Little Lady, Big Apple

  ‘I don’t want him to think I’m being whiny!’ I whined. ‘I don’t want him to think I’m not enjoying myself!’

  ‘But it doesn’t sound like you are.’

  ‘I am.’ I paused. ‘It’s just . . . not quite turning out the way I thought it would.’

  Nelson paused too. Then he put into words what I was thinking. ‘New York, or Jonathan?’

  ‘Both,’ I said, in a small voice.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nelson. He coughed. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me the whole story?’

  ‘Because you’d probably shout at me?’

  He laughed, and over the shifting, whistling air between us, he suddenly felt very close. ‘Go on then, you stupid woman. In no more than two hundred words, please.’

  So I told him. Godric, Paige, the police, Cindy, Bonnie, everything. Even Braveheart.

  ‘Right,’ he said, when I’d forced out the last agonising word. ‘I think you need to talk to him about this Cindy business. But that’s all it’ll be – business.’

  ‘You think?’ It was easy for him to say that.

  ‘Mel, I don’t know Jonathan as well as you do, but he doesn’t seem the type to treat his new girlfriend the way his wife treated him, now does he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not saying she might not be trying to wind him up, but the man adores you. The best thing you can do is just be yourself. The woman he fell in love with.’ There was a painful grinding noise.

  ‘Was that the ship?’ I asked urgently. ‘Nelson? Are you sinking?’

  ‘No, that was me. I can’t believe you’re making me say these things.’

  ‘I feel so much better for talking to you, Nelson,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘Good, because you know how much I THIS IS THE OFFICERS’ MESS! GET BACK ON DECK! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE CAPSTAN CAME OFF IN YOUR HANDS? IT’S TITANIUM!’

  I sensed our conversation had drawn to a natural close, an impression reinforced, worryingly, by the connection being lost.

  I sat back on the sofa in the warm darkness, and digested Nelson’s pearls of wisdom.

  Be the woman Jonathan fell in love with.

  But that woman had been an organiser, a fixer, a stitcher-up of people’s problems. A woman he didn’t seem to want in New York.

  But that was who I was. And I was starting to wonder if, despite his protestations to the contrary, Jonathan really was in love with Honey, the beautifully constructed end result, and not Melissa, the woman paddling furiously beneath Honey’s swan-like elegance.

  I pushed that thought to one side. I wasn’t sure if the wine wasn’t giving me a worrying insight into the dark and melodramatic workings of Allegra’s head.

  But I’d sworn, from now on, I’d be myself. Not hide behind Honey. Maybe between them, Gabi and Nelson were right. If I stitched Godric’s problems up, Jonathan would see that that was where my strengths lay. He’d be proud of me.

  Just thinking about taking an active stance made me feel better. That was what was bringing me down, I told myself, leaping up to turn on the table lamps: passivity. Tomorrow I would finalise my plans, go and buy some material and make a really cute summer dress. The Romney-Jones New York collection, part I.

  Then I knocked over the side table with the wine on, and was scrubbing at the hand-woven rug with table salt when Jonathan finally arrived home, bearing sushi and a very small La Perla bag.

  20

  Godric’s party was being held in one of those trendy bars that are so small and in-the-know that you can’t find them the first three times you walk past, and then when you manage to remember to take a friend back there, hoping to wow them with your connections, it’s closed down and moved on.

  I wasn’t at all sure I had the right clothes with me for a party involving media types and actors. Trendy was never part of my wardrobe repertoire at the best of times, and anything I’d bought so far in New York (on the advice of the nice sales girls who understood about dressing to impress) was designed to look expensively understated, or understatedly expensive. In other words, everything I had was awfully Upper East Side, and I needed something a little more Meat Packing. As it were.

  In the end I opted for my simplest black dress and a pair of polka dot Roman Holiday sandals. That looked pretty good on its own, as I let myself out of the house into the early evening warmth. But in my handbag I had my own special magic wand, which I knew would transform everything.

