The Little Lady Agency

  My mind boggled.

  ‘He’s what?’ demanded Nelson from the sofa. ‘Are you making this up?’

  ‘No,’ spluttered Gabi. ‘He’s basically just the new London manager. He’s about as much fun as the clap and half as sociable. You would not believe the hours we’re all working these days. The only bright side I can see is that Carolyn really fancies him, for some reason, so she’s grabbed most of the extra work he’s loaded onto us, just so she can look all keen and make us look slack.’

  Knowing how lazy Carolyn was, this impressed me more than anything.

  ‘But if he’s so horrible,’ I asked, curiously, ‘why does she fancy him?’

  Gabi rolled her eyes and rubbed her fingers together. ‘You know what she’s like. That big house in Fulham isn’t going to buy itself.’

  True enough. That office had always been a bit of a hunting ground for girls after big houses, Gabi included. Still, I felt rather sad for Dean & Daniels. For all its flaws, it hadn’t been a bad place to work. We’d always had cake on our birthdays. Well, I’d always gone out and got one, anyway.

  ‘And, er, I suppose he has a certain flinty charm,’ Gabi conceded reluctantly. ‘Beneath the unpleasant manner and foul temper.’

  ‘You women, you’re all the same,’ grunted Nelson. ‘All this nonsense about wanting a man to be nice to you and you go for bastards every time.’

  ‘Not any more!’ I said, bouncing over to the sofa to give him a big hug. ‘It’s just kind, sympathetic, caring men for me from now on.’

  Nelson made to push me off, but I knew he secretly liked a hug now and again. ‘Wasn’t it no men at all?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Gabi was viewing us with a rather ambiguous expression. ‘Please tell me you’ll come to the welcome party?’ she asked anxiously. ‘There’ll be loads of free drink.’

  ‘I know. I ordered it.’ I bit my lip. ‘But, um, Gabi, maybe it’s not a good idea.’ I pulled an appealing face, which I hoped would convey what I didn’t really want to have to put into words. Carolyn was an avid reader of OK! magazine, and she would doubtless take inordinate pleasure in making some horrible remark about the whole Orlando business.

  ‘Why ever not?’ she demanded.

  ‘I just don’t want to go,’ I said in a rush. ‘Personal reasons.’

  Gabi looked at me, then looked at Nelson, who was glowering meaningfully, and then muttered, ‘Oh. Right, fine. I see what you mean.’

  None of us looked at the pile of glossy magazines on the coffee table.

  ‘Don’t you want to go and enjoy your moment of triumph when it’s a massive success?’ said Nelson. ‘Surely that’s more important than some creepy freeloader with slip-on shoes?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  Gabi went silent, then pointed her finger at me. ‘I’ve got it! Wear the wig. Don’t tell anyone it’s you – I mean, there’ll be so many dumb blondes miling around the place, another one won’t make a difference. I’ll just say you’re a PA from another estate agency. Then you can see what a fabulous job you’ve done, and if you meet any new people, you can give them your card and drum up some party-planning business at the same time!’

  I squinted at her doubtfully. ‘What about Carolyn?’

  Gabi snorted. ‘Like she’ll notice. She’ll have her Sloaney nose right up Jonathan’s transatlantic passage, believe me. And her Botox prevents her from making any sudden neck movements, so as long as you avoid her line of sight, she’ll never know. Just wear your glasses or something.’ She appealed to Nelson, flashing an inviting smile. ‘You’ll come too, won’t you, Nelson? Please? I need someone I can talk to.’

  Nelson caught my eye and gave me his Grade Three Big Brother Warning look. Then he looked over at Gabi, rather more kindly. ‘Believe me, Gabi, if she’s wearing that wig, I am most certainly coming with her.’

  In the end, I didn’t stop at just the wig. If I was running the risk of facing out the Dean & Daniels lot, I needed to be fully prepared, so in addition to the wig, I was also wearing false eyelashes and a roll-on Girdle of Steel so stern I was able to squeeze into an old blue velvet cocktail dress a whole size smaller than normal.

  Despite all that – or maybe because of it, actually – I felt distinctly glamorous. And about a million miles away from Melissa the PA of old. There was no way Hughy or Carolyn would recognise me dressed up like this; even Nelson could barely believe it was me.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, when I finally emerged from my room. ‘I thought you wanted to mingle inconspicuously!’

