‘Oh, still alive,’ I said.
‘Even your mum?’
‘Er . . . she seemed OK. In the circumstances.’ I poured Nelson a glass of wine, then a large one for myself to fortify my spirits, and sank down at the kitchen table. The relief at being home trickled through me like melting butter.
‘Which circumstances are they?’ He turned back to the stove and carried on stirring. ‘The being married to Teflon Martin circumstances, or the being an alcoholic retail-junkie circumstances?’
‘Nelson!’ Honestly, if he didn’t know my parents so well, I’d be forced to contradict him. ‘No, she’s in a bit of a tizz, actually. And for once Daddy isn’t the reason. Do you want to guess?’
‘Melissa, I really couldn’t,’ said Nelson heavily.
‘Oh, go on,’ I urged. It was funny how much easier it was to deal with the Romney-Joneses when I didn’t actually have to see them in front of me.
He sighed. ‘Whatever I guess isn’t going to be insane enough. Er . . . Your mother’s seduced the gardener.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ I hooted. ‘He’s bald!’
‘Your granny’s admitted that the unnamed gentleman she lived with in the 1950s was the Duke of Edinburgh.’
‘No!’
Although I really wouldn’t want to rule anything out.
‘No, come on, Mel. Just tell me.’
I was rather surprised that Nelson gave up so easily; normally he was happy to bait me about my family for hours. Still, maybe he was tired.
I pushed away the reasons why Nelson might be feeling worn out.
‘Allegra’s left Lars,’ I said, topping up our glasses. ‘He’s been busted for drug-smuggling. She’s moved back home, and isn’t allowed to go to Ham because there are forensic teams dusting her house for evidence.’
‘No!’ said Nelson. He didn’t sound very surprised.
‘I know! Isn’t it awful!’ I sipped at my wine. ‘I never did understand what it was that Lars actually did.’
‘To be honest, I think you were the only one who didn’t, Mel.’
‘Well, yes. Thinking about it, they did seem to have an awful lot of money for a pair of artists,’ I mused. ‘When I got there, there was a great big BMW in the drive and we argued for ten minutes about who it belonged to before Allegra remembered it was hers. She’d bought it when she flew in. With cash.’
Nelson grunted.
‘Anyway, apart from the BMW, she says she’s completely skint, back at home, driving them up the wall, and now Daddy wants me to give her a job,’ I went on, less cheerfully. ‘He’s on an Olympic committee, you know. Isn’t that a turn-up for the books? Daddy, doing something sporty?’
‘Tell me he’s not running the ladies’ beach volleyball team.’
‘Gosh, no! I think it’s administrative.’
Nelson goggled at me, as though I’d missed a joke, so I added, ‘It’s all above board, you know. He wants me to help him, actually, with some research into local etiquette and that sort of thing. I expect he’ll be meeting lots of people, you know, with the committees and so on.’
Nelson gave me his Grade Three Big Brother look, the one that despaired of my naïvety. It was very familiar to both of us.
‘And is he paying you for this?’
I nodded. ‘Of course he is! I’m not stupid!’
‘Out of his own money?’
I hesitated. ‘That’s not the point. He needs my advice!’
I didn’t add that the unusual glow of pride at actually being able to assist my father legitimately would almost have persuaded me to do it for nothing.
Nelson narrowed his eyes, then seemed to relent. ‘Well, OK. I just hope he’s not sitting on the committee handing out the tenders. It would be mortifying, and yet entirely predictable, if your father, the man with stickier fingers than Nigella Lawson, was caught with his nose in the five-ringed trough.’ Then a funny look passed across his face. ‘Still, if he’s out and about on Olympic business, your mum will be lonely, won’t she? All on her own in that big house. No one to talk to.’
I got the feeling he was driving at something here, but I couldn’t see what.
‘Nelson, let’s not talk about my family.’ I got up and started to help him transfer the supper to the table before I could start picking at it. ‘Let’s talk about, um . . .’
Our eyes met over the hob, and we both looked down. I didn’t really want to talk about Gabi, and I could tell he didn’t either.
