‘You did all this?’ breathed Gabi, struggling to balance a glass of Pimms with a plastic plate of strawberries and the mini Yorkshire pudding she’d grabbed as it went past. ‘Bloody hell. I knew you were efficient, but I didn’t realise you had super powers.’
‘Jonathan has a lovely house and garden,’ I said serenely, waving a vague hand at the pretty chairs and casual flower arrangements I’d been up since five in the morning sorting out. ‘All I did was . . . enhance it and book some caterers. And listen, Gabi, can you please start pretending you don’t know me.’
‘I’m not sure I do know you,’ said Gabi. ‘Have you bleached your eyebrows?’
‘Shh.’ I had gone to some pains, it was true, to be as blonde as possible so as to avoid detection by the Dean & Daniels contingent. And I was almost satisfied that with my big garden party hat, my enormous sunglasses and, above all, my new halter-neck sundress complete with integral bra support, I’d be heaps more Honey than Melissa.
‘You have, haven’t you? Let me have a look.’ She started to remove my shades when I spotted Hughy staggering down the steps into the sunken rose garden, heading our way. He too was laden down with food, bearing two plates that were piled with almost architectural care; I wondered nostalgically if his new PA was taking such cunning steps to reduce his cholesterol as I used to. His straining red weekend jeans suggested not.
‘Oh, Gabi! You should have heard Jonathan singing your praises this morning,’ I said in a loud voice, for Hughy’s benefit. He was hovering in a not-so-subtle way three feet behind her, waiting to break into the conversation. ‘He says you’re the most marvellous PA they have and that they’re not paying you nearly enough!’
Fortunately Gabi had her back to Hughy, or else he’d have spotted the look of extreme incredulity that crossed her face.
‘Ah, hello there,’ I said over her shoulder, adopting a slightly posher accent than usual. Hughy would be a big test; he wasn’t the most observant of employers, but even so, I had to tackle this head-on.
Hughy smiled at me in a dopey fashion. ‘Hello, yourself.’
Gabi widened her eyes in silent protest, turned round and introduced us. ‘Honey, this is Hugh Jerrard, another colleague of Jonathan’s at Dean & Daniels. Hughy, this is Honey Blennerhesket, Jonathan’s . . . um, Jonathan’s . . .’
‘Jonathan’s friend,’ I said smoothly, offering my hand to shake. ‘Would you mind terribly if I didn’t remove my sunglasses? I’ve got awful hayfever.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Hughy grasped my hand and shook it like a Labrador finally locating a missing bone. ‘Well! Well, Jonathan mentioned that he’d started seeing a local girl, but I had no idea he’d managed to find such a stunner . . . The jammy bloody Yank, um, sod.’
I smiled kittenishly. After my sisterly relationship with the agents at Dean & Daniels, it was most unsettling to have Hughy now eyeing me with undisguised approval, but at least this would ensure Jonathan’s non-single status would get round the whole network faster than if we’d been caught in flagrante on his desk.
Not that that was an option.
‘Shall I leave you to chat about Jonathan while I replenish my plate?’ suggested Gabi, to Hughy’s apparent delight.
‘No!’ I said, a bit too quickly, grabbing her arm. The shades were helping my undercover look, but Hughy wasn’t totally stupid. ‘No, um, do stay and, er, tell me what you brought Jonathan for his Welcome to London gift!’
Gabi flashed me another dark look.
‘Let me tell you what I got him,’ interrupted Hughy, touching me none-too-subtly on the arm. ‘It’s a corker. I got him a lap-dance voucher for Spearmint Rhino, then we’re going to take him to the dog-racing in Wimbledon.’
‘From one dog-house to another, then back to your own!’ said Gabi brightly. ‘How very English!’
‘You can get vouchers for Spearmint Rhino?’ I asked.
Hughy nodded happily then looked guilty. ‘Actually, probably shouldn’t have told you that. Eh?’
I made an airy gesture with my hand. ‘Oh, I’m terribly broad-minded, you know. Jonathan’s his own man!’
Hughy gulped visibly.
‘How about you, Gabi?’ I asked.
‘I brought him a pound of jellied eels. They’re in the fridge, if you’d like to try them later,’ she said. ‘As I told Jonathan, in some parts of London they’re widely held to have aphrodisiac properties.’
‘Are they?’ Hughy looked fascinated.
