‘So, what can I do for you?’ I asked, briskly. ‘Your . . . project?’
‘I think I need to engage some professional help,’ he said seriously.
‘For Kyrle & Pope?’ I wondered if that sly Quentin had suggested my idea for helping clueless homeowners furnish their new houses, and passed it off as his own.
‘No, for me.’ Jonathan adjusted his cuff and paused, as if marshalling his thoughts. ‘I hope I’ve read your agency right, anyway.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I hope you’ll pardon me if I haven’t?’
I smiled, but said nothing, just in case he had read my agency wrong. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but couldn’t imagine him at Mrs McKinnon’s in a million years.
I hoped, anyway.
Jonathan fiddled with his cuffs again, then looked up, all business. ‘It’s a rather tedious story,’ he began, ‘but I think I can rely on you to be discreet?’
I nodded, as if anything else was unthinkable.
‘OK. It’s like this. I was meant to be moving over here with my wife, Cindy. Regrettably, Cindy didn’t wish to move with me, and has decided to remain in New York.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sympathised. ‘But maybe when she sees the lovely house you have here in London . . . ?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Jonathan pulled a quick grimace. ‘She’s moved in with someone else.’
‘Oh. Oh dear.’
‘My brother, Eamon.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘To have their baby. Anyway,’ he continued quickly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much, ‘I’m happy for Cindy to follow the life course she and her analyst feel is most appropriate for her, but it’s put me in rather a difficult situation. I’m not familiar with England at all – this is only my second time in London. I need to do a lot of entertaining, and obviously I’d like to meet as many of the right folk as possible, and have as interesting a social life as time permits. I don’t, on the other hand, have a wife to arrange it, nor do I want to load it onto my PA at work, or embark on a relationship with a young lady.’ He paused. ‘I’m not in that space right now, and I don’t think it would be – what’s that terribly British expression I’ve heard them use at the office? It wouldn’t be on?’
I nodded and his eyes lit up. Part of Jonathan seemed itching to jot it down in a vocab notebook. Again, I got the distinct impression that he had a terrible fear of doing the wrong thing – it was one of my own little foibles, and rather painful to see in someone else.
‘No, indeed,’ I murmured reassuringly, getting the picture at once. He obviously didn’t want to go into details. ‘So you’d like me to act as a buffer between you and the match-makers, and a freelance social negotiator while you settle in? Parties, introductions, interpretations of local customs, but without any emotional complications . . .’
He smiled, clicked his fingers and pointed at me. ‘You got it.’
‘Don’t do that,’ I snapped automatically.
Jonathan clasped his hands and looked a little shocked.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ I touched my fingers to my mouth and made an apologetic face. ‘Force of habit. English men of a certain background tend to respond well to nannying. Saves time. But I’ll try to be more diplomatic.’
‘No, no,’ he said faintly, ‘you just do what you do.’
‘Teatime!’ I carolled.
Damn. I sounded just like my mother.
To buy myself a little thinking time, I made a pot of tea and put some shortbread on a plate for him.
I wasn’t sure what to make of Jonathan Riley at all. On the one hand, he seemed immaculately self-contained: well-dressed, dry and professional, and, as I’d experienced on the phone, quite charming. A proper grown-up, in other words. And yet there was that faint fidgetiness about him, just a hint of nerves that could snap out into a brusque series of orders at any time.
I was usually so good at summing people up but for some reason, Jonathan had me rather stumped. Which is probably exactly what he wanted.
When I went back with the tray, he was staring out of the window at the Thames. Well, either that, or he was checking the windows for signs of deterioration. I wondered if he was valuing my flat.
Daddy’s flat.
‘How do you take your tea?’ I asked, teapot poised.
‘Oh, y’know, I don’t know yet,’ he said, returning to the sofa. ‘I’ve never really taken tea before. I normally drink coffee.’
‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling a bit told-off. ‘I should have asked. Would you like me to make you . . . ?’