  Believe me, I agonised about whether to wear the wig. I knew Jonathan had a huge problem with it, but, I reasoned, surely it was better to disguise myself completely, just in case there were any photographers around? They’d already snapped me with Godric as myself, so more pictures of brunette Melissa-the-MP’s-daughter would just add fuel to the fire. Some random blonde, on the other hand, would be merely another party guest.

  In addition to this, I’d been turning over my plan to reunite Godric and Kirsty, and decided that it needed a little something extra, just to add some pretend drama. Kirsty didn’t know what I looked like, so wouldn’t it make Godric’s reaction to her arrival more romantic, from her point of view, if he abandoned the fabulous glamour-puss he was talking to, just like that, as she walked into the room?

  As he would have to, since I’d be legging it off to supper with my sister.

  Theoretically, I could see how Jonathan probably wouldn’t agree with it, but he never need know. It wasn’t as though I was really passing myself off as anything. I was just disguising myself. For half an hour, and – specifically – for his benefit.

  I stood in the loo at the Starbucks on Sixth and Waverley, gazing at myself as I adjusted my illicit blonde hair so the fringe hung into my eyes, and a shiver of guilt, heavily laced with excitement, ran through me. The blonde hair was like a gorgeous gilt picture frame around my face, casting a sexy glow over my skin. My eyes seemed to darken and open up, seeming more black than dark brown. There was an element of shock in there, too.

  Honey.

  I was Honey again.

  I fluttered my eyelashes at myself, then reached for my make-up bag. There was something about that curtain of light-reflecting hair that demanded more drama in my face. Carefully, I traced another layer of dark liner along my upper lids, then a touch more mascara. Then a quick flush of pink shimmer along my cheekbones. Then another final round of mascara.

  I stood back to admire the effect. Suddenly the dress looked effortlessly chic, almost don’t-care-ish. Maybe it was the way I was standing differently. With my dark eyes smouldering out from beneath my fringe, and my lips barely glossed, I looked like Brigitte Bardot.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, without thinking. How on earth could Jonathan prefer Melissa to this?

  Thinking about Jonathan brought me round very quickly and I checked my watch.

  I’d promised Godric I would stay for exactly forty minutes at the party, including that bit at the beginning when no one’s arrived, and the five minutes it takes to get away. I absolutely had to be out of there by eight thirty, even if the party had barely got going by then. The shrieky little voices of my conscience were scarcely allowing this as it was.

  Since the restaurant she wanted to try was only a few blocks away, I’d told Emery to meet me outside at eight, to be on the safe side. I’d never known her be less than an hour late for anything. I’d told her I was having a drink with a friend, but as it was Godric, I hadn’t invited her to join us. I didn’t want my plans for Kirsty to be screwed up by him falling for a married woman he’d probably had a crush on ten years earlier. She still looked pretty much as she had done at school, damn her huge blue eyes.

  When Godric shuffled into Starbucks ten minutes later, he walked straight past my table, then failed to spot me when he turned round and scanned the place with a surly eye.

  I raised a discreet hand, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself.

  Godric’s boggling reaction, however, did that for me.

  ‘Hai carumba!’ he bellowed. ‘Meliss
a!’

  I gestured for him to sit and to stop his adolescent thrusting gestures.

  ‘Quick tip,’ I hissed. ‘Don’t walk into a date venue and scan the room like that. Makes you look stood up before you’ve even been stood up. And don’t forget – you’re a film star now.’

  He was still gawping at me as if I were a two-headed calf. ‘Effing hell, Mel,’ he gurgled. ‘You look . . . you look like a model. Not a skinny model, you know, one of those decent-sized ones. Like Sophie Dahl or something. Before she got scrawny.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d stop there if I were you.’

  ‘Can we go?’ he said, leaping to his feet. ‘Let’s go now.’

  He tugged my chair out for me, while I was still on it. While I admired his strength, it probably wasn’t a habit he ought to develop.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to go to this do,’ I protested. Honestly, I’d never seen him so enthusiastic.

  ‘I do now,’ he said, and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen Godric smile, and, really, the effect was transformational. His entire face changed from that of a constipated teddy bear, to that of a, well, quite an attractive teddy bear.

  ‘OK then,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The enthusiasm lasted until we got to the club, and then it wavered, at the sight of three extraordinarily cool people sloping wearily down the stairs, as if they were en route to a haemorrhoid clinic.

