‘Allegra,’ I began carefully. ‘Why have the police taped up your house? No one’s been . . . hurt, have they?’
She cast an imperious look towards the door to check that Daddy wasn’t lurking. Clearly she was hoping to keep him out of the picture for as long as possible – why, I didn’t know. Power games, presumably. ‘Lars has been implicated in some international smuggling ring. I don’t know what. Cocaine, I assume,’ she added airily, ‘and there was some mention of rhino horn.’ She paused and twisted the large gold rings on her right hand. ‘And antiquities. Such an idiot.’
‘Gosh,’ I said, shocked. ‘I never thought Lars—’
‘And arms,’ she went on, with a flick of her long white fingers. ‘Some other type of drug too, but I can’t remember what . . .’
‘Allegra!’
‘. . . and possibly money laundering, but for God’s sake! Is there any need to be searching my house for evidence?’
As there was no polite sisterly response to this we sat in silence for a moment while Mummy’s needles clicked hysterically. I couldn’t work out what she was meant to be making: it looked like it could be anything from a matinee jacket for Jenkins to some kind of ceremonial hat.
‘Mummy, why are you knitting?’ I asked, because I had to know, imminent Interpol raid or not. ‘Emery isn’t pregnant, is she?’
‘Not as far as I know, darling,’ she said. ‘I just enjoy it. It gives me something to do with my hands. Some lady at one of the WI fairs recommended it for giving up smoking. She was on forty a day, she said, and now she knits entire kingsize blankets in under a week. Plus,’ she added, ‘I can fantasise about shoving these needles up your father’s ghastly nose at times of stress.’
‘No plans for your wedding anniversary yet then?’ asked Allegra. ‘Thirty-five years in September, isn’t it?’
Mummy knitted faster. ‘That’s weeks away. Don’t buy a card just yet.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked Allegra, to change the subject. ‘Have you, er . . .’ It was delicate, talking about money. I hated it. ‘The police haven’t done anything awful, like freeze your bank accounts, have they?’
Allegra’s head swivelled over to me, sending her curtain of jet-black hair swinging. ‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Oh, just a guess.’ I wasn’t stupid. It had happened to Daddy twice.
She sighed. ‘Well, yes. That has happened. And I refuse to ask that bastard for a loan.’
‘Which one? Lars or Daddy?’
‘Daddy. Lars owes me.’
‘Just as well, darling,’ murmured Mummy, ‘because I don’t think Daddy’d give you one.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘And there are always conditions.’
I knew that from personal experience. Daddy’s loans made Mafia money-lending look like some form of charity hand-out. What you didn’t pay in interest, you paid in favours owed.
‘I can give you enough to tide you over,’ offered Mummy, ‘but—’
‘No, no,’ said Allegra, placing her hands firmly on her knees. ‘I’ll just have to get a job. That’s what you did, wasn’t it, Melissa? When you couldn’t find a rich husband?’
I stared at her in shock. On so many levels.
‘Just joking,’ Allegra said. ‘I mean, how hard can it be? I don’t need that much to live on in London. I reckon about fifty thousand would be enough. Where’s The Times? Don’t they have an Appointments section?’
I narrowed my eyes slightly. I sincerely hoped this wasn’t what Mummy had wanted me to come and sort out. I was a problem-solver, not a white witch. ‘Allegra,’ I began, ‘have you thought about, er, what skills you’d be able to offer? Because there really aren’t that many jobs that pay that sort of money for so little experience.’
The phone rang on the side table. Mummy stared at it for a second, as if trying to place the sound, then picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Your lipstick is smudged,’ Allegra informed me. ‘You should either wear lipstick with panache or not at all.’ She paused to let this information sink in while I fiddled self-consciously with my compact, then added, ‘Have you thought about plain lip gloss?’
Mummy put the receiver to her chest and looked at me sympathetically. ‘It’s your father, calling from his study. He says can you pop in to see him, please? He’d like a word.’
‘And that word will doubtless be cash,’ snorted Allegra.