Gabi nodded. ‘You should give it a go.’ Then her face clouded. ‘Shit. Here comes Patrice.’ She grabbed Hughy’s arm as he made to slide off. ‘You’re not leaving me with Patrice. She’s still after me about those expense forms you made me lose.’
A tall, very coiffed brunette stalked up and shot out a hand like a piston in my direction. ‘Hi,’ she snapped. ‘Patrice Canterello. Jonathan’s PA. You must be Honey. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Hello, Patrice. How well informed you are,’ I said. ‘I can see why Jonathan finds you so very indispensable.’
Jonathan, in fact, had never even mentioned Patrice, which only made me more astonished that she knew who I was. For the first time in my life I felt a faint glimmer of sympathy for Carolyn. Patrice was clearly a proper PA, the sort of gimlet-eyed control freak who’d twig me in about three seconds, even though she’d never met me before.
‘Will you excuse me?’ I murmured apologetically. ‘I need to have a word with the caterers . . .’
‘Thanks!’ hissed Gabi, as Patrice began to buttonhole Hughy about his excessive and receipt-less use of taxis.
I walked across Jonathan’s lovely lawn as elegantly as I could in high heels, flashing ‘Hello there!’ smiles hither and thither to give the general impression that I knew everyone and they knew me.
Despite the somewhat eclectic mix of guests, the party seemed to be going well, with plenty of animated little knots of chatter around the garden and inside the cooler conservatory where the string quartet was playing. The warm sunshine and plentiful champagne was helping a good deal too.
I accepted a refill of champagne from one of the wine waiters and scanned the garden for Jonathan and Nelson. I’d invited Nelson for some moral support – and also because Gabi had insisted he be there to ‘save her from estate agent overdose’. I couldn’t see either of them, which I supposed was a good thing.
I sipped my champagne then discreetly tipped half of it into a flowerbed. I couldn’t afford to get drunk and slip over on the grass: Honey’s dress, for one thing, depended on my staying upright to remain decent, and for another thing, I needed all my wits about me to negotiate the Dean & Daniels minefield.
And there was something about Jonathan, his grown-upness, maybe, or his need for everything to be just so, that made it impossible for me to relax. His perfectionism was infectious. I stepped nearer a rose bush for cover and eased my aching right foot out of my stilettos and onto the soft grass.
Now I’d encountered Hughy successfully I wasn’t quite so uptight about avoiding the rest of the Dean & Daniels staff, but at the same time I was trying to remain out of reach of Carolyn. Not because she was a good deal more observant than Hughy but because she had the ability to rattle me, and I didn’t want any tell-tale Melissa nervous gabblings to break through and spoil the glossy Honey effect.
I swapped feet so my left foot got a chance to cool off. Over by the swanky Portaloo (created in ivory and gold plastic and apparently hired for most of Elton John’s parties), Nelson was rescuing Gabi from the gesticulating clutches of Patrice. I was about to go over and say something when Jonathan waved at me from behind the drinks chiller. He was surrounded by some red-faced estate agents from Martingales, Dean & Daniels’ biggest rival in the Chelsea market, and seemed anxious to escape. He said something I couldn’t hear to the man next to him, who slapped him on the back with a hearty Brompton Road guffaw, and started walking over.
In the rush of organisation that morning, most of which Jonathan had spent holed up
in his study making phone calls, I hadn’t really had time to admire his outfit but, safely behind my sunglasses, I gave him full marks for his linen suit and cream shirt, unbuttoned just the right amount and not at all creased. He looked just as well-dressed off duty as on. Most men of my acquaintance seemed to think smart casual meant a polo shirt with their school sweatpants. Jonathan, on the other hand, looked like an advert for expensive aftershave.
Slipping my foot hastily back into the shoe, I reapplied Honey’s crimson lipgloss to compose myself. But as I looked up from the compact, I spotted Carolyn. And she was heading my way.
I glanced anxiously between Jonathan and Carolyn, wondering who was going to reach me first. Carolyn must have been biding her time, like some kind of basking shark, waiting till I was on my own and defenceless, just like she used to do at work . . .
Calm down, I told myself. Why would she think it’s you? She’s not expecting to see you here.
Carolyn was mincing closer and closer, taking quicker steps as she got near me, casting swift little glances towards Jonathan’s trajectory. Anyone would have thought she was trying to get to me before he did.
