Little Lady, Big Apple

  ‘You said the talented actor bit before,’ pouted Godric.

  ‘I know,’ I stalled. ‘But personally, I find the talented bit as sexy as the . . . as anything else.’ God, this was a delicate one. Godric was staring at me, but swaying gently. I tried not to notice how much sexier he did look this evening.

  ‘I mean, Jonathan is gorgeous,’ I went on, ‘but I find the way he’s so professional and clever, and good at ordering wine, just as sexy as his lovely strong hands. And you’re such a versatile actor – women love men who can do things. Believe it, Godric. And stop being so grumpy with people. I know you’re shy, but it’s not coming over.’

  ‘Jonathan’s not here, though, is he?’

  I met Godric’s dark-lashed eyes. I don’t think he’d meant to be so perceptive, but he’d really managed to hit a nerve. I swallowed. Jonathan wasn’t here.

  Godric did have quite a Rufus Sewell’esque gaze, now I looked properly.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He isn’t. But that’s not the point.’

  Godric looked deep into his drink, then downed it, grabbed two more from a passing tray. Without thinking, I grabbed one too and tossed it back.

  We both gasped, then stared at each other.

  Godric broke the spell by burping.

  ‘How many of those have you had?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Five.’ He looked shifty. ‘But I had a couple of quick ones before I came. Dutch courage, you know.’

  Great. This was all I needed. Godric, loose in a social situation, tanked up, and me in an illicit wig and high heels. I didn’t fancy my chances if I had to carry him up those stairs, either.

  ‘Well, steady on,’ I said, trying not to sound nannyish. ‘There isn’t much by way of canapés going round to soak it up.’

  ‘Don’t care,’ he said, tossing a green shot back. He took the opportunity to shift a little closer to me. ‘Mel, I mean, Honey,’ he said with a hint of a slur, ‘there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Ah, well, no, there’s something I need to tell you!’ I said quickly. There was no point making it a surprise. He’d recognise her far quicker than I would. ‘Mind if I go first?’

  ‘I always like a lady to go first,’ he said with a leer. Then he looked confused, then went back to the leer.

  I ignored all of it.

  ‘I’ve phoned Kirsty and had a little chat about Orlando, and about you!’ I said. ‘Are you cross?’

  He was staring at me. He was actually staring at my chest, so I clapped my hands loudly in front of his face, at which point he rather blearily transferred his gaze to my eyes.

  ‘You phoned Kirsty?’

  ‘I did. I told her I was ringing because I needed to get something back from Orlando, and someone had given me this number. Bit of a fib, but, anyway, it turns out they split up ages and ages ago!’ I beamed. ‘Isn’t that great? She’s too ashamed to call you, because of what happened. But I said you weren’t bothered.’

  ‘I’m not bothered,’ he said.

  ‘Well, no, of course you’re not, because you’ve been so busy with your career and . . . What do you mean, you’re not bothered?’

  ‘I’m over Kirsty,’ said Godric loftily. ‘She means nothing to me any more.’

  ‘Oh, Godric, don’t say that,’ I cried. ‘She sounds lovely! We had such a nice chat, and she says she misses you, and feels awful about falling for a . . . Godric.’ I looked at him sharply. ‘Your hand’s on my knee.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, with an Elvis-like curl of the lip. ‘For the time being.’

  I removed it and replaced it where we could both see it, on the table. Godric stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else.

  ‘So I got chatting to Kirsty,’ I went on quickly. ‘And it turns out she’s in New York at the moment! Isn’t that a coincidence! She’s come all the way . . . Godric! Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Melissa,’ said Godric. ‘I have fallen, in love, with you.’

  I stared at him in shock.

  ‘You’re what I need in this stupid, pretenshss, world of wankers,’ he slurred, his eyes suddenly full of emotion. ‘A good, solid game girl with proper tits. And nice strong legs.’

  ‘Well, I’m awfully flattered,’ I gabbled, ‘but really, I think you’re just transferring your feelings for—’

  He tried to put a finger sexily on my lips, but it went into my eye instead. With some effort, he placed it correctly. ‘Don’t think,’ he said. ‘Jus’ feel.’

