Little Lady, Big Apple

  Oops. That was a stupid thing to say. Given that Paige didn’t know about my secret agency past, it must have sounded plain bizarre.

  ‘So, er, I can only apologise for the fracas in the park,’ I said hurriedly, ‘but, ah . . .’

  Paige said nothing but carried on staring at me, a smile on her lips, as if she were thinking hard about what to say next.

  I faltered. It was very unsettling.

  ‘I really hope it hasn’t spoiled anything for Ric, and, um, I can give him some really excellent arnica cream for the bruising . . .’

  ‘Melissa. Can I level with you?’

  ‘Please do,’ I said, already suspecting that this wouldn’t be so much a levelling as a full-scale bulldozing.

  ‘No, the incident in the park wasn’t ideal. I mean, I can’t pitch Ric as a charming English gentleman if he’s got a black eye and a reputation for brawling, now, can I?’

  She said this with a fabulously warm smile, as if she just couldn’t stop seeing the funny side, and I found myself smiling back with relief.

  ‘Well, no,’ I agreed. ‘But it does prove he didn’t fib about any stage-fighting qualifications on his CV!’

  Paige laughed. ‘That’s true!’

  I didn’t want to come straight out and say, ‘So, you’re not mad?’ like a character in a Nancy Drew novel, because that was generally the point where my father dropped the bonhomie smokescreen and revealed his true frothing at the mouth. But I did sense that an early departure would be in my best interests.

  ‘I mean, if there’s anything I can do,’ I said, with some relief, seeing the finishing line in sight, ‘just let me know. I’ll give you my number back in England.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Paige, sitting back up again. She jutted her lower lip cutely. ‘Oh, no, we can’t really leave a situation like this so long. Gotta move fast, know what I mean?’ she said with an ‘atta-girl!’ thrust of her fist. ‘I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me recoup a little ground now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now. The trick to being an agent is to work out what people want then give it to them,’ she said. ‘And if that fails, work out what you want them to want, then give them that.’

  ‘Right . . .’ I really wasn’t following this.

  ‘Listen, between you and me, Melissa, I’ve had two calls already this morning from casting directors who’ve never shown any interest in Ric whatsoever – until now. Go figure, huh? So, hey! Let’s turn this negative into a positive!’

  Light began to dawn, and I was fascinated, despite myself, by how pragmatically Paige was rebranding Ric before my very eyes. ‘You want him to come across as a sort of extreme Mr Knightley?’ I asked. ‘Like, full-on chivalry – with fists?’

  Paige paused. ‘That might be kind of complex to get across. I’m thinking more . . . plain dangerous.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yup! Dangerous! Like one of those poets. A real actor, uncompromising, passionate, fiery . . .’

  ‘Rude?’ I suggested sarcastically.

  ‘Yup, rude,’ agreed Paige. ‘Rude, surly, mean, a guy who’s seen it all, the mean streets of London, England. Like – ah, Guy Ritchie!’

  ‘Paige,’ I said, trying to think of a nice way to put it. ‘Guy Ritchie isn’t exactly from the wrong side of the tracks. His mother goes to the same hairdresser as mine.’

  ‘Chuch!’ Paige flapped her hands. ‘We don’t need to know that! I just want Ric to be dangerous, but mannerly at the same time!’

  I racked my brains for a comparison. ‘Like . . . um . . .’

  ‘Yeah . . . like . . . um . . .’ Paige pressed her lips together, then pointed at me. ‘Like no one! He’s a one-off. That’s the whole point. He’s Colin Farrell meets . . .’

  ‘Harold Shipman?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I sighed. ‘English joke. Look, Paige, that sounds amazing. Best of luck!’

  ‘Melissa, I need you.’ She looked at me with serious eyes. ‘I need you to help me with this.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, but already she was reeling me in. I could feel it.

  ‘Wouldn’t you love to be involved with something so exciting? I mean, you know this guy! Don’t you think you’re already invested? And, God, don’t you want to help out a . . . friend at a really crucial time in his career?’ Paige had dropped her voice to a sort of hypnotic sing-song monotone, and although she was asking questions, she wasn’t exactly leaving space for answers.