‘No, no, no.’ He settled in his chair, and helped himself to some shortbread. ‘When in Rome. I want to learn good native habits. The girls in the office are so eager to make me feel at home. Carolyn keeps appearing in my office with takeaway sushi and memos about local slang in case I get confused.’
He gave me an odd look. ‘Come to think of it, one of the girls in the office says she knows you – Gabi Shapiro? You know her?’
I swallowed my mouthful of tea the wrong way and spluttered for a second. ‘I do know Gabi, yes,’ I said. ‘She’s an old friend. And an excellent PA,’ I added.
‘Well, she speaks very highly of you. Honey by name, Honey by nature was how she put it.’
‘How sweet of her.’ My mind raced. Gabi had offered to talk up Honey’s agency to appropriate people through work contacts, but I’d told her at least five times that on no account was she to mention my real name. If Gabi was going to start feeding Jonathan details about ‘her friend Honey’ – details that were actually based on her real-life friend Melissa – it was all going to unravel in a very messy manner indeed.
‘You got any special tea manners I should know about?’ he asked, half seriously.
‘Not really.’ I poured him a cup with a splash of milk and handed it over. ‘Add sugar, if you want,’ I said. ‘Just don’t blow on it.’
He was too busy scoffing his biscuit to reply for a moment.
‘Where do you get this stuff?’ he asked eventually, waving a second shortbread finger around. ‘It’s fabulous! We need some of this for the clients at the office.’
‘Oh, I make it myself. Terribly easy.’ I sipped my tea modestly. ‘I tell all my male clients how to throw it together, then all they need to do is buy in a decent takeaway, get some good ice cream and serve it up with their home-made shortbread. Result: girls think they’re Jamie Oliver.’
‘Your own recipe?’ he asked. The earlier nerves had vanished and he sounded much more like the charmer I’d spoken to on the phone.
I couldn’t tell a lie. ‘No, my flatmate’s.’
‘She’s a great cook.’
‘He’s excellent, yes.’
Jonathan raised his eyebrows. ‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I replied, a little tetchily.
He made a small ‘back off’ gesture, but I didn’t rise to it. ‘Tell me,’ he said instead, his voice more serious again. ‘How do you work this?’
‘Work what?’
‘Work this whole Little Lady girlfriend thing? I mean, are you going to be booking your time exclusively for me?’
‘No. That would be very expensive indeed.’
‘Well, I could afford it.’
‘I wouldn’t do that anyway,’ I said. ‘I like being freelance, sorting out lots of individual problems.’
‘But London isn’t that big – won’t people recognise you if you’re out one night with me and then somewhere else the next night with another man?’
I topped up my teacup while I considered my answer. This had occurred to me before, but the more I thought about it, the less of a problem it was really.
Most of my work seemed to be coming from drastic wardrobe makeovers, and I could easily pass for a personal shopper if we bumped into an acquaintance of the client’s. In the temporary girlfriend aspect of things – well, I intended to be very selective about those dates; not do too many too often. And as Gabi would have pointed out had she been there, there was
something inherently interchangeable anyway about the innocuous blonde arm-candy men seemed to want. I didn’t have to draw special attention to myself, just be there and be amusing.
In any case, I reasoned, there were always different-coloured wigs. Different ways of wearing my hair, different dresses, different personalities to adopt . . .
It was really rather exhilarating, realising I could make up the rules as I went along, and not necessarily be wrong.
Jonathan was looking at me quizzically and I snapped back to attention.
‘Oh, discretion cuts both ways, I find,’ I said as if I’d been doing it for years. ‘It’s as much in a client’s interest to be vague about what exactly I am as it is for me. We’re still quite old-fashioned here in London – no one sees anything wrong in a man having good girl friends that organise his life right up to his wedding to someone else. I’ve got a lot of friends, and they have a lot of friends . . .’
I let my voice trail away, crossed my legs in what I realised was a very Honey and not-at-all Melissa manner, then added, ‘Besides, if no one asks whether you’re an item, then there’s absolutely no need to say. And they don’t often ask in London.’ I peered at him over my glasses. ‘Which doesn’t mean they don’t discuss it, though.’