There was an awkward pause, and then I said, ‘Sailing!’ at the same time as he said, ‘Shoes!’ In the same bright, ‘making an effort!’ voice.
‘Ah, well, yes, I’m glad you mentioned sailing, actually,’ he said rapidly. ‘Because there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, as he heaped up my plate with food. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Um, don’t wait for me,’ said Nelson, gesturing towards my plate. ‘Tuck in. I made all your favourites.’
‘I know,’ I said happily, loading up my fork. ‘I can see.’
‘So,’ said Nelson. ‘I, er, do have something we need to discuss.’
Then the mists started to clear. This was an elaborate supper beyond a mere weekend home. This was cupboard love at another level. The butter-roasted sprout turned to ashes in my mouth.
‘What?’ I mumbled, trying not to look concerned as my mind raced through a series of unworthy horrors, each of which made me feel more guilty than the last: Gabi was moving in. Nelson was selling the flat. Gabi and Nelson were getting married.
I swallowed the sprout with some difficulty and had to chase it down with an unwise mouthful of wine.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Nelson solicitously.
I nodded and spluttered. He was being a bit too nice now.
‘You sure you don’t want me to punch you in the back?’
‘Quite sure,’ I gasped.
‘OK, well,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork with studied casualness. ‘The thing is that I’ve finally got a place on a training tall ship.’
‘A what?’ Relief returned, along with the feeling in my throat. If it was just sailing . . .
‘A tall ship, you know, an old-fashioned sailing ship.’ I must have looked blank, because he sighed impatiently. ‘You know, masts, sails, crow’s nests, ar, Jim lad . . .’
‘Crow’s nests?’ I coughed away the last flake of sprout. ‘I thought they were wrinkles.’
Nelson rolled his eyes pedantically. ‘No. They’re the lookouts on top of the masts. Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum? That sort of ship. Anyway, it’s a charity that teaches young people how to crew and run the ship, and I’ve got a place on the volunteer staff. You know it’s something I’ve wanted to do for ages.’
Indeed I did. The opportunity to sail while ordering people around and doing good was something Nelson couldn’t possibly turn down.
‘And I’ve got some time off work to go and do it. They let us do that, you see,’ he added. ‘Take time off to pursue charitable projects. The young people on the ship come from very different backgrounds. Some are disabled.’
‘There’s no need to look so smug,’ I protested, riled by his sanctimonious expression. ‘You’re not the only one helping the less fortunate. Only this week I saved a teenager from five years of enforced celibacy, just by getting rid of his trousers.’
‘That was very generous of you,’ said Nelson seriously. ‘Did you charge him extra?’ Then he suppressed a snigger and spoiled the trendy vicar effect.
I studied his face for clues. I assumed this was some kind of rude joke. Straightening up my back, I looked him in the eye, to show I wasn’t going to rise to whatever bait he was dangling.
‘I charged him the normal wardrobe consultation fee, and knocked a bit off because he took us out for tea afterwards. If you must know. So how long are you going to be away playing Captain Pugwash, then?’ I asked, getting back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you want me to use the time to redecorate your room?’
br />
Nelson helped himself to the remaining chicken leg. ‘Ah, well, that’s the second part of my, er, news. You know I had that builder over to check the damp for the house insurance?’
I nodded.
‘Well, we need the damp fixed. And also the whole flat needs rewiring and the bathroom needs moving. Apparently, it’s a death-trap.’ He looked cross, as if he’d have been rewiring it himself had he known – not, I might add, because I’d been risking electrocution every time I plugged my straighteners in. ‘So I thought, if we’re going to have the plumbing done, I might as well have it repainted. And if it’s going to be repainted, then I might as well look into new carpets, and—’
‘Ah, I get it!’ I said, pointing a fork at him. ‘Don’t tell me. Finally, you’re going to admit that I might have a point after all, and you’re going to hire Honey to charm your builders into meeting their deadlines!’
