Little Lady, Big Apple

  ‘Stop that right now,’ I said, topping up his tea. ‘There’s no point malingering. It’s part of your job, all that schmoozing and dressing up. That’s why they pay you so much money. You have to go and put the glad hand about.’

  ‘But it’s a load of bullshit!’ he moaned. ‘Those bloody awful pretend people, with their shiny faces and their tedious bloody coke habits.’

  ‘Godric.’ I pointed the teaspoon at him. ‘Cut it out. We all have to do things we don’t want to, from time to time. It’s called having a job.’

  ‘But I’m an actor!’

  ‘That’s still a job, last time I checked. Now, what’s the problem?’

  He heaved a sigh. ‘You know that play I was in? Well, I’ve got to go to some bloody awful circle jerk party on Friday night. I really don’t fancy going. Paige says I have to. Something to do with brown-nosing the corporate sponsors.’ He looked up at me hopefully. ‘I don’t suppose . . . ?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ I said. ‘Godric, you have to understand, I really can’t risk that sort of thing happening again, even if it’s totally innocent. I have to think of Jonathan here.’

  He looked at me with his big sad eyes, and I felt a twinge of something, possibly remorse.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I repeated. ‘But come on, Godric, you have to get over it. There’ll be lots of compulsory parties in your career.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I had someone to go with to these effing awful wank-fests,’ he whined. ‘At least I’d have someone to talk to. About something other than everyone else there.’

  God, this shyness masquerading as misanthropy was wearing.

  ‘Well,’ I said practically, ‘can’t you call someone? A friend? Someone from your acting classes?’

  ‘Don’t have any friends here. Specially not at my classes.’

  ‘What about someone in London, then?’ I suggested, knowing rather how he felt. ‘Surely Paige can arrange for them to come over. No . . . old girlfriends, perhaps?’

  Godric looked agonised. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Well, what about your parents, then? Wouldn’t they love a glamorous weekend in New York?’

  Godric fixed me with his most sarcastic glower. ‘My parents? Hardly. Paige’s already told me that they don’t fit in with this image she’s building. Not windswept and aristocratic enough. She asked me if I had any better-looking relatives who could step in for the premiere.’

  ‘No!’ I was shocked.

  He nodded. ‘That’s nothing. You know what she wanted me to be called to begin with?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘God. God Spencer. I really had to put my foot down about that.’

  I pursed my lips. God? Paige Drogan clearly wasn’t quite the person I thought she was. Maybe I should rethink this benefit of the doubt thing.

  ‘How’s Jonathan, you know, about the car . . . incident?’ asked Godric.

  ‘He’s not as mad as I would be if it were me,’ I said carefully. ‘I tried to explain about Granny being a bit, you know, melodramatic. I think he saw the funny side.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Paige fed them all that information herself,’ he grumbled. ‘I mean, the police can’t release details like that, can they, if there’s no arrest made?’

  I looked up at him. ‘No.’ I frowned. ‘That’s right. It must have been her.’

  ‘The sly cow,’ said Godric. ‘I felt bad about that, you know. And we were really starting to have a good time together, weren’t we?’

  ‘Um, yes. Yes, I suppose we were.’

  Godric stared into his teacup. ‘I haven’t had such a good time with . . . with anyone for ages. Cheers. For bailing me out. Appreciate it.’

  He gave me an awkward pat on the arm. There was something about his expression that I found oddly touching. Even if he was socially prehensile, I felt like Godric and I had started to get to know each other, and, more than that, I’d helped him. Sad to say, it was quite heart-warming.

  Then of course, he had to go and spoil it by saying something bloke-ish.

  ‘You know, Melissa,’ said Godric, leaning over the tablecloth so I could see his chest hair poking out of his Aertex shirt, ‘you’re a game girl.’

  I shrank back as if he’d scalded me. The last time someone had called me game, I’d been in the dining room of the Savoy, wearing my wig and suspenders and my dining companion had erroneously assumed I was the pudding course. He’d also been over sixty with some kind of circulation problem, but I’d had no compunction about putting him straight.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I said, and my voice came out rather snappy.