  And then he lunged.

  I would love to be able to say, snootily, that being kissed by Godric Ponsonby was like being assaulted by a dishwasher on economy cycle, or like having my face scoured by one of those super-absorbent magi-mops, but to my acute surprise, it was actually not an unpleasant experience.

  He smelled very clean, underneath the rubbing alcohol aroma of the vodka, which is a trait I’ve always found rather sweet in overgrown public schoolboys: big date equals comprehensive bath. And his lips were soft, he’d shaved, and he didn’t attempt to lick the inside of my mouth.

  All in all, it was about nine hundred per cent better than our previous encounter in the wardrobe cupboard.

  But it was completely and utterly inappropriate, and after a few, um, seconds, I fought him off.

  ‘No, Godric,’ I said firmly, as if I were talking to Braveheart.

  ‘But why? Isn’t it meant to be? Us meeting again after all these years?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you think it’s fate?’

  I looked deep into his eyes. I hated saying no, especially when I’d just realised how fond I was of the surly brute, and how I’d hate to hurt his feelings, but . . . ‘No! Godric, it’s not,’ I said. ‘I love Jonathan. I do. I love him.’

  He said nothing, but widened his eyes fearfully, and when I followed his gaze, I realised why.

  ‘Kirsty?’ I said, recovering as fast as I could.

  Kirsty, as indeed it was, was standing right next to our table, the living embodiment of what Gabi derisively called the ‘Sloane Square Ski, Surf and Sand Club’. She had long, ruler-straight blonde hair parted in the middle, a fur gilet, straight-leg jeans and a pair of wide, pale eyes that were gazing at us and filling up with water faster than a leaky dinghy.

  ‘Kirsty? Is it you?’ I cried with joy. ‘Hello! It’s Melissa!’ I leaped up from my seat and shook her limp, somewhat damp hand.

  Her lip, frosted with pink gloss, wobbled. ‘What were you . . .’

  ‘Did you know Godric’s in a simply enormous film? No? Well, he was talking me through his big romantic scene at the end – look, I’m sure he’ll show you too. Apparently, there’s a special way you have to kiss on camera, so you don’t actually have to kiss the actress, if you know what I mean,’ I improvised wildly. ‘Godric?’

  Godric and Kirsty were staring at each other. I couldn’t work out quite what the stares were leading up to: tears, a fight, a reconciliation? I looked from one to the other.

  Nope. No idea. That was the trouble with certain types of posh people, I’d found. Too much stiff upper lip eventually freezes your entire face. Aristocratic Botox.

  ‘Shall I get you a drink, Kirsty?’ I enquired. ‘I’m just about to leave for dinner.’

  At this point, Godric seemed to regalvanise himself. ‘Is he going to join us?’ he demanded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘I’m not having dinner with Jonathan,’ I began. ‘I’m seeing my sister. You remember Emery, don’t you?’

  Godric’s brow creased. ‘So what’s he doing here?’

  I spun round.

  Sure enough, standing at the top of the stairs leading down into the main bar area was Jonathan. And he wasn’t alone. Standing next to him, mouth opening and closing in mid-yap, was a beanpole of a blonde woman in a silver sheath dress, the spitting image of one of the super-ball-busters off The Apprentice.

  Cindy.

  My blood froze.

  Honestly, it really did. It felt like it had set, thick an
d sluggish, like jelly in my veins.

  Before I could move, Jonathan’s eyes, rolling in annoyance at whatever Cindy was ranting about, met mine. He was standing beneath one of the only illuminated areas of the whole venue, all the better for me to make out the look of surprise, then extreme annoyance, then disgust that crossed his face.

  I felt physically sick.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I moaned. Had he seen Godric fall on my neck? That must have looked so incriminating from a distance.

  ‘What?’ demanded Godric. ‘What now?’

  I opened my mouth to tell him, but the words wouldn’t come. It was as if I were seeing the whole thing from Jonathan’s perspective: the deliberate disobeying of his request, the lying about where I was, worst of all, the wearing of the wig.

  I put my hand to my head to yank it off, but stopped. What was the point? I was so busted. The best I could do was to stick to the truth: that this was a last favour for Godric, and I was only wearing the wig so as not to embarrass Jonathan.