‘Hello,’ she bellowed from twenty feet away, still mincing briskly. ‘I’m Carolyn Harker, Jonathan’s Girl Friday! You must be the lovely Honey we’ve heard so much about.’
I smiled tightly. Unlike Patrice’s machine-gun information assault, Carolyn managed to make it seem as though she’d invited me to the party.
‘Hello.’ I grabbed her hand, knowing of old that shaking hands with Carolyn was like squeezing out a used J-cloth. Nothing had changed.
‘Now, where do I know you from?’ she said at once, putting a finger to her lips. Her mouth, I noticed, had a curious, set expression to it. Emery’s Home Ec blancmanges used to be like that – very heavy-handed with the gelatine. ‘You’re awfully familiar!’
I laughed in a tinkly fashion. ‘How funny! Everyone says that! Apparently I’m the spitting image of Sophie Dahl!’
‘Really?’ said Carolyn. ‘That must be it! A couple of years ago, though, perhaps? She’s really quite thin these days . . .’
I tinkled again. The cow.
‘Perhaps if you take off your sunnies?’ she suggested.
Bugger.
‘Do you know, I’d love to,’ I said in a confidential manner, ‘but I simply can’t? I have the most frightful hayfever, and much as I adore Jonathan’s roses, they’re making my eyes stream. I’d scare you all to death if I took my sunglasses off.’
‘Poor you,’ said Carolyn. ‘But you don’t seem very sniffly.’
‘No, curious, isn’t it?’ I looked anxiously for Jonathan who had been waylaid by a guest. I wasn’t so sure I wanted him to talk to me now. Carolyn would be on full alert for any signs of unconvincing behaviour.
‘How long have you and Jonathan been seeing each other? Don’t you find him a real sweetie? He must be terribly well-off, is he? Is it true that his wife ran off with his father?’ rattled Carolyn, with a quick glance over her shoulder. Jonathan had freed himself and was heading our way.
Too late. ‘Jonathan!’ I said, relief flooding over me. ‘Where’ve you been all afternoon!’
‘Circulating, Honey,’ he said, slipping an easy arm around my shoulder. ‘Just like you told me to.’
As his warm fingers touched my bare skin I realised I’d never actually considered how we’d negotiate the physical side of our pretend relationship. An embarrassing shiver ran over my skin as his palm touched the exposed skin on my back and his fingers curled round my shoulder. Jonathan had good hands, my brain noted automatically, not too soft and girlish, but no hard skin.
I reminded myself that whatever the impression we were trying to give, it was all acting. Even if it all seemed to be getting a bit Method.
‘Ah, how sweet!’ said Carolyn as my face turned crimson. I couldn’t help it. ‘The first blush of romance!’
Jonathan squeezed my shoulder. ‘I love the way Honey blushes. She’s a real English rose, isn’t she?’
The snappy managing director vanished and the smooth-talking estate agent took over in a dizzying haze of charm.
Carolyn tensed her mouth into something almost resembling a smile.
‘Have you met lots of nice people?’ I squeaked, trying not to sound like myself. My voice was getting more and more like Liz Hurley’s. But at the same time, a cool, logical voice in my head noted that if I wanted to put my arm around Jonathan’s waist and squeeze it, I could. In fact, I was meant to.
So I did. I felt him flinch a little in surprise but he relaxed against me and we leaned together, almost exactly like a proper couple.
He had rather toned stomach muscles, I noticed, through the crisp linen of his shirt. Obliques, according to my twice-viewed yoga video.
My own stomach was fluttering badly.
‘I’ve met some great folk,’ replied Jonathan, showing no signs of nerves whatsoever. ‘Lovely people. But more to the point, who have you been meeting? No one wants to hear about me. I am old news, let me tell you.’
‘Honey’s made a big impression on the boys from work,’ said Carolyn before I could say a word. ‘I’ve just been having a chat with Hughy and Charlie and they can’t talk about anything else. But then they’ve always been like that. Pushovers for a decent pair of pins!’ She brayed loudly to indicate this was really a joke, then spoiled the effect by adding, ‘They used to be absolutely ridiculous about Melissa. Mel this and Mel that . . .’
Jonathan raised his eyebrow. ‘Really? Melissa who ran the office? I begin to wish Quentin hadn’t let her go, this paragon of virtue.’