  ‘You think it’s too much?’ Really, it was a very understated dress, very elegant, and I wasn’t wearing any jewellery, just my long blonde hair in a low ponytail.

  ‘No, no, it’s not that,’ he said, rather faintly. ‘You don’t look overdressed at all, you just look . . . rather nice.’

  ‘Oh, listen, you don’t have to worry about me making a fool of myself in this,’ I interrupted. ‘I can’t actually eat or drink a thing. My bladder’s being compressed into my lower intestine, along with all the surplus flab from my stomach and hip area.’

  ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ said Nelson drily. ‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’

  Gabi had been quite right: a veritable swaying cornfield of spindly blonde women stretched out before us as we pushed our way into the crowded lobby. I, on the other hand, felt more like a corn on the cob.

  ‘Oh, go on, Nelson, have just one glass of wine,’ I wheedled. ‘Gabi would be very hurt if you left immediately.’

  ‘One glass.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Don’t leave me alone with her for too long. I may be tempted to drink more.’

  ‘You don’t mean that!’ I said.

  ‘Don’t I?’ muttered Nelson, casting wary glances about him.

  Gabi was in charge of the drinks table and was painstakingly stacking champagne coupes in a pyramid. It took her a few flattering moments to realise it was me.

  ‘Wow, Mel!’ she exclaimed when the penny finally dropped. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she added, in a lower tone. ‘I’m going completely mad. Jonathan’s already bollocked me for not folding the napkins in the designated manner.’

  Nelson eyed the pyramid of glasses suspiciously. ‘Tell me you’re not going to have one of those tacky George Best champagne fountains. Mel, I thought you were meant to have organised this party with your famous taste?’

  ‘There were some arrangements Carolyn had already made,’ I replied, tight-lipped. ‘I didn’t have time to check all the details.’

  Gabi started unscrewing some bottles of vodka. ‘Beneath the surface sophistication, they’re still estate agents. Anyway, behold the luge!’

  Nelson and I watched in stunned silence as she poured the vodka over the two-feet-high ice house on the main table. It flowed in an icy stream down the chimney and out through the front door and lower windows.

  ‘Another of Carolyn’s arrangements,’ I pointed out quickly. ‘I saw Ice Luge on her list, but I assumed it would be a dolphin or something. And it was too late to cancel it.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s the image you want to project?’ asked Nelson incredulously. ‘Buy a house through us but make sure you get contents insurance at the same time?’

  ‘Let me get you a glass of champagne, Nelson,’ said Gabi.

  ‘In a flute, please.’

  ‘There should be two boxes under the table,’ I added.

  I left Gabi and Nelson arguing about the soft-drink provision – the upside of driving for Nelson was the opportunity to be saintly with a string of orange juices – while I had a quick nosey around the new offices. So far, there was no sign of Carolyn, but I had no doubt she’d pop up any moment, all teeth and foil highlights, to take the credit for the party and graciously accept the thank-you bouquet she’d probably have ordered for herself from Paula Pryke.

  Looking around, it was no comfort to note that they’d clearly spent three times what they saved on my salary on refitting the place in the style of
an American legal drama series; there were leather swivel chairs everywhere, and gleaming Apple Mac Powerbooks, and desks with ergonomical spaces cut out, and no sign of any framed family pics.

  So this was podular working. ‘Chuh,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Where are the wastepaper bins?’

  ‘You like the layout?’ said an American voice behind me.

  I swivelled round on my heel.

  There was a man standing right behind me, wearing the sort of smirky grin that Nelson persisted in wearing when he’d done something particularly bloke-ish and money-saving, like changed the oil in his car or unblocked a sink without calling out a plumber, as I’d have done. The self-satisfied expression alone was enough to unsettle any normal woman, but my eyes were instead drawn to his astonishing hair.

  It was a vivid copper-red, the gleaming colour of a penny when you’ve left it overnight in Coke, and the faint wave in it was neatened to within an inch of its life, presumably to counteract the attention-grabbing colour.

  He saw me gazing in wonder at his head and ran a hand through his hair self-consciously.