  ‘Why not?’ Godric raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s about as good as it gets, being a game girl!’ He nodded. ‘You should be flattered!’

  You know, sometimes I think men and women share a vocabulary, but not the same language.

  ‘Godric,’ I said firmly. ‘To a woman, being called game is . . . well, it’s practically short for being on the game.’

  ‘I disagree!’ he said. ‘Being game means you’re up for it, you know, not too high-maintenance. You don’t care what people think.’

  I stared at him in mild horror. ‘And that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Men love game girls,’ he went on, warming to his theme. ‘They’re great fun! You know, resourceful. Like you were when we got nicked. Honestly, that really knocked my socks off, the way you got us out of that tight spot. Shows a bit of spirit!’

  And on he went: drinking games, shenanigans in parks, reckless driving, cross-dressing . . .

  All of a sudden, I could see exactly why Jonathan didn’t want me hanging out with Godric, or indeed standing in for anyone else’s girlfriend.

  It made me look game.

  The cold fingers of fear gripped me around the neck, where my nice-girl pearls should have been. Why had I never seen it like this before?

  I didn’t want to be a ‘game’ girl. Game girls never got married. Game girls ended up alone at fifty-five with nine ‘boisterous’ Labradors, running the Pony Club trials with red noses and hearty handshakes, always being invited to other people’s Christmas lunches and never coming ‘because of the dogs’, then spending the day swilling back a bottle of Baileys and weeping over a Michael Palin travelography. No one, in short, ever fell in love with a game girl.

  They were nice girls. But they were still ‘girls’ when they were slapping HRT patches on themselves, and that wasn’t quite right.

  I wanted to be resourceful, yes. Amusing company, sure. But not game.

  I sat speechless as my future unfolded before me in the tearoom like some hideous Charles Dickens vision, while Godric worked himself up into a froth about some up-for-it lass who’d once mounted one of the lions in Trafalgar Square while wearing only a policeman’s helmet. I was willing to bet the price of a Greenwich Village cappuccino that he’d once had a crush on some blowsy elder sister.

  ‘. . . and of course, all that is just. Incredibly. Sexy.’ Godric finished with a slurp of tea to disguise the fact that he’d just said the word sexy.

  ‘Listen, Godric,’ I said. ‘It’s one thing to think of a girl as game in your head, but don’t ever say it aloud unless you want to split up with her. I once . . .’ I hesitated, but then steeled myself. ‘I once had a boyfriend who thought it was the height of compliments to tell me I was game. He used to wear Gucci loafers, and get me to pick up his dry-cleaning too.’

  ‘Really?’ Godric looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to disapprove of that or not. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Well, we split up when he ran off with someone else. But that’s not the point,’ I added. ‘I should have known from the moment that Orlando told me that “all boys love a game girl” that he was only after one thing.’

  Godric’s brow had darkened.

  ‘I mean, I did adore him,’ I went on, encouraged by his apparent shock. ‘He was awfully charming. Very handsome, and frightfully good at . . .’ I shook myself. Now wasn’t the time to be th
inking about that. ‘But now I realise that a man like Jonathan . . . what? What are you looking at me like that for?’

  ‘Orlando?’ Godric demanded. ‘Orlando what?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t know him,’ I said. ‘He’s not an actor.’

  ‘I’m not just an actor,’ huffed Godric. ‘Orlando what?’

  ‘Orlando who?’ I corrected him. ‘Orlando von Borsch. His father’s one of the stuffed olive von Borsches. He’s one hundred per cent cast-iron Euro-trash. Well, one hundred per cent gold-plated Euro-trash, actually. You might have seen him in—’

  ‘I know exactly who he is.’ Godric’s face looked like thunder. ‘He copped off with Kirst— With my girlfriend at Crazy Larry’s before I flew out to do this stupid film, and that was the last I saw of her.’

  Talk about small world!

  ‘Really? Is Crazy Larry’s still going?’ I asked curiously. ‘I thought it had . . . Oh, I mean, that’s terrible! Poor you! What was her name?’

  ‘Kirsty,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Kirsty Carruthers. Do you know her?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, sorry.’