‘I love that!’ said Jonathan and he was about to snap and point, but remembered and stopped himself.
I smiled and offered him another biscuit.
He took one with a wry expression. ‘You got me trained already,’ he said. ‘Rewarding me with cookies when I get it right.’
‘Nooo,’ I said, and blushed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
This time it was definitely Melissa blushing. That wasn’t Honey. Honey didn’t blush.
‘So where does your own life fit into this?’ he asked. ‘I mean, that flatmate of yours’ – the eyebrow hooked upwards ironically – ‘does he live here?’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I replied truthfully. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into the minefield of whose flat this was. ‘This is my office – I don’t live here.’
‘OK, I get it.’ Jonathan gave me a ‘say no more’ look. ‘And does he mind you hiring out your services?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, cursing myself for mentioning Nelson and his bloody biscuits in the first place. ‘He’s my flatmate.’
‘Just your flatmate?’ There it was again: the dry twinkle that probably had New York housebuyers writing out cheques faster than you could say damp course.
‘Just my flatmate, yes.’
Warning bells were clanging away in my head. I’d devised three golden rules for making this work: don’t reveal any private details; don’t form crushes on clients (not hard, so far); and don’t say things that are blatantly, completely untrue, no matter how much better it might make the client feel.
Anyway, this wasn’t meant to be about me. It was meant to be about Jonathan. And I shouldn’t even have admitted that I had a flatmate, come to think of it, not when I should be focused on thinking like Honey. Honey would be living in a smart mews house. Paying all her bills on her own.
‘Nelson is an old family friend. So, have you made a plan for your house-warming?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘You are an estate agent, after all. You want people to see your house.’
‘No, I hadn’t made plans,’ he repeated, amused.
‘Then let’s talk about throwing a party!’ I said. ‘How about a themed one? So the girls can wear something fun?’
‘You just changed the subject,’ Jonathan pointed out.
I gave him my best ‘MP’s daughter’ smile. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’
Then, just as I thought I could relax, the phone rang. My grandmother had had her old Bakelite phones converted to modern sockets and the bell pealed unmistakably through the flat.
Jonathan jumped at the harsh sound and spilled his tea into his saucer, splashing his trousers, making him jump again as the hot liquid soaked through.
I leaped forward as he whipped a white handkerchief out of his pocket and started mopping the spreading stain on the sofa.
Aargh. The cream sofa. His new suit. The cream sofa. His new suit. I hesitated with my napkin.
‘Go get your phone,’ said Jonathan, mopping frantically.
‘Oh, I’ll leave it,’ I said, trying not to let my concern for the soft furnishings override my concern for my client. ‘The machine can get it. Are you scalded?’
What if he was one of those suing Americans, I wondered in panic. What if this was going to close me down before I started? His splash was in quite a personal area too, too personal for me to mop without taking our professional relationship a step too far.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he insisted, crossly.
I suddenly remembered that my father was too mean to pay for a ‘modern’ answering machine and had one of those clunking eighties ones – which would play his out-going message aloud if I let it get to the pips.
‘Um, actually, I’d better take it. You’ll have to excuse me,’ I said hastily. ‘It’s terribly rude, I know, but, er, the machine’s playing up. Do have another cup of tea . . .’
I scuttled across the room and grabbed the phone.
‘Can I speak to Martin Romney-Jones?’ said a man’s voice.
‘Oh, er, I’m afraid he’s . . .’ He’s! I screwed up my face and hoped Jonathan hadn’t heard, then focused every scrap of concentration into a snooty Carolyn impression. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. Whom did you say you were calling for again?’
‘Martin Romney-Jones. My name’s Alastair Miller, from the constituency office of . . .’
‘Oh dear, I think you must have the wrong number. So sorry!’ I trilled, then hung up. As a precaution, I pulled the phone lead out of the socket.