  ‘Oh, I barely know Ric, really,’ I tried, but she was rolling on, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Hey, I know you’re on vacation and everything, but what kind of agent would I be if I didn’t grab skills like yours when they come along? I mean, wouldn’t you say you have a great understanding of how men should present themselves? And isn’t this just a once-in-a-lifetime challenge for you? And we can make it totally worth your while in terms of financial compensation, if you know what I’m saying here. Melissa, I have to tell you, on a purely personal note, I just love the way you behave with those cute old-fashioned manners’ – she wagged her finger at me jokily – ‘I hear all your thank-you letters are right up to date with Bonnie and the girls!’

  I gaped. How did she know that? And if she knew, did Cindy know too?

  ‘You have so much to share with Ric on that score. So what I’m saying, I guess, is that, just for a little while, if you could just be there with him when I can’t be, just steer him round. I mean, I can tell how great you are with tricky situations!’

  ‘But, Paige, I’m only here for—’

  She opened her eyes, until they were huge and babyish. ‘It’s only for when I can’t make it. I may never have to call! Can we just play it by ear?’

  Jonathan would freak out.

  ‘Jonathan will freak out,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Is he in charge of you?’ she scoffed. ‘I know what men can be like! And Jonathan’s bark’s much worse than his bite. Why not just tell him you’re seeing a friend? Come on! He’s probably secretly really proud of what you can do. He’s always telling people what a star you are.’

  ‘You think?’ I said uncertainly. I couldn’t quite get used to the fact that these people had all known Jonathan much longer than I had. Besides, the teeny amount I was seeing of him during the day meant that I could practically rehearse the Ring Cycle with Godric and he’d never know.

  ‘Sure!’ The waggy finger again. ‘He loves women who can do their own thing. Independence, you know? It’s the secret of healthy relationships. But to be serious a second, Melissa, you know what? I think it was fate that we bumped into each other at that party? Let’s not laugh in the face of fate. Ric needs you right now. I need you. And it could really be the start of something for you too.’

  Finally she stopped, tilting her head to one side, like a little bird, to let me respond.

  Oh, God. Maybe I did owe Godric a favour for getting me out of that awful fight in the park. And I did feel a certain patriotic responsibility to arm him with at least a few useful social hints and tips. I really should have sorted him out when I had the chance, backstage at St Cathal’s Bicentennial Memorial Hall.

  ‘OK,’ I said firmly. ‘But you must understand that Jonathan’s privacy comes way before Godric’s reputation.’ I paused to let it sink in, and gave her a diluted version of the Look. ‘Way before.’

  ‘I understand completely,’ she said, and gave me a smile that reminded me uncomfortably of Allegra.

  13

  As the week went on, I had more and more calls at random hours from Gabi and Allegra, both bitching about each other, or asking disturbingly obvious questions. ‘Is a waxing voucher an acceptable wedding gift?’ ‘Can step-cousins marry?’ ‘Who refills the petty cash box?’ That sort of thing. Despite my repeated promises to Jonathan that, yes, I was keeping the office at arm’s length, I found myself breaking my resolve to step away from the drama.

  If I’m being completely honest, one morning I snuck out of bed at 4.30 a.m., just to phone th
e office to see if they were there – at 9.30 a.m. English time.

  They weren’t.

  They weren’t there at 5 a.m/10 a.m., either, but I couldn’t keep checking after that, because Jonathan got up at 5.30 a.m. most mornings, and I didn’t want him to find me snoring over my mobile at the kitchen table, listening to my own outgoing message.

  I also didn’t mention to Jonathan that I’d done a couple of discreet trips around Banana Republic for one Ollie Ross, a client who claimed normal shirts gave him ‘gibbon shoulders’, and that I’d Fedexed a whole box of dental hygiene products back to the office for tactful distribution. However, in the interests of making Jonathan’s friends my friends, a task I was setting my mind to, no matter how awkward it made me feel, I did tell him I’d spent a fascinating hour pumping Bonnie for American business etiquette advice for my father.

  Naturally, Jonathan was happy enough for me to be doing that, even if he did sound rather dubious.

  ‘You sure this isn’t just . . . busy work?’ he asked one morning, looking over my notes. ‘Your dad really needs to know how to greet an . . .’ He peered at the paper. ‘An Uzbeki divorcee?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ I replied, snatching it off him. ‘Don’t be so cynical.’