  Godric turned his head away like a wounded animal. ‘I’m over it now. I mean, if she’s seriously impressed by someone so creepy he virtually slithers into the room on his stomach, she’s welcome.’

  I slipped my hand across the table and squeezed his thumb. So this was the girlfriend that Paige had meant. No wonder Godric was such a miserable sod. Despite his stroppy behaviour, I knew Godric was rather like Braveheart: all snap and no bite.

  Well, OK, Braveheart had a nasty nip. And I’d seen Godric’s left hook fell a passer-by, and get us arrested.

  But apart from that, I realised in an unexpected flash of insight, they both just did it to avoid being nice to people because they were scared of being hurt again. Braveheart didn’t ask to be a brattish, tug-of-love latchkey pet. Godric was obviously resorting to the tactics he’d used when he was last dumped, whenever that was.

  I blinked at my own ghastly Oprah-style psychoanalysis. Two more weeks in New York, and I’d have my own chat show.

  ‘I’m not saying we were in love or anything,’ mumbled Godric. ‘But I was, erm, pretty keen on Kirsty. And I thought she liked me. Just goes to show.’ He hesitated, then raised his puppydog eyes. ‘Um, you’re a woman, Mel – I mean, just between us, you know, it wouldn’t be because I asked her to . . . ?’

  ‘Asked her to what?’ I prompted, my mind filling with lurid possibilities as he flushed painfully. ‘What? Spit it out.’

  Godric stared at me, horrified. ‘No! I didn’t ask her that! Christ almighty!’

  I blinked. I really had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Then what?’ I prompted.

  ‘Iron my shirt,’ he mumbled into his chest.

  I sighed. If that was the most outrageous thing he’d suggested then no wonder Orlando had slimed her off her feet. ‘No, Godric. I don’t think that’ll be it. But, chin up! You’re about to be a big film star!’ I said encouragingly. ‘Stupid old Kirsty, eh? Nelson reckons the only films Orlando’s in are the ones he shoots himself on his yacht in . . .’ I stopped. That probably wasn’t the best thing to say either. ‘Forget the whole sorry affair. This time next month, you’ll have women beating down your door.’

  Godric flinched.

  ‘Most men would love that,’ I pointed out. ‘Beautiful model types with long legs and perfect teeth. You don’t get that in west London.’

  ‘I’d rather have a game girl with fat legs and a nice smile,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Like you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said briskly. ‘Now, do you want some more crumpets? I think these are better than the ones we get at home.’

  ‘Melissa,’ said Godric suddenly, grabbing my other hand. ‘Please come to the party with me! You have no idea what it’s like! Everyone coming up to you, and saying how much shorter you look in real life, and offering you drugs you have no idea how to take, and asking about people you’re meant to know, and then you get drunk to try to get through the sheer hell of it, and everyone round here tuts at you if you so much as light up inside, and . . .’ His eyes were wild and staring. I wondered if he really was ill. ‘Please come. Just for half an hour. Please.’

  ‘But Godric, no. I can’t. I promised.’

  ‘It’s not for work,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a favour. For me. You don’t have to stay long. I’ll bail out once I’ve done the rounds.’

  I was pinioned to the table, as Godric gripped both my wrists with a feverish strength. A waitress looked over and made an ‘oh, bless you!’ face. She probably thought he was proposing.

  Inside my head a terrible struggle was raging between my conscience, which was now painfully aware of exactly why Jonathan didn’t want me pretending to be other people’s girlfriends, and my other conscience which couldn’t let a fellow shy Brit down in his hour of need. I felt a certain kinship with Godric, even more so now I knew we were both victims of the Orlando von Borsch charm-Panzer.

  ‘It’s the photographers I hate the most,’ Godric went on. ‘I don’t have one of those stupid photograph faces. They always make me look like I’m Special Needs.’

  ‘Why don’t I call Dwight?’ I asked desperately. ‘The chap who did your Spotlight pics? You can spend an afternoon with him, and work out what your best expression is, and get used to being photographed unexpectedly. I’ll ask him to pop out from behind trees.’