‘Allegra,’ said my mother weakly.
I got up, startled by the novelty of actually wanting to escape to my father’s Study of Doom.
I only had to get within ten feet – yelling distance – of my father’s study to feel my stomach begin to knot, and my palms begin to dampen: virtually every difficult conversation of my childhood had taken place within its book-lined walls. Most of those difficult conversations had been about the cost-effectiveness of educating me at a series of very expensive schools – I’m afraid my results made Princess Diana look like Stephen Hawking – but there had been some other corkers thrown in for variation, like the time he explained we’d all have to go and live in France to avoid a tax scandal, and then there was the one about our au pair’s horrendous court case in which my Snoopy pyjama case played an embarrassingly central role, and . . .
Well, I could go on, but I won’t. The only minor satisfaction came from a detail gleaned from my mother about two years previously: that Daddy was in no position to lecture me about my glaring lack of academic garlands, since he’d bought every single book on the oak shelves behind him at a house clearance in Gloucestershire, including the leather-bound set of Jilly Cooper’s collected works which were the only ones that looked as if they’d ever been opened.
However, when in situ in his oak-panelled study, Daddy still had the ability to reduce me to jelly, even after a year of asserting myself through Honey’s no-nonsense persona. These days I could just about tell Emery to buy her own curtains rather than have me ‘run some up’ for her on my sewing machine, but Daddy was a whole other kettle of fish.
The decanter was already on his desk and he’d poured himself a large Scotch by the time I’d walked down the corridors that led to his bit of the house. When he heard me knock, he swung round in his chair like a Bond villain and steepled his fingers. I hated it when he did that. It usually meant he knew something I didn’t, and wasn’t going to tell me straight away.
‘Ah, Melissa,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair as if I’d turned up for an interview. ‘Do sit down. Take the weight off your feet.’
I tried not to take that personally.
‘It’s a while since we’ve had a little chat, isn’t it?’ he mused, sipping his Scotch. ‘I think the last time, if I remember rightly, was at your sister’s wedding. When you told me all about your escort agency.’
The wedding I’d organised, I might add. All by myself.
‘It’s not an escort agency,’ I replied hotly, rising to the bait despite myself. ‘It’s—’
‘Yes, yes.’ He flapped a hand at me. ‘So you say. Anyway, how is business? Booming? Hmm?’
‘It’s going well,’ I said cautiously.
‘Making lots of contacts?’
I eyed him, not sure where this was going, but certain it was going somewhere. Somewhere I would almost certainly not want to end up. ‘Ye-e-e-es.’
He frowned in what I think he imagined was an understanding manner. ‘Or is that awfully dull boyfriend of yours laying down the law about what you can and can’t get up to? Hmm? I imagine he’s got some pretty strong views about, ah, a few of your sidelines, eh?’
How did he know that? Did he have some kind of telepathic hot wire into my deepest secrets? I went hot and cold.
‘No,’ I insisted, for what felt like the millionth time. ‘Jonathan’s very happy for me to carry on the agency. I mean, I’m mainly sorting out people’s wardrobes and arranging their parties these days, but I’m sure if I wanted to take on a client who needed me to . . .’ I slowed down, realising the untruth of
what I was saying. But I was committed now. ‘Deal with more lifestyle issues, he’d understand.’
‘Ding!’ went Nelson in my head.
Damn.
Daddy tipped his head to one side, and smiled at me, as if I were a very stupid little girl. ‘Well, that’s nice. It would be a shame to let such a clever business idea go to waste.’
I was thrown by this unexpected turn of events. Last time we’d discussed the Little Lady Agency he’d accused me of working as a hooker, and dragging the family name into disrepute.
‘Anyway, Melissa, since you’re doing so well, you must be run off those great big feet of yours, no?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Come, come, either you’re doing well, or you’re not?’
‘I’m doing well.’
‘So you can give Allegra something to do.’ He pushed himself away from the desk with the air of a job well done and started flicking through his Rolodex of cronies by the phone. ‘Keep her busy. Out of our hair.’
