Little Lady, Big Apple

  ‘If it’s going to be one of those evenings, let’s not stay long,’ murmured Nelson, at the same moment that I leaned up to say exactly the same thing to him.

  Around the perimeter of the gallery were glass cases containing Mummy’s weird toys, illuminated with different-coloured spotlights, as if they needed any more freakish touches. I inspected the nearest tortoise/badger and recoiled in shock at how much they were asking for it. And according to the three red spots stuck on the caption, three people already wanted to buy it. Blimey.

  ‘Don’t look now, but someone’s trying to get your attention,’ Nelson muttered in my ear.

  My hopeful heart leaped up irrationally into my chest, in case, somehow, Jonathan had finally come for me. I spun round, smile already in place.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ said a familiar voice.

  It wasn’t Jonathan. It was Granny, looking regal in a floor-length silver velvet kaftan. A small diamond tiara nestled in her grey hair, managing to look offhand and deeply formal at the same time. She was also wearing a monocle, just for the sake of it. ‘Aren’t these people awful! But you look lovely.’ She beamed.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, trying not to sound too disappointed.

  ‘Hoping I was someone else?’ she said, tipping her head to one side.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Come with me, and let’s get you a drink.’ And she steered us through the gibbering masses, waving aside a waitress toting what looked like a giant peacock made up of different cubes of cheese.

  ‘Your father,’ said Granny, in a voice dripping with extreme distaste. ‘Catering courtesy of his cheese friends. Have you seen his hedgehogs of many cheeses? They’re meant to theme with the animals.’

  ‘Er, they’re quite retro, I suppose,’ I said, pulling an oozing chunk of Stinking Bishop off a cheese jellyfish.

  ‘And all free. Now then, what’s this I hear about you calling things off with your young man?’

  ‘Do we have to talk about it?’ I dropped my cocktail stick into a passing tray. ‘It’s all anyone seems to ask me about these days.’

  ‘Well, we’re worried about you.’ She pursed her lips.

  ‘It’s not helping. I can tell Mummy thinks I’ve lost my mind, and Gabi says she understands, but I don’t think she does, and . . .’ I raised my eyes to Granny’s. ‘I thought you’d understand, though. I just can’t believe that Jonathan, of all people, doesn’t get the fact that what I do with the agency is about helping people, not selling myself to them! I don’t want to spend my days making shopping lists for rich women who could buy anything they needed. I want to feel like I’m making a practical difference to people.’

  ‘And you don’t feel you can make a difference to him?’

  ‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘He’s perfect. From his perfect socks to his perfect scent.’

  Granny let out an amused little huff through her nose. ‘Darling, no one’s perfect. Has it ever crossed your mind that he might be trying to be as perfect as possible so you don’t feel you have to fix him too?’

  ‘But I wouldn’t mind—’

  ‘Do think laterally, Melissa. You spend your days organising useless chaps. Jonathan probably thinks that’s the last thing you want to do when you come home. In fact, he probably thinks that the more organising you have to do, the more you’ll think of him as a client, not a boyfriend.’ She gave me a knowing look. ‘And he has his own very good reasons for not wanting you to think of him like that, now, doesn’t he?’

  I stared at her, while she signalled at a waiter for fresh drinks.

  Well, I thought, when you put it like that . . .

  ‘He’s always struck me as being a little insecure, you know,’ she went on, passing me a martini. ‘All those lists, that endless twitching, the obsession with his hair. His ridiculous Dictaphone.’ She gazed at me over her monocle. ‘There was no need to bring a Dictaphone to that shoot your father gave at New Year, darling, was there? It wasn’t as though he was going to see any property that needed selling.’

  ‘No,’ I conceded. ‘And he’s rather worried about doing enough at work . . .’

  ‘And still quite cut up about his wife leaving him, I should imagine. Having to keep her under control and well away from you. Quite a juggle. I should know. And’ – Granny gave me a friendly nudge – ‘probably not all that happy about his beautiful girlfriend hanging around with a famous ex.’

  I gave her a look. ‘His girlfriend who used to go out with Prince William. And Godric wasn’t my ex.’

  She made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. ‘Oh, call your solicitor.’