  But Godric had tightened his grip on my arms as a new thought struck him. ‘If you come with me, they won’t bother to photograph me at all,’ he babbled. ‘Paige’s really excited about all the coverage there’s been about me dating an MP’s daughter. She reckons it makes me look Establishment-cool. Like Mick Jagger.’

  ‘Well, there you go, Godric. There’s a very good reason I can’t come with you.’ I shrugged apologetically. ‘I refuse to be manipulated by Paige Drogan’s publicity machine. They’ll know it’s me. And Jonathan would be enraged and embarrassed, because everyone thinks I’m his girlfriend. I mean,’ I added hastily, ‘I am his girlfriend.’

  ‘Please, Melissa,’ he said, and for once, his voice sounded genuinely pleading. It had the authentic note of gruff, English-bloke embarrassment at having to ask his mate’s sister for a date. ‘I need you to.’

  I wavered. Even as I was being stern with him, something about Godric’s slumped shoulders was melting my heart. It reminded me of how I sometimes used to feel when I had to start yet another new school in the middle of a term: desperate to make a good impression, but already seeing the cliques clamming up in my eager face. I’m not naturally good at parties, you know. It’s just something you learn to do, like cooking, or driving. Learning to enjoy it is like taking it to degree level. But no one had ever taught Godric, and it was awfully tough for him to start now.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a talk with Paige.’ He swallowed, and I could see this was a grand gesture coming up. ‘I’ll persuade her to make it clear that it was all a mistake. That you’re just a friend.’ He paused. ‘You know,’ he said awkwardly, ‘you’re the only real friend I have in New York. So it’s not a lie.’

  ‘Don’t over-egg it, Godric,’ I said, not unkindly.

  Wheels were starting to turn in my head, albeit very slowly. There was a way round this – a way that would kill a few birds with the one stone. It was rather a riskily chucked stone though.

  ‘Before I decide anything, have you got Kirsty’s phone number?’

  Godric started to pretend that he’d discarded it straight away but I raised a commanding finger and he dug about in his jacket pocket for his mobile.

  ‘You’re not going to phone her, are you?’ he said, as I wrote it down in my notebook.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, and snapped it shut. ‘I haven’t decided. Now, how about a crumpet?’

  Godric gave me a baleful look, opened his mouth, then to my surprise, closed it without speaking.

  19

  Sometimes, it feels as though fa
te is right on your side, blowing wind into your sails and generally speeding your plans through as a personal priority. Frequently, however, just as the harbour’s hoving into view you discover that actually the reason you’re speeding along was because fate has cut your anchor and the harbour wall is heading up fast, but I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.

  Three things happened that made me believe that, for once, I’d come up with a seriously clever little plan, with side benefits all round. I phoned Kirsty, I spoke to Paige, and Emery invited me for dinner.

  First things first.

  Kirsty, when I got hold of her, could not have been more thrilled to hear from me, especially when I told her I was a friend of Godric’s, trying to arrange a surprise for him.

  (True! No ding!)

  ‘He’s in New York? I’ve been desperate to get hold of him for months!’ she squealed. ‘But his phone isn’t working and he won’t answer his emails.’ Then the bubbles dropped out of her voice. ‘Has he . . . ? You’re not organising . . . an engagement party or something?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ I said. ‘Not at all. Between you and me, I think he’s still completely nuts about some girl in London, but of course he’s far too gentlemanly to name names.’

  Then it all came tumbling out: the happy six months of spag bol and Italian cinema, then the row about her skirt being too tight for ‘a lady’, her snogging Orlando out of drunken pique, and Godric seeing it as the biggest betrayal since Samson and Delilah, and him refusing to take her calls, and her regretting it almost immediately (but not that immediately, because I seem to recall some mention of antibiotics), and then him going off to the States ‘on some job’ and not leaving any details.

  ‘And I wish I knew where he was, just so I can say sorry,’ she finished up miserably. ‘Is he still acting? Did he get any work over there?’

  It was rather sweet, I thought, that she still wanted him even without knowing he was about to be a huge film star. If she wanted Godric in his original state then it must be love.

  ‘Yes, he’s doing rather well,’ I said. ‘So, do you think you could come? It’s awfully short notice, sorry.’