I stared at him. ‘You are joking now, aren’t you?’
Daddy looked up from his address book. ‘Does Allegra’s divorce strike you as anything to joke about?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘You do seem to be remarkably uncaring about your sisters,’ he observed reproachfully. ‘I practically had to twist your arm to help out with Emery’s wedding. Is it because you’re feeling the call of the old maid’s apron, eh? There’s always voluntary work, you know. Spinsterhood isn’t the end of the world any more, my dear girl.’
‘But I can’t give Allegra a job!’ I wailed. ‘There isn’t enough for her to do, even if I wanted to help out. Which I do. Of course I do. But wouldn’t she be better working in an art gallery, or something like that? She’s got lots of experience of . . . um, art.’
I didn’t want to say that Allegra could clear my client list in about seven phone calls. She had the interpersonal skills of a grave robber, and most of my clients were ridiculously sensitive.
Daddy peered at me patiently. ‘I realise that, Melissa. Allegra would be an asset to any gallery.’
We both knew he was lying here.
‘But, thinking as a protective father,’ he went on smoothly, ‘it would be quite stressful for Allegra to re-enter the job market at—’
‘Enter the job market,’ I corrected him. ‘She’s never actually had a proper job.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Daddy. ‘Even more reason why this isn’t the time to open herself up to the strain of interviews and possible rejection.’
‘And she’s also under investigation by the police,’ I added.
‘I know,’ said Daddy. ‘And, well . . .’ His voice trailed off discreetly. ‘The press are ghastly, prying creatures. And I know you girls have always suffered the pressures of being the children of a prominent politician.’
He looked at me beadily over his fingers, and the penny dropped. With a clang, right in my eye.
‘You want me to give Allegra a job at my office because you don’t want her showing you up in someone else’s!’ I said.
‘Right first time,’ said Daddy, shuffling some papers on his desk, as if the interview were nearing a close. ‘We don’t want some nosey HR woman poking around in our business, and I don’t want Allegra getting on the front page of the Sun for downloading porn or taking drugs in the loo or whatever else she’s liable to do.’
‘But I can’t afford to pay her anywhere near what she wants,’ I protested, thinking of Allegra’s exorbitant ideas about salary. ‘I don’t even pay myself that sort of money!’
‘Oh, I don’t expect her to scratch around on nothing,’ said Daddy. ‘I’m happy to, how can I put it, supplement her income?’
I stared at him, trying to see where the scam was. There had to be one. Daddy was not a ‘free money’ sort of businessman.
‘And I can put a little something your way too,’ he said generously. ‘I’m going to need some guidance on international etiquette, with so many meetings with dignitaries in my Olympic diary, and who better to guide me than London’s premier etiquette expert?’
If I was reeling before, I was seriously wrong-footed by this, and Daddy seized on my uncertainty like a hawk spotting a fieldmouse with a gammy leg.
‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Melissa?’ he demanded. ‘Not only working on an internationally significant project, but helping your father at the same time! And promoting your business! And getting paid! And,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘maybe meeting some nice young man!’
‘I have a nice young man, thank you.’
Daddy sniffed. ‘Well, an American one, yes. So, can we agree on this? Between us? Hmm?’
I knew there was something I was missing here, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it could be. ‘And what if I say no?’ I hazarded bravely.
Daddy picked up the phone. ‘Don’t make me answer that, Melissa. Bottom line is she can’t hang around here like some kind of very high-maintenance vampire bat, and that’s the long and short of it. I have things to be getting on with. I’d be most upset if I had to add Allegra – and you – to that list.’
‘Er, I’ll think about it,’ I said. What option did I have? ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Good, good . . .’
He gave me a ghastly smile, showing all his teeth, old and new.
I excused myself and went down to the kitchen for something to calm my nerves.
3
After a testy Sunday, most of which I spent out walking the dogs to escape the fierce legal drama taking place in the drawing room, I drove home in a state of exhaustion, my brain teeming with all manner of crushing things I could have said to my father had I only been able to get my brain in gear.
