Jennifer and Bonnie exchanged glances.
I smiled and clicked my pen. This was an opportune moment to go to the loo. ‘Would you excuse me?’ I said. ‘Where’s the . . . ?’
‘Right down the corridor on your left,’ said Diana.
‘Toilet?’ demanded Jennifer. ‘Or lavatory?’
I stared at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘Toilet? Or lavatory?’
Oh, God. We’d been playing ‘What would the Queen say?’
‘Lavatory?’ I guessed. ‘Loo, probably. Where I live, anyway.’
‘Loo!’ hooted Jennifer and Diana in unison.
‘Oh! Oh!’ Bonnie flapped her hands. ‘You could put it on the door, for the shower!’
I slipped out.
Diana’s apartment was very elegant, with high white walls and lots of nooks and crannies, filled with fresh flowers. The main wall, running the length of the apartment, was filled with photographs from top to bottom, going from faded baby pictures through high school, graduation, university, weddings and parties and fam-ilies. It was like an exhibition of her and Steve’s life – a really clever idea.
I didn’t mean to be nosey, but I couldn’t help surfing through the images, looking for pictures of Jonathan.
It didn’t take long. Here he was aged about twenty, looking kind of dorky in one of those college boy jackets. His hair, bright copper, was brushed up into a quiff, and he had a whole crop of spots, like angry red barnacles on his chin.
In fact, apart from the spots, and that he’d obviously just won some sporty trophy thing, he looked endearingly like Rick Astley.
Jonathan’s hair made him pretty easy to pick out of the college photos. There he was a few years later, with a group of other tuxedo’d guests at Steve and Diana’s wedding. It looked like a very smart do, very white flowers and gold chairs, but they seemed comfortable with each other, in the way only old, old friends can be, laughing and knocking back the champagne. There he was again, holding Diana up in her wedding dress, with five other ushers. She looked like a canoe.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew subconsciously I was looking for a photograph of Jonathan with Cindy.
And suddenly my eye fell on it: both of them in a large group, on a manicured lawn behind a spacious, white-painted holiday house. I picked out Bonnie and Kurt, Steve and Diana, Jennifer – and Jonathan and Cindy.
My heart stopped and I held my breath as I looked at them together. Both of them were smiling and relaxed in their chinos, jumpers thrown over their shoulders. It could have been a page from a Ralph Lauren catalogue. Everyone looked sparkling clean.
Could I compete with that? Not only was everyone older than me, they were just more . . . finished than I was. The women had that no-make-up make-up look down pat. And as long as Jonathan was part of this group, Cindy would always be there in the background, like a ruler I was always being measured against. She would be Margaret Thatcher to my John Major.
Not a nice thought.
I took a pace away from the group shot and found another picture of Jonathan in his rowing eight at Princeton with Steve. It was, as he said, the First boat. Even at six two, Jonathan was a good few inches shorter than the rest of them, but he had a determined look on his face, even in the crew shot, that told me that he’d decided to be in the boat, had worked his socks off, and got there. God knew what he looked like when he was actually rowing.
I was admiring Jonathan’s well-muscled legs when I realised that the conversation in the kitchen had risen back to normal levels, now they assumed I was safely ensconced in the bathroom. And what they were talking about froze me in my tracks.
‘I saw Cindy the other day,’ Jennifer was saying. ‘She was pumping me for details about Melissa.’
There was an unspecific groan.
I held my breath.
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Bonnie.
Pause. In which I was willing to bet they were pulling faces. God, I wished I could have seen what those faces were.
‘She said she’d seen her in some bar with some other guy! An actor? Some English guy Paige is representing.’
‘Oh, my God! No!’
My thoughts exactly.
‘And she was wearing a wig?’ Jennifer went on excitedly. ‘Like a blonde wig?’
‘Really? No!’ gasped Diana. ‘Was she, like, being intimate with this guy?’
Long pause.
I felt ill.
‘I’m sure Cindy got that wrong,’ said Bonnie firmly, and I could have kissed her.