Nelson gave me a funny look. ‘Melissa, since you’ve been seeing that American, you’ve turned very “Apprentice-esque”, you know that?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling,’ I said, relieved that the news hadn’t been of a marital nature. ‘I can knock something off my rent for my foreman’s fee, can’t I? About fifty per cent, say? Just think of all that dust . . .’
‘Ah, well,’ said Nelson. ‘That’s the thing. The dust and so on. I’m going to have to ask you to find your own accommodation for a while, I’m afraid.’
My face froze.
‘I’m going to be away for three months, you see, until end of October-ish, and the place will be like a building site, and I’m not sure what the insurance situation would be, so . . . Mel?’
I wasn’t listening. I was a couple of steps ahead of him.
‘Where am I going to live?’ I demanded.
Nelson had the nerve to look disapproving.
‘Oh, no,’ I said, cottoning on. So that’s why he’d been so concerned about my poor mother’s lonely existence! He was hoping I’d move in there for the interim! ‘Oh no, Nelson, I know what you’re thinking and the answer is categorically no. Weren’t you listening? Allegra’s in residence, and she’s making the place look like Dracula’s castle. She and Daddy are already at loggerheads, and I absolutely don’t want to get involved.’
Nelson threw his hands in the air. ‘But, Melissa, you honestly can’t stay here. I’m really sorry. It just makes more sense to get everything done at once. It’s not going to be for long.’
‘How long?’ I was really trying to be brave now, but the mere thought of going home . . .
‘A month?’ he tried.
We both knew this was a complete guess.
‘Right,’ I said, bravely stabbing three sprouts onto my fork and larding it up with apple sauce. ‘Well, if that’s the way it is.’
‘Can’t you move in with Jonathan for a while?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been going out for six months, and you’re always going on about how great it is, dating someone with two spare bedrooms and a guest bathroom.’
I bit my lip. As usual, Nelson had hit straight on my weakest point. ‘I don’t want to pressure him. I mean, Jonathan’s divorce only came through at Christmas. I don’t want him to think I’m pushing him into anything . . .’
‘For God’s sake, Melissa, he’s an estate agent! Ask him if you can arrange a sub-let on one of his spare rooms. He’ll cut you a deal, I’m sure.’
I chewed miserably on my sprouts. What were my options, after all? Home? Moving into Gabi’s titchy studio in Mill Hill?
There was always the tiny spare room at my office. But that was full of boxes and dry-cleaning bags and about ninety pairs of shoes. And I spent enough time there as it was.
‘I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about it,’ he huffed. ‘I thought you were meant to be Miss Dynamism these days. I thought wimpy old Boo Hoo Melissa was a thing of the past. I thought—’
‘OK, OK,’ I snapped. He was quite right. I needed to pull myself together. It wasn’t like he was moving out with Gabi, for ever. ‘I’m just concerned about, um, how it’ll affect my work.’
Nelson smiled smugly. ‘That’s more like it.’
I glared, annoyed at myself for falling straight into his trap.
‘Three months at sea,’ I said, suddenly realising how much I’d miss his company. ‘That’s ages.’ I could always find somewhere to sleep for a month, but without Nelson’s solid presence around the place, roaring in disgust at the news, it wouldn’t be the same.
‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have access to text and email and stuff. Come on, I’ll be back before Bonfire Night.’
We looked at each other over the roast chicken.
I swallowed. Nelson was going to sea!
‘You’ll text me, won’t you?’ he said. ‘And you’ll let me know if anything, um, untoward happens?’
‘What? Like me and Jonathan getting married?’ I asked, trying to be jolly.
‘I was thinking more of any blackmail or legal actions arising from your business, really,’ said Nelson, helping himself to more roast potatoes. ‘But that sort of thing too.’
I was touched, although I didn’t let it show. Nelson and I had an unspoken agreement that at moments of high emotion, all affection was to be demonstrated only by rudeness. So instead, I said, ‘You’ll text me too if you sink the boat, won’t you? Or if the disabled kids get so sick of you patronising them that they make you walk the plank? I’d like to get a good photo of you ready for showing on the Ten O’Clock News.’