  I wasn’t sure what busy work was, but it sounded like one of Jonathan’s technical office terms, and I didn’t want to appear any less professional than I already did in New York. Anyway, it was keeping me busy. I’d emailed Daddy several reams of notes, but so far he hadn’t got back to me on them, merely reminding me to invoice him so he could clear it with the Olympic people.

  I had plenty of time to be busy on my own, since Jonathan’s insane schedule seemed to have redoubled even since I’d arrived. He’d stopped promising to try to make lunch, and since the day I’d turned up at his office, having teetered up Fifth Avenue in peep-toe sandals, weaving under the weight of a full picnic basket (inc. glasses and linen), only to have Lori confess guiltily that he was ‘out with a client’ when he’d promised he’d be free, I’d stopped hoping he’d offer.

  Though I didn’t like to say anything, I also had the distinct impression that some of the furrows on his brow were being caused by his own personal sale – his and Cindy’s old apartment. He brushed off any polite enquiries about how it was going with a ‘let’s not bring that problem into this house’, but I’d heard him outside one evening on his mobile, yelling and kicking the iron railings in a most un-Jonathan-like fashion.

  So, no, all in all, I wasn’t getting quite the ‘us time’ I’d hoped for. But I couldn’t help being touched by the ways Jonathan tried to make up for it. He tried to stay awake long enough in the evenings to take me on romantic evening sightseeing buses, but fell asleep on my shoulder halfway round. He sent me texts, reminding me he was thinking about me with complete punctuation. Every morning at about ten thirty Lori would phone up, and ask if there was anything she could arrange for me, and every day I’d feel terrible about saying, no, I was fine. Then, when I put the phone down, I’d worry what sort of gift I should send her when I left. The American etiquette guides were turning me very paranoid.

  ‘Darling, are you sure you’re doing everything you want to?’ he asked one night, while we were eating spaghetti in some little Italian place down the road. ‘Can I get you into any museums? I’m arranging a fundraiser at the Met right now – you’d love that place.’

  I didn’t want to tell him that I was just as happy absorbing New York through the medium of coffee and eavesdropping. It made me sound rather shallow. ‘The Met’s next on my list, honest. But, you know,’ I said hesitantly, ‘it’s so much nicer when you’re with me.’

  ‘Really?’ A surprised sort of pleasure spread across his weary face, and the worry lines faded around his mouth. In the dim light, he suddenly looked about ten years younger.

  I fought an instinct to lean over and press his head maternally to my comforting bosom.

  ‘Course.’ I smiled. ‘I’d be happy just to sit in the park and feed the ducks as long as you were with me. You’d have to bring the bread, mind you. A girl has standards.’

  He reached across the table and took my hands, sending shivers up my wrists and into my heart. I stroked the calloused patches from where he went on the rowing machine at the gym. Hand cream. I could get some from Kiehl’s that wouldn’t look girlie.

  ‘Melissa,’ he began. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been around. It’s just that work . . . it’s crazy at the moment. And then there’s . . .’

  I slid my fingers between his so our hands criss-crossed tightly. ‘Don’t. You’re here now. We’re having a lovely dinner, candles, wine . . .’ I nodded my head towards the room in general. I’d picked this place over the more fashionable suggestions Lori had made, just so we could hold hands and not spend an hour getting ready to go out. ‘I flew over to be with you. I’m not so bothered about anything else.’ I dropped my voice. ‘And I like places where I can slip my shoes off.’

  There was a brief scuffling beneath the table, and then I felt something nudge my toes. It was Jonathan’s foot. I could feel his silk socks against my bare skin.

  Mmm.

  ‘Well, OK,’ he said, his face giving no hint of the journey my foot was now making up his inner calf. ‘In that case, let me make some arrangements.’

  Two days later, he brought me breakfast in bed, and announced he had Big News.

  ‘Now, I hope you don’t have any plans set for today, because I’m taking the afternoon off,’ said Jonathan, and raised his eyebrows to indicate that I should make some appreciative gesture.

