Little Lady, Big Apple

  ‘I’d clear my diary for Godders,’ she said fervently. ‘Um, I’m not sure about flights though.’ She paused discreetly. ‘I’ll have to check my, er, my diary.’

  ‘Oh, if you can come, I can arrange the tickets from this end,’ I assured her.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling like a fairy godmother. ‘I can.’

  Well, maybe a fairy godmother in the vengeful, unpredictable Allegra Svensson sense.

  The weather had cooled off sufficiently for me to button myself into a new fitted suit I’d bought from Saks, which had just the right amount of sauce, coupled with just the right amount of nanny-ness. Finished off with a new pair of black leather pumps, I felt far more like myself than I’d done in ages, wig or no wig. As I strode through the jostling crowds on Broome Street towards Paige’s office, I smiled at everyone I passed, even the weird staring people.

  Tiffany didn’t bother to pretend Paige was busy when I walked in. She couldn’t, since I’d called to make an appointment, and refused, in a very polite way, of course, to get off the line till I got one.

  ‘Melissa,’ said Paige coolly, as I sat down. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I have a great story for you, Paige,’ I said. ‘For Godric.’

  She put her fingers together. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I think I can reunite Godric with his very sweet English girlfriend,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about her, but she knows my flatmate’s brother from some real tennis club or other, and Woolfe’s frightfully picky about who he hangs out with.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said sternly. ‘What matters is that she and Godric sound very star-crossed, and having her around might make him less of a growling dog and more of a malleable charmer-in-the-making.’

  Paige tipped her head to one side, and pressed a button on her phone set. ‘Tell me more.’

  I explained how I could arrange for Miss X and Godric to ‘bump into each other’ at a party and leave the rest up to fate and cocktails, having laid the groundwork personally.

  ‘But,’ I added, ‘I’ll do this on the following conditions. One, you pay for her tickets over here, plus a decent hotel, and two, you do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone from the press until they’re sure it’ll work out. If it doesn’t work out, you are not allowed to sell some Ric Spencer Heartbreak story, either.’

  Paige squinted at me. ‘And why should I? Huh? If they’re so in love, can’t they sort it out themselves?’

  I looked at her firmly, and wished I had my tortoiseshell-winged Honey glasses to peer over. ‘Paige, Jonathan thinks so highly of you. You’re a very tight-knit group of friends, too. Honestly, you lot are so lucky to have a social circle like that, even now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . .’ I sighed. ‘It would be really awkward if Jonathan found out that you were the person behind all the stories in the papers about me and Godric. I mean, he’d wonder what sort of friend would make his girlfriend look like a two-timing slapper!’

  Paige looked shifty. ‘I don’t know where he’d get that idea from.’

  ‘I know! Fancy the police passing on all those details!’ I shook my head. ‘He might even wonder if you were doing it on purpose to drive some kind of wedge between me and him – and I know you’d hate the very idea of that!’ I added gaily. ‘Putting your client before your friends. Crikey!’

  We sat there in silence for a moment, the atmosphere balanced precariously on a knife-edge.

  For one heart-stopping second it occurred to me that maybe Cindy had told Paige to do all this – wasn’t she her friend from college, not Jonathan’s? I battled down the rising panic, and told myself to get a grip. I could hardly make a go of things here if I kept being so paranoid.

  But then Paige obviously weighed up the benefits against the blackmail, and sprang back to life. ‘Melissa, that’s a charming plan you’ve come up with!’ she cooed. ‘It would be an awesome thing for us to do for Ric. But, ah, I don’t see quite why we should have to stand tickets for this girl?’

  I pretended to pause, then beamed as if an idea had just occurred to me. ‘We never did agree a fee, did we, for the time I spent with Ric? Why don’t you get the tickets and we’ll call it quits?’ I waited a beat. ‘Better make them business class, actually. I daren’t tell you what my day rates are in London!’

  Paige managed a smile. ‘I’ll get Tiffany straight onto it. Can she call you for details?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, allowing myself to smile. It was a nice thing to do.

  And that balanced the books in my head, as far as Paige Drogan went.

  When I got home from all this machinating, I had a call from Emery.