‘Cheers. I’ve put Roger in charge of distributing my effects,’ he said drily. ‘So don’t think you’re getting the DVD player.’
We munched through our heaped plates in companionable silence for a moment or two.
‘How’s Gabi taken it?’ I asked.
Nelson had the grace to look a little uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t told her yet. I thought I should tell you first, so you wouldn’t hear about your impending homelessness from someone other than your landlord.’
‘Thoughtful of you.’ Homelessness. I sighed again, so hard that the red bills on the table all lifted and fluttered back down again.
‘Tell you what, I’ll pay the phone bill this month,’ offered Nelson. ‘Gesture of goodwill.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and mentally put the money aside for spending on earplugs – if I had to go home – or, failing that, a very cheap hotel room.
Still, I let him watch his Onedin Line DVD, and he rubbed my feet until I fell asleep.
4
On Monday morning, I arrived in the office and was pleased to see four new messages on the answering machine already. Weekends could be trying times for my clients. Families, as I knew myself, presented all kinds of problems.
I made a pot of coffee and settled in behind my big desk, kicking off my stilettos for comfort, and allowing myself a long, heart-warming gaze at the framed photograph of me and Jonathan, positioned next to the phone where I’d see it the most. It was my favourite photograph: me and him in black tie, taken at a dinner-dance at the Dorchester the previous November when I’d still been pretending to be his girlfriend and he was still pretending to be hiring me for convenience. The night I really fell in love with him, I think. I hadn’t realised that beneath the starchy exterior was a man who could dance like Gene Kelly, and make me glide like Cyd Charisse.
Even now, remembering the way he’d moved his hand only slightly on the small of my back as he’d swept me round the floor, just enough to make me want him to hold me tighter . . . My skin tingled deliciously at the memory.
Sometimes, looking back over the oily parade of lounge lizards and Sloane Square no-hopers that made up my romantic past, I wonder if they were just some kind of trial I had to undergo so I could end up with Jonathan Riley. Like the Krypton Factor assault course, only with three times as many mud-slides, and an estate agent at the end of it.
Jonathan was so far out of my league that since we’d started going out officially I’d go
t into the habit of taking lots of pictures of us together, just so I’d believe it was true. He was thirty-nine, worked as a CEO or COO or something at Kyrle & Pope, the big international estate agency that now owned Dean & Daniels, and he had a real old-fashioned film-star gorgeousness. Gabi disagreed, on account of his red hair (‘Basil Brush’s more ginger cousin’), but he did something to me that I can’t really explain.
I’m a sucker for men in well-cut suits, but there was something going on underneath Jonathan’s business-like exterior, a sort of naughtiness that melted my insides whenever I caught a glimpse of it. The exterior itself was pretty charming: all-American cheekbones, grey eyes, and perfect square white teeth. But it was the little, private things that swept me off my feet: he stood up when I came in, and noticed my clothes, and murmured things in my ear that made me blush, while looking utterly impeccable. And he never, ever needed to be told what kind of socks to wear.
Obviously, I didn’t want to jeopardise this dream relationship by moving my stuff into his plush pad in Barnes prematurely. I still wasn’t convinced that Jonathan knew exactly what he was going out with. He might have thought he’d stopped paying for Honey’s professional perfection in favour of my own more ramshackle charms, but the reality was that I was spending just as much time and effort on being a super-groomed, super-organised version of Melissa as I’d ever done tarting myself up into Honey’s Hollywood glamour. If you see what I mean.
Sometimes I wondered nervously just how long I could afford to keep up this level of waxing.
Then the phone rang. Composing myself into a more professional frame of mind, I picked up the heavy Bakelite receiver. ‘The Little Lady Agency. How can I help you?’
There was an infinitesimal pause on the other end. ‘Mmm,’ said Jonathan appreciatively. ‘Say that again?’
Butterflies fluttered up inside my stomach. He had the sexiest upmarket American accent, the kind you hear on legal dramas where the lawyers are impassioned and terribly expensive. Luckily he thought my posh English accent was equally sexy, so we spent quite a lot of time just talking to each other about total rubbish, then falling into passionate embraces.