  ‘Granny, I know what you’re saying,’ I sighed, ‘but you’re just making me feel as though I’ve made even more of a mistake.’ I bit my lip as the truth of what she’d said sank in. ‘Poor Jonathan. I was so busy feeling in-adequate myself even to think he might be too.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m not saying you made a mistake,’ she replied. ‘I think you did exactly the right thing – women who act like doormats to keep the peace only get chucked in the end for acting like doormats. No’ – she patted my cheek – ‘you did what you felt in your heart was right, and you’ll never hear me tell you off for that. In fact,’ she added, draining her glass, ‘if he’s got any sense he’ll see that it’s your spirit that makes you the girl you are. Besides, it’s early days yet.’

  I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘I know your mother and Allegra aren’t exactly an advert for married bliss,’ she said. ‘But there’s a difference between compromising your independence and compromising yourself.’ She looked at me wisely. ‘Love’s about giving up a little independence, darling. But that doesn’t mean you have to stop being you.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine,’ I grumped. ‘I suppose I’ll know for next time. If there is a next time.’

  ‘Darling,’ said Granny, bestowing a kiss on my head. ‘There’s always a next time. Take it from one who knows. Now, where did that waiter go? These martinis are hopeless. I think I might have to have a word.’

  Nelson and I sloped off by eight thirty, and as we turned the key in the front door, I felt the relief of being home sink into the very depths of my body. I eased off my shoes in readiness for a nice rub.

  ‘Can’t we cancel Roger and Gabi?’ I asked as he pushed the door open. ‘I don’t think I can cope with those two on top of Art.’

  ‘I can pretend you’re dead drunk and miserable, if you want. That’ll put Gabi off, but Roger’s such a gossip-hound he’ll probably insist on coming over. Oh, God, the lights have gone already,’ he groaned, feeling about for the switch. ‘Bloody cowboy electricians.’

  Eventually, he found a switch that worked, and flicked it on, revealing Gabi and Roger sitting on the sofa wearing witch outfits and very convincing evil scowls.

  ‘Surprise!’ they said, without much enthusiasm.

  Nelson and I shrieked in shock.

  The room was bedecked in cobwebs and fake spiders, with a huge apple-bobbing bucket in the middle of the new rug, and plates of ghoulish blackcurrant jelly on the coffee table, and carved pumpkin heads on the tele-vision.

  ‘Mwa ha ha ha ha!’ added Roger, as an afterthought.

  I clapped a hand to my racing heart. ‘Oh, my God, you gave me a fright.’

  ‘Give me that spare key,’ said Nelson, holding out his hand. ‘Right now. And you’d better hope that those cobwebs come off my brand-new skirting boards.’

  ‘You’ve had three trick or treaters already,’ Gabi informed him, peeling the keys reluctantly off her Tiffany keyring. ‘They wanted cash, or they were going to kick the headlights in on your car.’

  ‘Cash? What happened to sweets?’

  ‘Inflation. You owe me fifteen quid.’ She turned on a table lamp and filled the room with a sinister red light. ‘I know you’re a misery-guts at the moment, but we thought this might cheer you up.’

  ‘And it will!’ I pulled off my coat. ‘I’m touched! Did you get spooky films?’

  ‘Many
,’ intoned Roger. ‘And Nelson’s got a casserole in the oven.’

  ‘Brains and eye of newt ragout,’ said Nelson. ‘Just a little something I made earlier.’

  I smiled. ‘Then let the evil times commence!’

  By eleven o’clock we’d bobbed for apples, drunk Nelson’s mulled wine, and freaked ourselves out with Gabi’s tarot cards, and now all four of us were curled up on the two new sofas – my feet in Nelson’s lap; Gabi and Roger’s heads at opposite ends of theirs. We’d finished watching The Others, which Nelson and Roger spoiled by pointing out the continuity errors, as was their wont, and now we were watching the equally horrific Selfridges video of Tristram Hart-Mossop quite blatantly ogling my cleavage while I demonstrated how cufflinks worked. The shaky camera angles suggested how amusing Gabi was finding it, not to mention the salacious zooming in and out onto my straining shirt buttons and Tristram’s fidgeting trousers.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I gasped. ‘Gabi! I look the size of a house! Why didn’t you tell me!’