  I took a moment to establish it was her, as usual. When I answered the phone there was a protracted pause, as if between her dialling and me picking up she’d forgotten who she’d called. Emery always made calls as if she were on ring-back, and it was her phone that had rung, not mine.

  Emery the Memory, Granny sometimes called her.

  ‘Melissa?’ she murmured uncertainly.

  ‘Hello, Emery,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I’m in New York on Friday and I was wondering whether you were about for a spot of dinner? And I do mean a spot. I’ve found an amazing new macrobiotic place where they bring you all your food in tiny paint palettes and syringes. Doesn’t that sound fabulous?’

  My heart skipped. Perfect! I could tell Jonathan I was meeting Emery for dinner, leave an hour earlier, prep Godric for his big moment at the party, then leave in time to meet her.

  ‘Just you,’ she added. ‘William’s not coming – he’s away in Europe on business, so I thought I’d have a weekend shopping and so on. We could have a girls’ night! Without Allegra!’

  If Emery had any idea how perfectly she was fitting into the plans, she’d be astonished. I don’t think any member of my family had ever been so unwittingly accommodating.

  ‘That sounds brilliant,’ I said. ‘I’m putting it in my diary right now.’

  We were still chatting – or rather she was telling me at long and gusting length about her new yoga teacher (I think), and I was trying to get off the phone, when the door opened and Jonathan wandered in.

  ‘Emery,’ I mouthed, and he pulled a face.

  ‘Give her my love,’ he mouthed, backing away so I couldn’t put him on.

  I wrapped up the conversation as quickly as was polite, made arrangements to meet her on Friday, then went to find him, going through the post with a frown on his pale forehead.

  ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ I asked, putting my arms round him happily.

  ‘Client cancelled on me. Wanted to rearrange. So I thought I’d pop back and see you.’ He took a step back, and regarded me with a critical eye. ‘And I’m glad I did. New suit?’

  I nodded, and twirled, so he could see my seamed stockings.

  ‘I like it,’ he said, hooking his eyebrow sexily. ‘Makes me feel . . . kind of nostalgic. What did Emery want?’

  ‘Dinner on Friday. She’s in town for the weekend.’

  Jonathan paused, and for a second I thought I caught a glimpse of furtiveness about him, which was most out of character. ‘Sorry, sweetie, but I can’t make it. I have to meet with a client, and Friday evening’s the only time . . . they can do.’

  I batted him with a gourmet pizza leaflet. ‘You weren’t invited! It was just me and her. Sisters only.’

  He looked relieved. ‘I won’t expect you back early then.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ I said. ‘But I appreciate the thought! Anyway, enough about Emery. What shall we do now?’ I slid my arms under his jacket and pressed myself up against the fine fabric of his shirt. ‘How about a backwards evening? Start in bed, then get dressed and go out to eat?’

  Jonathan grinned, pushed the hair out of my eyes, tipped me backwards and kissed me, holding my head in t
he palm of his hand as if we were swing dancers.

  I giggled. That was another side of Jonathan Gabi didn’t know: the old romantic who loved Hollywood musicals as much as I did. Who could dance, properly.

  This was more like it, I thought happily, returning his kiss with upside-down enthusiasm.

  Then he swung me upwards again. ‘Much as I’d love to take you upstairs and unpeel you out of that delicious suit, I can’t stay. I’ve got another client in an hour, then I might be late.’

  My heart sank. ‘But we were going to go out for dinner tonight, weren’t we? Just the two of us!’ We’d only been out on our own three times since I’d arrived, though I managed to bite my tongue on that.

  Jonathan sighed, and scratched his ear. ‘I’m sorry, honey. Really I am. That’s why I came all the way over town now, so I could see you for half an hour.’ He stroked my jaw ruefully with his finger, circling around my lips. ‘I’ll try to get back as soon as I can. You appreciate how much I’d rather be with you, don’t you? Listen, instead of going out, how about we phone out for sushi, and watch Singing in the Rain? Hey?’

  I looked at him, trying hard not to listen to the screechy ‘Cindy! Cindy!’ voices in my head.

  ‘I didn’t get that huge TV just for decoration,’ he added. ‘You’re the only one who’s watched anything on it.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. He was trying. I knew he was. ‘But don’t be late.’