‘She said Jonathan was pretty mad! He went home straight afterwards in a complete silent fit. Wouldn’t even stay for a drink.’
Well, at least there was that, I told myself, hopefully. It wasn’t like he’d stayed there all night, whooping it up with her.
‘She was there with Jonathan?’ demanded Diana. ‘Oh, my God! What is going on with those two? Did Melissa know Cindy was going to turn up with Jonathan? That must have been a shock for her.’
Someone snorted. Jennifer? ‘Listen, if seeing Cindy’s a shock, can you imagine what’s in store for that poor girl when she gets to know her?’
‘Well, I spoke to Jonathan about it,’ said Bonnie’s firm voice, ‘and he told me that Melissa was doing a favour for a friend. She was acting as a matchmaker, and she had to wear the wig so no one would recognise her in the bar.’
‘And he believed that?’ scoffed Jennifer. ‘Like, duh!’
‘Jennifer, the guy is just some old friend of hers from London, an actor. Paige had her doing some kind of work with him. Melissa’s a good girl. Besides, Jon had no right to be there with Cindy without telling her.’
I had never realised how much I liked Bonnie. I took back every mean thing I’d ever thought about her bony ribs.
‘Yeah, well, there is that,’ conceded Diana. ‘So what did you tell Cindy about Melissa?’
‘I said she was super-polite,’ said Jennifer. ‘And charming and very cute.’
My heart lifted.
But unfortunately, Jennifer hadn’t finished.
‘Sure, a little, um . . . naïve, maybe. But she’s British, and, I mean, kind of young? Compared with Jonathan.’
I seethed a little. I wasn’t half as naïve as people seemed to think. In fact, if people could only recognise that looking for the best in others wasn’t automatically a sign of mental frailty . . .
‘You think she’s up to all that social stuff Jonathan has to do now? I mean, there’s some serious heavy lifting there. And say what you like about Cindy, she certainly knew how to work a room. They were a team, you know? Remember those New Years parties they used to throw?’
Someone sighed. From the note of concern injected into the sigh, I guessed it was Bonnie. ‘I know. I do worry about that. I mean, I think Melissa is so much better for him, but there was always such a feistiness about Jonathan and Cindy, you know? A real love-hate thing goin’ on. You get into habits, in relationships . . . I just worry that maybe Melissa . . .’
‘Men can be so dumb . . .’
I hated all these trailing offs.
‘I know what you mean. A spark, mmm.’
Literally, sometimes, I observed to myself, but none of the three seemed to notice.
For a second, I was too distracted by the delicious novelty of getting a joke other people had missed that I almost didn’t notice the implication of what they were saying: that there was no spark between me and Jonathan?
I begged to differ on that one.
But the other two were making concerned agreeing noises.
‘And I don’t think Cindy’s over him, do you? They still seem to be in touch about the flat and such like.’
‘You know what she’s like – she can’t let anything go. And Brendan’s already rowing with her about Parker’s day care.’
‘You think they’ll get back together?’
The breath seemed to stop in my body, as silence suggested that they were pulling faces again.
What were thos
e faces? I agonised.
‘Well, there’s Parker to consider now,’ said Bonnie finally.
What did that mean? That if it wasn’t for Parker it would all still be to play for?
‘Bonnie, I know she was a whole handful of trouble, but those two . . . It’s a long time, you know? You don’t just get over someone like that.’
‘Unless you’re already all over his brother,’ noted Jennifer. ‘Which she was. For a long time, I hear.’
You could have heard a pin drop. Well, you could have heard three coffee cups being refilled.
‘Is Melissa all right, do you think? She’s been a long time in the bathroom. You don’t think she’s sick?’
‘Oh, no, she’s probably just getting a good look at a proper shower!’
Tinkly laughter.
Feeling somewhat grubby, I crept back round the corner into the bathroom, which was the size of my bedroom back home, flushed the lavatory to warn them I was on my way, then cringed, wondering if the long delay between leaving and flushing had made it look as if I had some kind of digestive problem.