  I shook myself. How rude of me. I got just as annoyed when people talked into my breasts instead of addressing my face.

  ‘I was just wondering where one puts one’s waste paper,’ I said. My eyes slipped involuntarily back to the man’s hair. It was actually rather gorgeous. But he was probably teased mercilessly at school about it, poor thing.

  ‘We’re still working towards an achievable paperless target. But I can see that we need to address the wastepaper situation,’ he said, appearing genuinely agitated. He looked around the room and spotted Gabi refilling Hughy’s half-pint glass with champagne. ‘Hey! Abby? Ally?’ he called, waving his hand in the air until she put down the bottle and came over. Hughy took the opportunity to refill a second glass next to him.

  ‘It’s Gabi,’ said Gabi, through gritted teeth.

  I flinched on her behalf.

  ‘Yup. Gabi. Pardon me, Gabi. Make a note to get some wastepaper baskets. Stainless steel. Stylish. With large capacity.’

  ‘I thought you wanted recycling bins,’ she said.

  ‘We need both! Maximum efficiency! But with style, OK? Conran Shop,’ he added. ‘Tomorrow. Thank you, Gabi.’

  ‘No problem, Jonathan.’ Gabi shot me a meaningful look, then shuffled backwards and tugged her forelock sarcastically once his back was turned.

  I didn’t quite know what to say. I was just surprised she hadn’t given him a more Anglo-Saxon gesture.

  A hand shot out from underneath a perfectly white cuff and I forced myself not to look for any evidence of ginger arm hair. ‘Jonathan Riley. I’ve been overseeing this by video link,’ he apologised. ‘I’ve only been in the country for a short time and I guess there are elements which need fine-tuning. Excuse me while I post a reminder?’

  He was so busy reminding himself on his little Dictaphone that he’d reminded Gabi about the bins, that I let the matter of my own name slip by. It didn’t quite fool me, though: I sensed that he wasn’t quite as naturally organised as he wanted to appear. People said I was very organised, but it was only because I constantly made myself to-do lists; if I didn’t do that, I’d be a complete flake. Genuinely anal people simply remember everything naturally.

  ‘You’re the new managing director from New York?’ I asked, though it was self-evident.

  ‘I am, that’s correct.’ He plumped up his tie. ‘The Executive Relocation Co-Ordinator, to be accurate.’

  ‘Well, it all looks marvellous,’ I said, which I thought was pretty generous of me, in the circumstances.

  Still, I thought to myself, no point bearing a grudge, is there? And despite his appallingly uptight attitude, Jonathan Riley certainly had a rather more pleasing aspect than Quentin, with an immaculate front elevation and no need for renovation work at all. I reckoned him to be in his late thirties, with a few lines around the eyes, but with an assurance about his manner that I find only comes after you’ve bought a good few made-to-measure suits. He had very pale skin, with faint golden lashes, and unusual, piercing grey eyes. His eyebrows were a slightly deeper shade of copper, and flicked up and down in subtle punctuation to his conversation. Like eyebrow semaphore. He was, in all senses of the word, a bit of a fox.

  Well, in theory, anyway. I was on a man detox. Carolyn was welcome to him.

  ‘Isn’t it an awesome event?’ he said, breaking my train of thought. ‘Have you had a canapé yet?’

  ‘I don’t eat standing up,’ I lied. ‘But they look marvellous. Did it take you long to put together such a wonderful party?’ I added, slyly, just to see exactly how economical Carolyn had been with the truth. Hughy had, after all, asked me to keep quiet about my part in the arrangements tonight.

  ‘No, no, I can’t take the credit for it,’ he admitted. ‘It was organised in-house.’

  I held my breath but praise was not forthcoming. Clearly he hadn’t been informed who exactly had organised it in-house; I could just imagine Carolyn dropping her eyes modestly and accepting the compliments in not-actually-lying silence. I found this particularly annoying, and, I regret to say, felt a tingle of mischief run down my skin. Funnily enough, since I was here, clasped in a corset and tight dress, and not wearing my boring office outfit, I didn’t feel the same obligation to be nice old Mel, especially not to an offish man who’d been so brusque with Gabi.

  ‘Hey, like the cups?’ he asked, raising his own glass. ‘Now these I can take the credit for – I asked for old-fashioned coupes specially.’