  I passed the rest of the afternoon drifting listlessly through Bloomingdales, but I didn’t buy anything, then at half five I wandered back to Greenwich Village, taking even more time than normal to inspect all the wrought-iron porches and overflowing window-boxes.

  As I washed my hair in Jonathan’s huge roll-top bath, and soaked in deep bubbles, I came up with positive after positive after positive about my situation, but somehow I just couldn’t bounce myself into a better mood.

  Even reading through the comprehensive stack of exotic food delivery leaflets didn’t cheer me up. Nor did dancing round the house with my iPod plugged into Jonathan’s minute but powerful stereo system. Even television, my friend and secret life coach, didn’t work. I’d flicked through all the channels at least twice, including one showing nothing but court cases, without finding anything that I really wanted to watch and it was still only half seven.

  I looked around the room and wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Here I was, in this fabulous Greenwich Village town house, surrounded by beautiful objects, drinking Jonathan’s Fine Wine. And yet, it didn’t feel right. Why?

  I stared at the bottle of wine. It was nearly empty. How had that happened?

  Ah, I thought, as a familiar sense of morbid doom settled about my shoulders like a fusty mink cape: the wine trap. One glass of wine takes the edge off my shyness nicely, two glasses turn me into a hilarious social commentator, but three glasses and I hit a troublesome seam of melancholy. Usually Nelson or Gabi manage to spot my eyes filling with unshed tears for the poor donkeys of the Sudan, or the sheer unfairness of the congestion charge, but here, on my own, there was only Braveheart, and he wasn’t helping. He wasn’t even awake.

  My hand reached for the bottle to pour myself the all-important fourth glass, but the thought of Braveheart made me hesitate. Drunk, in charge of an animal that needed me! An animal that had been shoved from pillar to post by two selfish parents who didn’t love him. An animal that, let’s face it, was my only company this evening, while Jonathan put his clients way before our relationship. Clients who may or may not be his glamorous ex-wife who probably didn’t even drink and definitely didn’t haul herself onto tables to do the twist, only to have them collapse under her.

  ‘Braveheart!’ I called, stretching out my arms.

  A vague skittering came through from the kitchen. Then a pause, while he did something I didn’t want to think about, then, eventually, he shuffled up.

  I patted the sofa next to me. I was trying to train him not to get up on the sofas, but right now I needed a bit of a cuddle.

  His solid little body was comforting, like a hot-water bottle.

  ‘You’re glad I’m here, aren’t you?’ I demanded woefully.

  Braveheart stared at me, and I thought I could detect some disgust in his black button eyes.

  ‘If you were a proper film dog, you would lick my nose now,’ I heard my voice quaver on. ‘In an endearing fashion.’

  Braveheart wriggled himself off my knee, and vanished behind a packing case, but I could hardly blame him.

  Take yourself in hand, I told myself. For God’s sake!

  I grabbed the phone off the coffee table. I just wasn’t seeing things properly. What I needed was to tell someone what a great time I was having. That would soon put things in perspective.

  My fingers hesitated over the keypad. But who would be up at this hour? It would be . . . half twelve. Half twelve. Hmm.

  Gabi. But she might be out – with someone. I didn’t want to negotiate that minefield. That required total sobriety.

  I couldn’t phone my family, not unless I wanted to hear how much worse things could be.

  That left one person. Who would have no qualms about putting me straight about how lucky I was. I pulled out my diary and started dialling the number Nelson had given me. OK, he’d said emergencies, but it was typical of him to be all headmasterly about it. I knew he’d love a call.

  I listened to the phone ring. Technology was amazing, I thought, sloshing the last of the wine into the huge glass. Somewhere out in the ocean, Nelson was bobbing around in his hammock, probably taking a night watch right now, steering the ship with one of those great big wheels . . . I’d seen A Night to Remember. I knew how these things went. I wondered if he’d got a nice thick white polo-neck to keep warm. Maybe I should look for thermal undies in—

  ‘What?’ barked a familiar voice down the line. ‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’

  The alcohol, I think, triggered a warm rush of happiness at the sound of his voice. ‘Nelson!’ I cried, stretching out my pedicured toes. ‘It’s me!’