Too late to worry about that.
I breezed back into the kitchen, where three heads snapped round in a classic ‘you caught us!’ guilt fest.
‘Melissa!’ said Diana. ‘We were just wondering where you’d got to!’
‘Oh, there’s so much to admire in your lovely house!’ I said. ‘I was looking at the old college pictures of Jonathan. He hasn’t changed much, has he?’
Jennifer and Diana both laughed in agreement, but Bonnie fixed her eyes on me and I felt as if she were trying to look into my mind.
‘You know something, Melissa? I haven’t seen Jonathan like this since we were fresh out of college. I mean that. He seems really happy. Don’t you think, girls?’
There was a murmur of agreement. I tried to tell myself that if Gabi found a new boyfriend, I’d try to be welcoming and fair to the new one, as well as carrying on liking Aaron just the same.
Then I remembered she did have a new boyfriend and it was Nelson, and I wasn’t handling that very well at all. Out of love for both of them.
I looked round the table: Bonnie with her inquisitive eyes, looking straight through me; Diana with her immaculately messed-up auburn bob; Jennifer and her astonishing breasts.
Love Jonathan, love his friends.
‘Good!’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’ve just had rather a good idea for the cake!’
23
If Jonathan’s office was keeping him in a state of hypertension, then the additional organisation he’d taken on for the charity fundraiser was stretching even his extraordinary powers of organisation to the limits.
He kept his promise, though, and carved out much more time for me than before, even calling himself when he was running late, instead of getting Lori to do it. Better than that, he did it graciously, without a hint of guilt-tripping. We went on a day trip to Long Island, and took a night-time Ghost Walk around Greenwich Village, and managed to grab lunches, teas or power breakfasts on days when his schedule was too tight for anything more. But even when we were sipping cocktails at the Carlyle, or strolling hand-in-hand through Central Park with Braveheart, I could tell his brain was always making lists, or working on logistical problems, and with only a few days to go until the big night, the little crease between his eyebrows deepened into a furrow.
I could hardly complain about Jonathan’s preoccupation, though. I was pretty busy myself. Officially, I was consulting with Diana and her caterers, while unofficially sneaking out of the house to make check-up calls to the office at least once a day, sometimes very early in the morning indeed, just to catch Gabi and Allegra unawares. After their little performance last time I was home, I didn’t want them thinking that they weren’t under constant supervision. I wanted a business to go home to.
And that was the weight on my mind: going home. Somehow, Jonathan and I had managed to skirt around the small matter of my return to England, and, indeed, what would happen after that. I was meant to be flying back three days after the fundraiser, but it was impossible, of course, to think beyond that massive deadline. So now there were two elephants in our hallway: Cindy, and the Future.
Could you blame me for enjoying my lattes where I could?
The morning of the fundraiser rolled round all too soon, and it didn’t get off to a great start for me.
I’d set my phone to vibrate at five thirty because I really, really wanted to catch Gabi and Allegra out. In the end I couldn’t sleep anyway, running things I’d heard the girls say, and the stupid things I’d managed to get wrong, back and forth in my mind, until I got up at five, and went downstairs.
In his crate, Braveheart didn’t even bother to wake up, but I slipped Jonathan’s fine cashmere jumper on over my pyjamas and let myself out to sit.
To my astonishment, the office phone barely rang once.
‘For Christ’s sake, Gobby, I’m bloody well doing it!’ bellowed Allegra, to an accompaniment of slamming drawers. ‘Unless you’re calling to apologise for that completely unnecessary—’
‘Is that the Little Lady Agency?’ I demanded in a hoity-toity voice. ‘Have I mis-dialled?’
‘No, this is the Little Lady Agency,’ confirmed Allegra, in slightly sweeter tones. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘To whom do I speak?’ All right, I should have dropped it there, but it was too transfixing, hearing Allegra’s public voice.
There was a brief pause. ‘You’re speaking to Melissa Romney-Jones,’ said Allegra sweetly.
‘I very much doubt that,’ I said, in my own voice.