  Godric stopped. ‘I’m wearing all the wrong things,’ he grunted forlornly. ‘I look like a geek.’

  ‘You look fine,’ I said. If Kirsty had fancied him in London, she was definitely going to go for it here. I checked no one was about, then undid one button on his shirt, dug around in my bag for my grooming creme, ran some through his hair so it looked glossed rather than greased, and, for a final touch, I pulled off one of my green glass cocktail rings and shoved it onto his little finger, as a tribute to Gabi’s Urban Gangsta advice more than anything.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ demanded Godric, staring at it as if it were some kind of obscenity.

  ‘It’s a talking point,’ I said. ‘Right, you’ve got thirty-nine minutes remaining. For the next thirty-nine minutes, you absolutely can’t refer to me as Melissa. Not even when you’re talking to me. You don’t know who’s listening. And if you see a camera, you have to tell me.’

  ‘What should I call you then?’ he asked.

  ‘Honey,’ I said firmly.

  Well, it was too late now to make up a whole new identity. At least I’d remember to answer to Honey.

  I pushed aside a flutter of misgiving. This was about giving Ric a boost. After I’d zhouzed up his personality and introduced him to my surprise guest, he’d be fine on his own, I knew it.

  ‘Let’s go, Ric Spencer,’ I said.

  The funny thing about that wig was that it let me saunter into places I’d normally feel awkward in, even with my usual breezy attitude to social events. The shoes I was wearing also helped with the sauntering. Walking is so much easier in high heels, I find. It makes you use your whole body.

  Downstairs, the room was very dark, made even darker by blood-red wall-hangings and the red light bulbs glowing inside huge paper shades above us. I blinked, trying to make out where the bar was. Adding to the Stygian effect were the hordes of black-clad people packing the side tables, and what I now realised was underfloor lighting beneath maroon glass tiles. It was like being in a kidney, if kidneys had very loud sound systems and a free bar.

  As I hovered, looking for a seat, a waitress passed with a huge tray of vodka shots of various colours in one hand, and another tray of empty glasses in the other. Without even breaking chat, people grabbed fresh glasses and replaced old ones as she passed. When I turned back to Godric, he was throwing one blue drink down his neck and preparing a yellow one to follow it.

  ‘Actors,’ he explained, with a gasp. ‘You need a couple too.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ As a sop to my conscience, I’d made a vow not to let a drop past my lips. Besides, I needed to concentrate. People were already starting to look our way, in a sort of Mexican wave of nosiness.

  ‘See?’ grunted Godric. ‘They’re looking at us, wondering who you are.’ For once, though, he sounded almost pleased.

  ‘Godric, they’re looking at you, you idiot. You’ve just been in a play here. They know your film’s coming out. Honestly . . .’

  His eyes were scanning the place and before he could toss back his urine-coloured shot, a short dark man in a black vest sidled up.

  ‘Ric! How you doing?’

  ‘Er, fine. Um, Ivan, this is Honey – Honey, this is Ivan Mueller.’

  ‘Hi! Hi!’ Ivan was shaking my hand before I knew it. ‘Don’t you have a second name?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘just Honey.’

  ‘Cute!’ he exclaimed and paused significantly.

  ‘Ivan was the stage manager for a production of Three Sisters I was in last year,’ Godric supplied, in the manner of someone having their teeth pulled.

  ‘And I loved working with him!’ exclaimed Ivan theatrically. ‘We had a ball, didn’t we, Ric?’

  Godric shrugged.

  ‘We did.’ Ivan confirmed. ‘Sooooo . . . What are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘Just finished a short run of The Real Inspector Hound,’ grunted Godric. ‘Was OK.’

  ‘It was marvellous,’ I added, in a deep coo. ‘Ric was splendid. He got some rather good reviews, didn’t you, darling?’

  Godric straightened up a bit. ‘Well, yeah. S’pose so.’

  Ivan pulled a face that suggested profound internal excitement.