  ‘I know it’s you,’ he said. ‘No one else has this number DON’T YANK IT ABOUT! TREAT IT WITH RESPECT!’

  I blinked. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m supervising the night watch. Yannick is steering the course and Leah is DON’T PLAY WITH THAT IT’S NOT A TOY!’

  ‘Oh. I see. Are you busy?’

  Either Nelson heaved a huge sarcastic sigh down the phone or there was some serious interference at that point. ‘I’m in charge of an eight-hundred-tonne square rigger, Melissa, but apart from that, not really. So, I take it this is a social call and not some “get me out of jail” panic?’

  I looked around the room. Just talking to Nelson seemed to bring a little bit of my London life into the room. He sounded like home. Evening had started to fall and was casting shadows over the chairs and packing boxes. I’d made some efforts to tidy up, but since it wasn’t really my house I hadn’t liked to unpack too much. Partly because I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was in all the boxes. And partly because Jonathan was never here to make a fun game of doing it together.

  ‘Melissa? Are you still there? Having a good time?’

  ‘Um, yes!’ I hauled myself back, feeling a slight dizziness. Maybe I was drunker than I thought. ‘I’m having a great time! Jonathan’s been taking me round the city, introducing me to all his friends, and he’s put his secretary totally at my disposal, so Lori’s been booking me into spas and tearooms and what have you.’

  ‘Lovely!’ said Nelson. ‘ARE YOU CHEWING?’

  ‘No!’ I replied, startled.

  ‘Not you, YOU,’ he roared. ‘NO GUM ON THIS SHIP, YANNICK!’ There was a slight pause in which I thought I could hear a seagull. ‘OR TOBACCO, NO! I DON’T CARE IF IT IS HISTORICALLY ACCURATE!’

  ‘Nelson, there’s really no need to shout quite so—’

  ‘IF YOU WANT HISTORICAL ACCURACY I CAN LASH YOU TO THE YARDARM FOR A FEW HOURS, IF YOU WANT? So, have you been shopping t
hen?’

  ‘God, yes, I’ve been to Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Henri Bendel’s, where I met a gorgeous denim adviser called Seth who told me I had a cute ass, can you believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’ve had a cupcake at the Magnolia Bakery, which wasn’t as nice as your sponge, you’ll be pleased to hear, and I’ve been to the street where that Led Zeppelin album cover was photographed, and . . .’

  My voice cracked and I stopped. To my surprise, tears were bulging along my eyelids. ‘I . . .’

  ‘I’M GOING BELOW DECK NOW SO YOU’D BETTER CONCENTRATE, THE PAIR OF YOU. I THINK YOU’VE BOTH SEEN TITANIC, YES?’ bellowed Nelson. ‘Hang on, Mel, I’ll be right with you. I SAW THAT, YANNICK!’

  I wiped away the tears quickly, with the back of my hand. ‘I’m having a great time, Nelson, really.’

  There was a pause, the sound of non-marking-sole shoes on wooden floors, and I could tell he was now inside.

  ‘Ding!’ he said gently.

  A huge lump rose up in my throat as I imagined his big blond bearhug engulfing me.

  ‘Come on. What’s up?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know!’ I sobbed. ‘I . . . don’t know!’

  ‘Melissa, you know I love you and your funny ways, but can we keep the am-dram to a minimum? International mobile rates are outrageous, for both of us. Now, what’s happened? Things not working out with Remington?’

  ‘Things are working out,’ I gulped. ‘I just . . . he’s never here. He’s working all the time, and I think he’s spending most of that overtime with Cindy.’

  ‘Why would he be with Cindy, for crying out loud?’

  ‘He’s selling their apartment. Didn’t Gabi tell you?’

  ‘Gabi? I haven’t spoken to her recently. Listen, have you told him any of this? How you feel?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  Nelson made a familiar ‘ungh!’ noise of despair that made homesickness bloom in my stomach like a bright red flower. ‘Well, why not, for crying out loud? I did flick through all those stupid magazines you left in the loo – even Roger knows talking is meant to be the solution to all relationship ills!’