’re right, he does need to be seen out and about with a smart girl.’

  ‘Well, then.’ I sank back in my chair, feeling vindicated. ‘You just need to get him one, and you’re away. She’ll knock all this flouncing and showing-off on the head. No decent girl wants to be seen out and about with a man who insults everyone he meets.’

  Paige seemed to think for a moment.

  ‘Not that I’m offering to do that!’ I added, without thinking. ‘I’ve completely given that up for Lent!’

  At once her eyebrows shot up and she leaned back in her seat.