  ‘Are you working on something right now?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Am I? Oh, my Lord!’ he exclaimed with a flourish of the shoulders, and launched into a long-winded litany of dismay and lack of professionalism, illuminated by unsubtle glances around the room at various miscreants seated in distant and not-so-distant corners.

  Godric looked nauseous throughout, but I was rather intrigued. I even recognised some of the names Ivan was throwing about like so much indiscreet confetti. It was, as Ivan assured me, a disgustingly incestuous business.

  ‘. . . and my partner Raj is a make-up artist, and what he sees, let me tell you, Honey, certain ladies would not want to be made common knowledge,’ he said, finally pausing for breath with an arch look over my shoulder. ‘Ooh, look who’s just walked in! The poor thing! I have to fly. So nice to meet you, darling!’ He gave me one of those showbiz air kisses, then bestowed another one on Godric who flinched. ‘And look at you, all sexed up!’ he added, as if noticing him for the first time. He nodded at me, ‘You suit him, Honey! See you soon!’

  And Ivan vanished back into the crowd. I realised the room had filled up with people in the intervening minutes, like sea water running into a sandcastle. Godric and I were marooned at the edge of the room.

  I checked my watch nervously. Where was Kirsty? I’d given her very specific instructions but as she’d only flown in that afternoon, I hadn’t been able to pick her up and sort her out myself. I hoped Paige hadn’t somehow managed to intercept her.

  ‘See what I mean?’ snotted Godric. ‘It’s insufferable.’ But he looked quietly pleased around the gills at the same time. ‘I mean, he knows exactly what I’m doing right now. I know exactly what he’s doing. But everyone always effing asks. It happens at all these parties – I hate actors.’

  ‘But you’re doing really well!’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘Only cos you’re here.’ He gave me another intense look. ‘I really appreciate you coming. I’ve been—’

  ‘You’re going to have to learn how to do this on your own, you know, Godric,’ I said quickly. ‘Just pretend to be one of the characters you play, um, like . . .’ My mind went blank. ‘What was the last play you were in where you had to be someone sociable?’

  Godric looked pained. ‘Potiphar. In my prep school’s Christmas production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.’


  ‘Well, there you are!’ I said, while working out just how many years poor Godric had spent playing antisocial psychos. ‘Be like that. Elvis-ish.’

  ‘Can we sit down?’ he said suddenly. ‘I feel a bit . . . seasick. It’s these effing walls.’

  I steered him towards a table that had conveniently just become vacant and he sank into a red velvet chair, long legs buckling beneath him.

  ‘It’s not easy when you’re shy,’ I said, determined to get at least one useful lesson across. ‘But you just have to pretend to be someone else. It works, I promise you. And then when you realise you can do it as yourself, you’re away.’

  I did mean all this, honestly. But there was a little voice at the back of my head, reminding me that I did it so much better when I was Honey. She didn’t worry about what people thought, or whether she was living up to expectations.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Godric. He sounded quite pissed already.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘We’re both here, pretending to be other people. You’re a blonde woman called Honey, and I’m a film actor called Ric.’

  I snapped my attention back to the evening, and checked my watch surreptitiously. We only had fifteen minutes left.

  ‘Yes. That’s very true.’

  ‘And yet . . .’ Godric waggled a finger. ‘And yet, only we know that underneath it, you’re Melons the wardrobe mistress, and I’m Godric the geek.’ His face fell. ‘But in real life, you’re still pretty gorgeous, albeit not quite as sexy as you are right now, whereas I’m just the sort of guy who does A-level Latin. And gets dumped.’

  Men, in my experience, are far, far worse at fishing for compliments than women.

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ I said. ‘You’re a very talented actor. My friend Gabi thinks you’re sex on a stick.’ I paused. ‘That’s a direct quote, by the way. It’s not a term I’d normally use to describe men.’

  Godric looked at me with huge, tipsy, baby-seal eyes. ‘And how would you describe me?’

  ‘I’d say you were . . . a very handsome, talented actor.’ Where was Kirsty? I searched the room for a tallish, thin-ish, English-ish girl. Argh. I could have done with her emailing me another photograph. Presumably she wouldn’t be wearing dressage clothes when she arrived in the bar.