  ‘I should think so too. What’s the point of being in charge if you can’t take the afternoon off?’ I glared at Braveheart, who was trying to slink onto the bed, and he scuttled off to his basket in the corner of the room.

  ‘Now, there you’ve got the difference between English managers and American ones,’ he sighed. ‘Unhappily, I don’t have a PA like Gabi to make up dental appointments in Harley Street that take three and a half hours of Friday afternoon. After lunch.’

  I gasped on her behalf. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t . . .’

  ‘Oh, Melissa.’ He wagged his spoon at me. ‘That’s why I put Patrice in charge of that office. Nothing gets past her. She is a New Yorker. She doesn’t give a damn about test matches but she knows exactly when they are.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re taking time off,’ I said, moving on swiftly. ‘What do you have planned?’

  ‘It’s a surprise!’ Jonathan beamed with pleasure. ‘You have to meet me outside the Met at one thirty.’

  ‘We’re going to the Met?’

  ‘No! Much better than that. Although nothing is nicer than the Met,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Oh no,’ I agreed, so as not to look ignorant. ‘Should I wear anything in particular?’

  ‘Nope.’ He finished off his strong coffee, then winked. ‘Just your very nicest . . .’ He opened his mouth then stopped himself. ‘Summer dress,’ he finished instead.

  ‘Well, of course I’ll wear a summer dress,’ I said, confused. Sometimes it felt like there was a whole other FM station of innuendo that I simply couldn’t pick up with my poor AM brain. ‘What else would I wear?’

  Jonathan flashed me a wicked look and shoved a stack of papers into his briefcase. ‘It’s not so much the dress as the . . . Oh, never mind.’ He dropped a kiss on my head. ‘Don’t get into trouble, and I’ll see you later.’

  I spent the morning in the deli on the corner, dutifully writing my postcards. They were pretty much the same to everyone: ‘Having a fantastic time! Seen the Empire State Building and been personally shopped at Bloomingdales. Am meeting lots of Jonathan’s friends, who are all very interesting!’

  On Emery’s card, I added that I’d bumped into Godric, who was now a real actor; on my granny’s card, I added that we’d had cocktails at the Algonquin.

  I waggled my fountain pen and frowned. The morning coffee hadn’t worked its usual magic on me, and an odd sense o
f malaise was hanging over my chest. A sort of . . . flatness. I shook myself. It was probably jet-lag catching up with me.

  And a spot of loneliness. Braveheart was with the walker this morning, and he was my only real daytime companion. It wasn’t like I’d expected to be swept off into a cheery round of Desperate Housewives-style coffee mornings with Jonathan’s female friends, but even so . . .

  I grabbed my mobile off the table, and dialled the office. Nothing like some displacement worries to get rid of pretend ones.

  It rang a disconcerting twelve times before they answered.

  ‘Hello, the Little Ladies?’ gabbled someone eating a croissant or similar.

  ‘The Little Lady Agency, Gabi,’ I reminded her tersely.

  ‘What? Oh, er, hello, Mel.’ There was the sound of shuffling and hasty throat-clearing. The faint hum of Radio One also vanished. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Fine! I’m just having an iced latte in a lovely deli in Greenwich Village,’ I said airily. ‘Just . . . writing my postcards and . . . relaxing.’

  ‘God, you are so lucky,’ said Gabi enviously. ‘And I suppose Dr No’s going to be taking you out for dinner later and generally lavishing you with gifts?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ I beamed. Coming from Gabi it sounded much better than it had on my postcards. ‘He is, actually. We’re having a surprise this afternoon.’

  ‘Has he had your wardrobe restyled for New York yet?’ she enquired. ‘Has he put a GPS on your handbag so you can’t get lost in the big city?’

  ‘What?’ Was that how Jonathan knew about Hughy’s dental appointments?

  ‘He’s done that on the London agents, you know. Put GPS on their briefcases so Patrice knows when they’re working and when they’re in the Slug & Lettuce. Came in handy when Hughy left his briefcase on the train. We watched it go all the way back to Pershore on Patrice’s little screen.’

  ‘Gabi, he hasn’t put GPS on me,’ I said, ignoring the bit about the wardrobe revamping. That had been a gift, hadn’t it? ‘He’s . . . very busy, though.’

  ‘Busier than he is in London?’