I daren’t open my mouth. Apart from anything else, Jonathan’s arm had slid down my back and was now around my waist, playing with the tie of my wrap dress. I could see Carolyn had noticed too.
‘I wouldn’t say that Melissa ran the office . . .’ she began tetchily.
‘Carolyn, would you mind if I had a few moments with Honey?’ he asked, sweetly. ‘I want to thank her for making such a wonderful job of this party.’ And as if to emphasise exactly how he wanted to thank me, he pulled me a little tighter against him so my right side, including my not-very-tethered breast, pressed against his jacket, so closely I could feel the slight roughness of the linen.
My insides were fizzing like an Alka-Seltzer. My heart was thudding in my chest and every time the breeze caught the silk of my dress the skin above my stocking-tops tingled. I was an embarrassing mass of reactions. This was quite a lot further than I let my own boyfriends go on a first date – and Jonathan hadn’t even checked first! I knew I should be hopping mad, but to be honest, I wasn’t really quite sure what I felt.
‘Well, Honey, I hope we’ll catch up later,’ said Carolyn. ‘And Jonathan, I must steal a quick word with you before I go!’ She smiled, or as near to smiling as her Botox would allow, and stalked off.
I stayed stock-still while she walked away, not wanting Jonathan to move his hand, but at the same time not wanting to make him think I was, well, enjoying it. That would be very unprofessional.
‘So, how’s it going?’ said Jonathan in his normal brisk tone. He abruptly removed his arm from my waist and adjusted his jacket. ‘You think she got all that?’
I nodded, trying not to look disappointed. ‘Oh yes, it’ll be round the office in no time.’
‘I sincerely apologise for the contact there,’ said Jonathan, formally. ‘My fault for not establishing the parameters this morning. I appreciate that we should have agreed some kind of code beforehand, but I saw the opportunity.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought it would look a little odd if I asked permission to put my arm around my own girlfriend.’
‘Oh, quite,’ I said.
‘You’re not offended?’
‘Hardly!’ I realised I was still talking in the ultra-posh voice. It seemed I couldn’t stop. ‘I mean, it has to look convincing, doesn’t it?’
‘Precisely. Good job for us that the bounds of English good taste protect us from any out
ré displays of affection! Particularly outdoors!’
Was it my imagination or was Jonathan now talking in a posh American accent?
There was a brief pause in which I could hear the string quartet embark on the theme tune from Inspector Morse.
‘Excellent,’ I said, taking a definite step away from him. It occurred to me that perhaps we should arrange some kind of code, but now was not really the time. When I was a bit more composed, perhaps.
‘I’ve been having a very interesting chat with Gabi and that great big room-mate of yours,’ said Jonathan. ‘Still not going to tell me your real name?’
‘No,’ I said. I felt a little more in control at last and new confidence surged through me. ‘Please don’t ask me again.’
Jonathan raised his eyebrow. ‘OK, Cinderella.’ He made a sweeping gesture towards the garden. ‘You think it’s going OK?’
‘I think it’s going marvellously.’ Over by the drinks table, Hughy and Quentin seemed to be getting into a heated discussion with the Martingales agents, and Gabi was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Nelson.
Maybe it was all going a bit too marvellously . . .
‘Now,’ I said, ‘because we said “drinks from three to five” on the invitations, you’re perfectly at liberty to start kicking people out – politely, of course – at quarter to.’
Jonathan looked uncomfortable. ‘Isn’t that a bit . . . rude?’
‘No, no. Guests like to be told what’s going on. It gives them a sense of purpose, otherwise they’ll get too drunk and start arguing, or they’ll carry on grazing on canapés and ruin their diets. Anyway, you don’t have to usher them out, the staff will. And I did think it might be a problem, so I got you these,’ I added, and reached into my bag for the envelope.
Jonathan regarded it suspiciously. ‘What’s this? Your invoice?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘It’s your Welcome to London present. I just hope no one else has thought of it first.’
Jonathan seemed touched. ‘Oh, hey, you didn’t have to . . .’ Then his face went mock-stern and he wagged the envelope at me. ‘Listen, tell me now if it’s more tickets to The Lion King. Or Mamma goddamn Mia. Or what’s that thing with the midgets? The Reduced Shakespeare Company? Is that all you Brits do in the evenings? Go to the theatre?’