He was right, I thought remorsefully, crawling through a contraflow on the M25. I should maybe think about how I could help Allegra out in her moment of need. She was my sister, after all, and much water had passed under the bridge since we were children. We might have things in common now, if only I looked hard enough.
I focused on conjuring up three positive things about Allegra while I sat in the traffic. I’m a firm believer in trying to find three positives in any gloomy situation. It distracts you from the negatives for a while, if nothing else.
One, she was my sister.
Two, she could speak fluent Swedish – which would be helpful for, er, all the stubborn IKEA self-assembly units my bachelor clients seemed so keen on – as well as Russian, colloquial Norwegian and a smattering of Icelandic, mainly swear words. And that would be handy for . . . au pairs?
Three . . .
My brow furrowed. There had to be something else.
Three . . .
Three, she wouldn’t take any nonsense from anyone, and that was really what I was aiming for as Honey, wasn’t it?
A chink of light appeared in the general Allegra gloom. Maybe I could find some way of her helping me out in the office? She’d be more than happy to negotiate with tough customers, and she did have a certain artistic bent . . .
She was also utterly amoral, self-righteous, loud-mouthed and bloody-minded. If she wasn’t my sister, I’d swear she had a kleptomaniac streak too. Not exactly prime office manager material, even in London.
A vision of Allegra in the middle of Selfridges, screeching at Tristram Hart-Mossop to ‘pull yourself together and just get laid!’ blazed across my mind, and I nearly swerved into the side of an articulated lorry as chilly beads of sweat touched my armpits.
I’d have to think about it. Hard.
The moment I opened the door to our house and breathed in the mouth-watering aroma of a full roast chicken dinner, my heart swelled with gratitude for the little things in life, like having a flatmate who made his own gravy.
Nelson knew me well enough to rustle up a comforting evening meal on the weekends when I’d been home, and this smelled like the works: apple sauce as well as chicken, and roast potatoes. I sniffed the air. Was that bread and butter pudding? I inhaled like a Bisto
kid while my stomach rumbled gleefully. My favourite. And he usually insisted I lavish it all with home-made custard too. My curve-enhancing lingerie wouldn’t be half so tight if Nelson wasn’t such an ace cook.
God, I was jolly lucky to have a flatmate like Nelson, I thought, for the millionth time. It was like being married, but with none of the worries about not ‘communicating properly’ or letting your leg hair grow over your ankles.
‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ I yelled, dumping my bag in the hall. I couldn’t help noticing that none of Gabi’s designer belongings were hanging on the coat pegs, and my mood lifted a little further.
‘Hi, Mel.’ Nelson appeared at the kitchen door, wiping his hands on his blue-and-white-striped professional home chef’s apron.
We might have behaved like brother and sister, but we didn’t look alike. Whereas I was brunette and, um, well-built, like a water spaniel, say, Nelson was tall and dark blond and reminded me, in many ways, of a golden retriever. Reliable, handsome, happy to help blind people and children. Slightly smug.
Actually, that’s not fair. Nelson never made a big deal about helping people; he worked in fundraising, but never forced me to buy Fairtrade chocolate or lectured me about driving the sort of car that single-handedly destroyed seventeen trees a year, or some such. He was just one of those naturally good chaps.
I know, sickening.
He had a dreadful singing voice, though, which took the edge off the perfection, thank God, especially at Christmas.
‘Smells like a big dinner?’ I said, popping a sprout in my mouth and hunting around for the corkscrew. ‘I am so ready for a night in.’ I bestowed a broad smile on him. ‘And if you want to watch that Onedin Line DVD, I promise I won’t talk through it. Just as long as you do my feet at the same time.’
Nelson didn’t respond to this generous offer with the enthusiasm I’d hoped, and I paused, wine bottle in hand, to examine the confusing mass of emotions playing across his normally very simple-to-read face.
‘Um, that’s really kind of you, Mel,’ he said. ‘But you don’t have to. Did you have a good time at home? How were your parents?’ he asked, oddly.