  ‘Because you look bloody great,’ she said, stuffing another handful of chocolate spiders in her mouth. ‘You’ve ruined that poor lad for ordinary Sloanes.’

  ‘Quite. We like women with a bit of meat on them, eh, Mel?’ agreed Nelson, reaching over to wobble my stomach.

  The doorbell rang downstairs as I was hauling myself up into a sitting position to protest. It carried on ringing, as if someone was leaning on the button.

  Gabi and Roger groaned. ‘If it’s those kids from before, tell them your car’s barely worth new headlights,’ moaned Roger.

  ‘What if it’s my car?’ demanded Nelson.

  ‘Then you go down there,’ said Gabi, looking far too comfortable to move. ‘But take your cheque book.’

  ‘In my day it was apples and toffees, if you were lucky. What’s going to happen to this generation of bloody awful kids when they need to get jobs?’ Nelson whinged, and I could tell this was the overture to a whole whinge opera. It had six acts and no interval. I’d sat through it several times. Spending time on a ship with kids clearly hadn’t improved his opinion of them.

  ‘Oh, I’m just about up, I’ll go,’ I said, heaving myself out of the sofa.

  ‘Take this,’ said Gabi, throwing me her black tinsel witch’s wig. ‘See if you can scare the little bastards off. Pretend you’re Allegra.’

  I shuffled off towards the stairs, grabbing a handful of chocolate spiders as I went, in case that might be enough. As a gesture to the evening, I was wearing my huge monster feet slippers I’d had since school, which made the stairs quite tricky, what with the wine and the lateness of the hour.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I yelled as the ringing continued. When I got to the hallway, I pulled Gabi’s wig on – backwards, to make it look like my head was the wrong way round, then pulled open the door with a cackle. ‘Ah ha ha ha ha har! A pox on you and all Satan’s little wizards!’

  I felt cold air, and a strange silence.

  Oh, God, what if it was the police, about some damage to my car? Or Daddy?

  I turned the wig round, and tried to compose myself. Really, Mel, I thought, leave the slapstick to Gabi and Roger.

  But there was no one there at the door.

  I tsked loudly. ‘It’s not big or clever, you know. Ringing the doorbell and running away!’

  I leaned out to see if they were lurking by my car, and realised that there was someone on the doorstep.

  Braveheart.

  He was wearing a chic tartan coat, and gleaming brightly in the yellow street light. He was, to my amazement, sitting. And staying. And panting with his pink tongue out, a picture of self-satisfaction.

  ‘New wig?’ said a familiar voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen that one.’

  I looked up, my heart pounding hard in my chest, and Jonathan stepped out of the shadows, wrapped up in a grey cashmere coat, and a green scarf. His coat was smart, but his jawline was rough with stubble and he looked a bit ropey.

  ‘Hello,’ he said with an uncertain smile.

  ‘Hello,’ I choked.

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’ He gestured towards my feet.

  ‘Um, no. Just a little coven meeting,’ I gabbled, kicking off my slippers and chucking Gabi’s wig onto the post table. ‘Smart casual, you know. Annual general meeting.’

  Jonathan scooped up Braveheart before he could run off and stepped up onto the second doorstep, so we were standing at more or less the same height. Braveheart licked Jonathan’s nose, which spoiled his dramatic effect somewhat.

  ‘I had to come,’ he explained. ‘It was getting too much – the loss of appetite, the howling at night, the pining.’

  He paused.

  ‘And the mutt missed you too,’ he added.

  A broad smile split my face. Jonathan practically never did jokes. He must have thought about that one all the way across the Atlantic.

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased to see you both,’ I said, taking Braveheart out of his arms, so I could shoo him upstairs.

  Jonathan coughed. ‘Melissa, I’m afraid I have to do my speech now,’ he said. ‘Before I get distracted.’ He lifted his hand so I couldn’t interrupt. ‘I made a mistake. You were right and I was wrong. It’s not up to me what you do with your business. I should have known better than anyone how much it means to you to help people out. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you . . .’ He raised his eyes to mine, and they were bloodshot and weary. Somehow it only added a new edge to his good looks. ‘I didn’t trust myself. Not to be jealous, or insecure, or to drive you away with my stupid insecurities.’