‘Why’s that?’ she enquired.
Honestly. ‘Because I’m Melissa Romney-Jones!’ I exploded. ‘Allegra. It’s me.’
‘Oh?’ Allegra sounded vaguely surprised. ‘You don’t have a very distinctive voice, Melissa.’
For goodness’ sake! She’d only had twenty-eight years to get familiar with it.
‘How is everything?’ I asked, watching a student cycling unsteadily down the cobbled street. ‘Why aren’t you telling people who you are?’
‘Because I’d rather keep my whereabouts to myself, thank you,’ she snotted. ‘And everything’s fine. Nothing we can’t handle.’
I put aside my concerns about the truth of that for the moment. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Is there something in particular you want?’ Allegra snapped. ‘Because we’re having a busy day here. Already. You have noted the time? Yes? Just gone ten?’
‘What are you doing? Apart from giving cheek to potential clients.’
‘I’m taking some bloke called Rupert Braithwaite out shopping for some kitchen equipment, and Gabi’s meant to be sorting out a birthday present for some brat in Mayfair.’
Which reminded me. ‘Allegra,’ I said firmly, ‘you have spoken to that poor woman about the knitted toys you sent by mistake, haven’t you?’
‘Sorry, Melissa, something’s just come up, got to go, will have Gabi phone you later,’ gabbled Allegra and hung up on me.
I sat there, staring at the mobile in my hand. What on earth was that about?
I went back inside, and sat for a while in the kitchen, watching the light spread through the slatted shutters, over the wooden floor, as the sounds of the city waking up began to filter in along with the dawn. I hoped Jonathan wasn’t going to let the designers plan the character out of this house. It had so much cobwebby charm in a city that seemed to be constantly cleaning and improving itself.
I wished, for a moment, that he’d let me do it for him. There had to be something I could do for him.
Then I felt a kiss on my hair.
‘Couldn’t sleep either, huh?’ said Jonathan. He was already in his gym kit and looked disgustingly awake.
I shook my head. ‘Darling, isn’t it a bit early for a run?’
‘No! Big day ahead! I thought I’d get my run in early, before I jog to work, then start with the arrangements by six. I need to make sure every
one’s on track.’
I goggled. So this was the full Dr No mode. ‘At six in the morning?’
He nodded, and started to pull on his trainers. ‘We start early here, Melissa.’ His head vanished beneath the table. ‘You got your salon appointments booked?’ floated up.
‘Yup. Lori’s done herself proud.’ I was spending no fewer than four hours at Bliss Spa. ‘I’ll be a different woman by the time you see me at the Met tonight.’
He re-emerged. ‘Don’t be too different, please,’ he said, kissing my forehead. ‘I like the woman I’ve got just fine. You could go just as you are and still be the cutest one there.’ He checked his watch. ‘OK, gotta go. Don’t call me if you need anything—’
‘Call Lori,’ I finished. ‘I know.’
‘Hey!’ he said, as if it had just occurred to him. ‘I can take the dog!’
‘I don’t think he’ll like it,’ I warned.
‘No, it’s a cool thing for us to do together,’ said Jonathan, approaching Braveheart’s crate. ‘C’mon, little fella! Come for a jog with Daddy!’
A low growling emanated from the crate.
‘OK!’ said Jonathan, as if he were making an executive decision. ‘Stay home and look after Mommy then!’
He clicked his fingers and pointed at me with a near-satanic energy for such an unearthly time of the morning, then jogged off.
I went back to bed, but didn’t get much sleep.
I was woken at nine, just as I’d finally dropped off, by a man from the florist bearing a huge bunch of roses, and a smaller bunch of other flowers that on a normal day would have looked lavish. I tipped him the right money – having learned florist delivery tips as part of my never-ending research into American tipping – and staggered to the table with the floral tributes.
The huge bunch of velvety crimson roses was from Jonathan. The card, in his handwriting, simply read, ‘Always’. I allowed myself a moment just to stand and quiver with romance. He was, undoubtedly, the classiest man I had ever met.