I gave Jonathan a few extra seconds to tidy himself up, guessing he’d already be unsettled by the loss of control, then I shimmied back across the room and settled myself into the sofa again. ‘Do you know, I think this must be the same number as some very dubious gentleman?’ I said confidentially, pouring milk into my tea. ‘I get the oddest calls . . .’
Jonathan raised his eyebrow in query and I shot him a naughty ‘I couldn’t possibly say’ look from beneath my tortoiseshell rims.
Then we both looked down to hide a smile.
We discussed terms (very favourable) and times, and he gave me all his details, which I copied into my desk diary. We discussed his likes and dislikes and which papers had the best property coverage. It turned out he was an avid viewer of both Location Location Location and Ground Force which were shown on PBS.
I assumed he was being ironic again, but it was very hard to tell.
I promised to introduce him to Kirstie Allsopp and Alan Titchmarsh, nonetheless. Friends of friends come in handy.
We were getting on splendidly, with very little sign at all of the rudeness I’d seen at the party, when at four thirty, Jonathan’s phone rang. He rolled his eyes apologetically as he took a call from the office.
‘Sorry. I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got two viewings this evening. Big houses. Lovely gardens. Please excuse me.’
I realised then that I should have shooed him away at four, but it was hard to be nannyish with a professional man who wasn’t old enough to be my doting father and too old to be bossed around like a younger brother.
‘Not at all,’ I said, standing up. I’d pushed my luck in this flat long enough and my nerves were starting to wear through. Every time I heard a footstep in the corridor, my ears twitched like a nervous cat’s.
We moved to the door, and I concentrated on not shoving him out too forcefully.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, his hand caressing the Bakelite doorknob approvingly, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but Honey – is that your real name?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not. I rely on an element of discretion and anonymity here, you know.’
A hint of a smile touched the corners of his lips. ‘I see. I guess it helps those men amon
gst us who aren’t so good with names.’
I nodded. ‘Absolutely. Honey this, Honey that. Or you can just refer to me as the Little Lady. Lots of men do. Hence the name of the agency. You know . . .’ I pulled a face. ‘“I’ll have to ask the Little Lady if we’re around for bridge tomorrow night.” Or “The Little Lady made these delightful shortbread biscuits.” It’s why the English used to be so good at affairs. Fewer names to get wrong.’
‘I get it.’ Jonathan put his hands in his trouser pockets, and suddenly looked much younger. Boyish, nearly. ‘But I feel a little odd, calling you a stage name. And I can’t say, “Hey, Little Lady, pass me a cashew,” can I?’
‘You could if you wanted. I know some men who do exactly that already and I don’t even work for them.’
‘C’mon,’ he said, teasingly. ‘Give me a name.’
‘No, sorry.’ I leaned against the back of a chair and crossed my feet neatly. I wasn’t sure how the atmosphere had suddenly got so flirty, but it had, and it was oddly exciting. ‘A girl has to have a private life. To you, Jonathan, I’m plain old Honey Blennerhesket.’
He shrugged, in a hey-I-tried way. ‘How do you pronounce that last one again?’
‘Blen-ner-hes-ket,’ I repeated slowly. It was my grandmother’s maiden name, actually, though I didn’t tell him that.
‘OK, then, Honey.’ He winked at me, then his face sobered. ‘No winking either, right?’
‘No,’ I said sternly. ‘Only when people are watching us.’
‘And even then you’ll pull me up for winking at you in public?’
I nodded. He was quick. ‘But I’ll pull you up in a different way entirely. More girlfriend-ly. You might like it.’
Jonathan laughed; it was a brief, contained laugh, as if he daren’t let too much out. Then, abruptly, the glimmer of flirtatiousness vanished and he was back to sternness again.
‘I’ll call you to arrange another meeting about this party,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a feeling it’ll be great.’ He nodded a goodbye, and turned to walk down the hall.
I couldn’t stop myself shouting, ‘Goodbye, Jonathan,’ after him.