  ‘But you have no reason to be insecure,’ I said, my heart rushing out to him ‘Not with me.’

  ‘I know that.’ He took my hands in his, and they were cold. I rubbed them with mine to warm them up. ‘I realise that now. That was the second apology. I shouldn’t have tried to keep my communication with Cindy a secret. I got quite the ear-bashing on that score from Bonnie Hegel, I have to tell you. You have some serious fans in Manhattan. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to know because something was going on. I was just scared, I guess, that somehow . . . she’d wreck things. Huh. I guess I did that on my own.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You didn’t. You just . . . gave us both something to think about.’

  Jonathan smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know about that. But . . .’ He paused. ‘Can’t you understand how a guy like me might not quite believe his luck in having a girlfriend like you?’

  ‘No.’ I almost laughed. ‘No, I can’t!’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you.’

  We both looked at each other, and something lifted inside my chest! He’d flown across the world to apologise, and was doing it with such grace; he wasn’t just too good to be true, he was true.

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘What if we just go for it – you think one of us might start believing it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I put his hands around my waist and pulled him nearer to me, so close I could feel the chill of the night air on the cashmere. ‘Maybe if we really concentrated on it. I might need some solid proof.’

  Jonathan’s serious face twisted up into a grin, but he straightened it quickly.

  ‘I think that can be arranged. And I’m sorry for not making that clear enough. You’re right. I need to scale back on the workaholism. You can keep your agency and I can keep my stupid stressy job?’ he murmured, as his arms tightened around me, and his nose approached mine. ‘I’m afraid we’re both stuck with them, one way or another.’

  ‘I’m sure we can talk about it,’ I murmured back, tilting my head so my nose grazed his. ‘There’s bound to be a compromise somewhere. And aren’t you the expert negotiator?’

  ‘Oh, I think I can be quite flexible.’ Jonathan’s lips were touching mine, so lightly I could feel his breath on my mouth. ‘When I want something as much as I want you.’

  I let my body sink into his as our lips met, and our arms wrapped round each other, a warm spot in the cold draught of October wind. I didn’
t care about Nelson’s yells to shut the front door to keep the heat in, or Braveheart’s hysterical barking. I couldn’t think about anything other than Jonathan.

  We kissed until the moment was broken by Gabi screeching upstairs, and Roger bellowing, ‘It’s only a bloody dog with a wig on, Gabi!’

  ‘I had to come back, in any case,’ he said, disentangling himself. ‘I needed to call in at the agency.’

  ‘Did you?’ I said uncertainly. ‘What for?’

  He was digging about in his pocket, then made a ‘Found it!’ face as he pulled out a ring box. ‘Couple of things. First of all, I needed some advice on buying a ring . . . May I?’ He looked up, with the ring in his hand and I was touched to see a brief hesitation in his eyes.

  ‘Please do,’ I said, and he slid it back onto my finger.

  He looked at it critically. ‘I mean, it’ll do for now. But we Americans like to make sure a woman looks engaged from a distance, know what I mean?’

  I smiled. ‘This suits me fine, Jonathan. And the other thing?’

  A satisfied sigh escaped from his lips as I turned the ring so the sapphires caught the light, as though he’d been tensed up until that moment. ‘I need to buy a bed for this new house I’ve got in Greenwich Village. A great big, English, four-poster bed. Preferably old? With curtains I can close? It’s a great big house, you see . . . Gets kind of lonely, just me and the dog?’

  I smiled and slid my arms around his neck. I could hear the leaves rustling up and down the street in the wind. It would be even colder in Jane Street. Even more need to snuggle up. ‘That sounds rather cosy. I’d be more than happy to help you find one.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and kissed me again.

  Hester Browne’s Polite Thank You Notes

  Obviously, one should always write thank you notes as soon as possible after the event. You can’t blame the Post Office and your frightful handwriting indefinitely, and texting ‘Thx 4 gr8 przzy!’ is simply Not Done. These are a bit late, and not on Smythson’s notecards, but they’re heartfelt.