  Then again, rallied a voice in my head, what the hell was he doing here with Cindy, when he was meant to be with a client?

  I felt even more sick, and if I hadn’t been clinging onto the table, I think my legs would have buckled entirely.

  But rather than let them come to me, I decided to face the problem head-on.

  ‘Would you excuse me?’ I said to Godric and Kirsty, took a deep breath, and walked over to meet them by an aggressive display of black thistles.

  ‘Hello, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Shh! I’m in disguise.’

  ‘Melissa,’ he replied, his face a study in granite. ‘Melissa, this is Cindy. Cindy, this is Melissa Romney-Jones.’

  Cindy up close was no less smooth and hard than Cindy at a distance. She was, however, very difficult to describe: she looked air-brushed from blow-dried head to pedicured toe. She certainly didn’t look like someone who’d recently seen a baby, let alone given birth.

  ‘So you’re Melissa?’ she drawled, as if it would never have dawned on her that it could be me. ‘They said you were . . . a blonde.’

  I dragged up all the pride I could, under the circumstances.

  ‘I’m not usually,’ I said in a friendly tone, ‘but I’m right in the middle of a secret operation right now. I’m acting Cupid for my old friend Godric and his estranged girlfriend, and I don’t want anyone to know it’s me. Hence the wig.’

  Oh shit, I thought instantly, as Jonathan’s face turned grey with anger. So plan A hadn’t worked.

  ‘You are?’ Cindy looked frankly sceptical. ‘How . . . accommodating. And is it working, Godric?’ she added. ‘Are you reconciled?’

  Godric, in full parfit gentil knight mode, had stomped up behind me and was glowering at Jonathan. He favoured Cindy with an extreme scowl. ‘We were about to leave, actually.’

  Kirsty wisely said nothing. Her saucer-sized eyes were widening into dinner plates. She was probably wondering if she’d been flown out to be in some reality TV show.

  ‘I’d take that as a yes, Melissa!’ said Cindy. ‘Congrats! Is it one of your specialties, reuniting estranged lovers?’

  She said this with a significant glance at Jonathan.

  My stomach turned. ‘No, this was just a one-off. And I was about to leave myself, to meet my sister for dinner,’ I gabbled. ‘She’s probably outside right now.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jonathan, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Will she recognise you? Or is she in disguise too?’

  I tried a tinkly laugh. ‘Oh, Jonathan. Didn’t you see her outside?’

  Bloody hell. It would have to be Emery I was meeting, the woman so vague she couldn’t remember her PIN number, even when it was the year of her own birth. The chances of her being in the right area, let alone on time, were slim.

  ‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘Emery?’ demanded Godric, who wasn’t quick at the best of times. ‘You’re meeting Emery?’

  ‘Yes!’ I insisted. Godric’s vocal tic of habitual disbelief was hardly helping my case. ‘I didn’t mention it in case you still . . . in case you still had feelings, or something.’ I held up a hand before he could say anything.

  ‘But why would I have feelings for Emery?’ demanded Godric. ‘I only ever fancied you!’

  ‘Ten years ago!’ I added, as Kirsty looked aghast. ‘Ten years ago! Ah ha ha ha!’

  Godric opened his mouth, but I glared so hard at him, I swear pictures fell off the wall.

  Cindy smirked. ‘Well, they do say true love never dies. Don’t they, Jon?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said through tight lips.

  She nudged him, flashing me a ‘men!’ eyebrow-hike. ‘Come on, honey. You’re the romantic. Remember Antigua?’

  I felt an odd cocktail of emotions churn in my stomach: fear, depression, inadequacy, but also rage. Why hadn’t Jonathan told me he was seeing her this evening? How many other times had he seen her without saying?

  And what were they going to talk about when I left? Antigua?

  I drew myself up to my full height.

  ‘Anyway, I can see you’re fully occupied this evening, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Is Cindy your client, or . . .’ I swallowed. ‘Or is this a social occasion?’

  Cindy glanced at Jonathan. ‘Business or pleasure, Jon? Huh?’ She looked back at me. ‘Let’s say a bit of both.’