  I studied the glass in my hand. Actually, I didn’t like them. They were the only jarring note I’d spotted – apart from the ice luge, of course. Coupes are all very well for Playboy bunnies, but I wasn’t sure that they weren’t a little, um . . .

  ‘So clever of you to be ironic!’ I said with a twinkle. ‘I haven’t seen champagne coupes used at a party for ages. Makes everyone knock it back faster, before the bubbles go completely flat.’

  Jonathan’s face seemed to freeze, as if I’d offended him badly. Oops. Had that sounded too rude? I felt a pang of guilt.

  ‘But, you know, who needs to go by style guides? They can be rather chic,’ I added, touching his arm briefly, before he could get his Dictaphone out and summon Gabi again. ‘They can be rather, um, glamorous. In the right hands. And it’s obviously working.’ I nodded towards the tipsy conversations raging away behind us. ‘I daresay a coupe holds a little more than a flute does too. Estate agents will appreciate that. But flutes are more of a classic choice, especially for a stylish relaunch like this!’ I felt I should qualify this bossiness, so I added, ‘I organise parties myself, you see. Well, as part of my business, anyway.’

  He looked at me, straight in the eye. It was an unsettlingly direct gaze, but I held my ground. ‘Really?’ said Jonathan. ‘And what else does your business do?’

  ‘I run my own personal consulting agency,’ I replied coolly. ‘Problem-solving on a personal and social sort of level. If you have any more problems with your glassware, maybe you should give me a call.’ And I extracted a business card from the inner pocket of my bag, and handed it over.

  Inside, my heart was hammering away like a steam engine. Where did all that spiel come from? It had just flowed silkily off my tongue, as it had done that night with Roger Trumpet. And normally I was such a rotten liar. Were these my father’s slippery genes emerging? I held my breath while he read the card, convinced he was about to burst out laughing.

  Jonathan’s expression changed very slightly; I thought I could detect the tiniest hint of a smile in his eyes, but his mouth remained straight and rather forbidding, so it might just have been wishful thinking on my part. Or nerves.

  ‘Maybe I will call you,’ he said in his crisp American accent, and tucked it into his inside pocket. ‘I want everything to be just perfect here. It’s an important move for me. And for Kyrle & Pope,’ he added quickly.

  ‘It’s so important to get things just right, isn’t it
?’ I heard myself say. ‘I’m a perfectionist too.’ Then my brain kicked in, and rescued me in the nick of time. ‘I know you must be dying to circulate, Jonathan,’ I said, resting my hand very briefly on his sleeve, ‘so I mustn’t monopolise you.’ And before he could say anything – and, more to the point, before I could get intimidated and start gabbling like a total fool – I flashed him a Hollywood smile and slid away.

  When I reached the drinks table, Gabi was subtly stroking the small of Nelson’s back and nodding while he lectured her on why she should buy ethically sound coffee for the office. Her face still bore traces of indignation, but Nelson’s soothing presence was obviously making up for Jonathan’s earlier volley of orders. As I approached, Nelson spun round to see who was stroking him, Gabi withdrew her hand as if it were on fire, and they both fiddled with the now partially derelict vodka luge-house.

  ‘Ah, Melissa, time to go,’ announced Nelson gratefully.

  ‘Thanks!’ said Gabi, looking hurt.

  ‘It’s not you, Gabi,’ I explained, putting my arm around Nelson’s waist. ‘It’s just his time of the month. Besides, I think I ought to go now too. Hughy’s working his way round all the women in the room, as he always does, and I can’t dodge him much longer.’

  ‘So what do you think of Jonathan?’ she asked, goggling her eyes. ‘Were you more dazzled by his total lack of charm or by his girl’s hair?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about his hair,’ I chided her. ‘You might have said. I made a perfect idiot of myself, gawping at it.’

  Gabi’s face shone with glee. ‘Didn’t I say? Sorry.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t think he’s so bad,’ I said, out of a sudden contrary impulse more than anything else. ‘I’ve met ruder men than Mr Riley. I’m sure a lifetime of being teased about his hair’s brought on a lot of his . . . brusqueness. Besides, I think it’s rather . . . unusual.’