  ‘Cindy’s company is sponsoring the production,’ Jonathan explained tightly.

  ‘Yuh, I had to come along this evening, and since Jonathan wanted to . . .’ She paused just long enough for me to think she was making up an excuse. ‘. . . meet to discuss the apartment sale, I thought we might as well meet here.’

  I turned to him.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said tonelessly.

  Something snapped inside me, and sank like a stone, deep into the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Well, in that case, I won’t keep you from your discussions,’ I said. ‘Goodnight, Godric, Kirsty. I hope you have a lovely evening. I made a reservation for you at Cipriani’s. So nice to meet you, Cindy.’

  And I swept out.

  21

  Of course, who should I run into at the top of the steps but Emery, a mere ten minutes late for the first time ever.

  I resisted the temptation to drag her downstairs and show her off as evidence. It was too late for that.

  ‘Melissa?’ she said, peering at me on the street. ‘Melissa?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, ‘it’s just a wig.’

  ‘Suits you,’ she said. ‘You look like Mummy would have done. If she was younger, and a bit fatter. And sort of . . . crosser.’

  ‘That’s not the wig,’ I said. ‘Come on, I need a drink.’

  We ended up, not in the fancy restaurant Emery had booked – since she hadn’t remembered to write down the address – but in a simple Italian place where we ordered large bowls of pasta and some red wine.

  I let everything tumble out, and Emery listened with a wise expression on her face. I knew it didn’t necessarily mean she’d come out with anything wise, but Em had always been very good at sympathy. Years of weeping over orphaned lambs and First World War poets had seen to that.

  ‘How do you manage?’ I asked her. ‘With William’s ex?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very simple,’ she said. ‘I never see her. Well, of course, Veronica’s dead, which helps, but you mean Gwendolyn?’

  I nodded. I didn’t have the energy to do much else.

  ‘I just pretend she doesn’t exist,’ said Emery serenely. ‘I tell myself she’s a fictional character, who sends us Christmas cards.’

  ‘But what about Valentino?’ Valentino was William’s five-year-old son.

  Emery widened her eyes. ‘William won’t let me meet him. He doesn’t want lines to be crossed.’

  I paused, my spaghetti dripping on my napkin. ‘You’re telling me that William wants you to pretend Gwendolyn and Valentino don’t exist?’

  ‘Mmm. His therapist says it’s easier for him to
keep things in boxes than it would be to try to make us all into a collage. Separate pages, you see. I think it’s rather a good idea. I find it much easier to put Daddy on a separate page since he’s in another country from me.’ She smiled pensively. ‘Actually, I’ve just about put him in a different book.’

  ‘Em, I don’t think that’s so healthy.’

  ‘You want to have this other woman floating in and out of your life, for ever?’ asked Emery with unusual sharpness.

  I thought. ‘I’d rather have her where I can see her, than go mad wondering where she’s hiding,’ I said.

  Emery kicked me affectionately under the table. ‘Poor Mel,’ she said. ‘Have you thought about going blonde permanently? It rather suits you.’

  I sighed, and pushed my pasta away.

  Emery had to leave to get back to her hotel in time for her late-night meditation routine, so I wandered slowly back through the streets of the West Village to Jonathan’s house, my wig curled up in my bag like a dirty secret, my own hair lank and dark. Like I felt.

  When I reached Washington Square, I sat on the steps of one of the elegant town houses, and sank my head into my hands. The lamps were all lit in the park, and people were still playing chess, walking their dogs for the last time, and strolling back from their nights out, full and happy.

  An awful heaviness filled my chest, pinning me to the spot. Nothing could feel worse than this. I’d had some pretty grim moments in the past, but nothing that paralysed me so completely. It was like being trapped in quicksand; the more I tried to explain, the more guilty I looked, and the more Jonathan would realise he’d made a mistake. And the more he’d turn his back on me – quite rightly too. I’d let him down. Even if it was for a very good reason, I’d still let him down.

  No matter how wrong he’d been for seeing Cindy without telling me, I was the one who’d deliberately gone against his feelings.

  My eyes filled with tears, and I wished I was sitting on my own front door steps. More than anything I wished I was at home.