‘I don’t think being smart or dumb comes into it, unfortunately,’ I said, swallowing a sudden lump in my throat. ‘I hope not, anyway.’
‘No, I think it does. Either she changed, or I was too dumb to see something that was there all along.’ Jonathan sighed. I wondered how much he’d drunk, to be telling me all this. ‘I’m not a complicated guy. I like to know exactly where I am with people. I like them to be who they say they are.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, apart from me.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not exactly who I say I am, am I? I’m not even who you’re telling people I am.’
It occurred to me that these days I wasn’t even sure who I was from one moment to the next. Even the wig wasn’t always a fail-safe guide. Right now I was showing Jonathan the real me – he thought he was with feisty Honey, and had no idea that actually he was talking to Melissa Romney-Jones, Pony Club frump and fulltime sucker.
I ignored the alarm bells going off in my head. OK, so it went against all my rules, but it had felt more honest, and quite natural, to share a little of my own misery, when Jonathan was being so open about his.
God, it was complicated. Complicated, but actually quite exhilarating. In a weird way, I felt I could be more honest with Jonathan than with anyone else, because he didn’t know me. How could he judge me when he had no idea who I was?
I sank my own arms onto the viewing bar.
‘You might be right,’ said Jonathan, ‘but I feel I know exactly where I am when I’m with you. You don’t know what a relief that is some days. Being able to switch off and be myself. Not have to get results, or prove a point. I can just have some fun without feeling guilty or feeling I need to justify myself in any way.’
I looked sideways at him. This was the first real conversation we’d had, even though we’d been ‘together’ for some weeks now. There was an intimacy about being so honest that I actually found quite, well, attractive.
Much more attractive than his estate agent hot and cold running charm.
‘Do you have fun?’ I asked. He had a funny way of showing it if he did.
He smiled to himself, directing it out towards the river bank. ‘Yes, I do.’ He paused, then added, a little tentatively, ‘Do you?’
‘I do, yes,’ I replied, honestly. For much the same reason, I added in my head: I have nothing to live up to, except my own rules. ‘You don’t strike me as being someone who switches off very often.’
Jonathan tore his gaze away from the skyline. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘Well’ – I wondered how to put it without being rude – ‘you’re quite self-contained, aren’t you? Conscious of how you appear to other people. If you didn’t worry so much about it, you wouldn’t get so stressed. Really,’ I said, touching him on the arm, ‘you’re doing fine.’
‘You think?’ Jonathan seemed to consider this. ‘I guess I’m quite shy. Maybe it comes across badly. I just don’t have your confidence in social settings. Business, now that’s different. I know what I’m talking about there. And I’ve got notes, figures, background . . . But I couldn’t just go in and meet people the way you charmed the pants off Bonnie and Kurt. Maybe I need to take lessons from you in that.’
I laughed out loud. Me, confident! What a difference a wig made.
‘What?’ demanded Jonathan.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘You could say I’m much better at business meetings too.’
We were at the top of the giant Ferris wheel now, looking down on the whole of London, curling and spreading out from the banks of the grey river.
‘Look,’ I said, overcome with pride for the glittering, surging city, ‘see Battersea power station there? The building that looks like a table upside down with the white legs?’ I pointed. ‘Well, if you follow the line of sight along there . . .’ I moved my finger towards Pimlico. ‘That’s my house!’
‘Wow,’ said Jonathan. ‘Great location.’
I realised I’d just broken another of my rules, by telling him where I lived. Still, I rationalised, it wasn’t like he could actually tell where it was. Even a red-hot estate agent like Jonathan couldn’t narrow down a postcode from pointing at a distance of two miles.
As we descended, Jonathan slipped back into his own thoughts, and though we weren’t speaking, a sort of companionable silence enveloped us as we both contemplated the steaming wreckage of our love lives.
I wondered if Cindy had been the life and soul of the party, leaving Jonathan trapped in the kitchen with the IT geek, the way I always seemed to get trapped while Orlando showed off elsewhere, resigned to being the last ones to leave, resigned to smiling politely, just out of Cindy’s limelight.
There was so much I itched to ask him. What had brought them together? How long had she played both men off? I wondered how she’d told him about her affair, how his parents were dealing with their sons’ soap-opera problem, how he felt leaving every photograph album behind.
Poor Jonathan, I thought, looking at his lips tighten in deep thought. No wonder he was so detached, and so determined to plunge himself into his work. I wondered what he would look like laughing on a picnic, or dancing in a club. I tried hard but couldn’t picture either. Even when I’d seen him ‘off duty’ at his own party he’d seemed on edge. At work.
Maybe the kindest thing I could do would be not to ask a thing, and leave our appointments a little oasis for him.
The pod finally approached the disembarkation platform and we did the little running-to-get-off thing in perfect unison, like a pair of tap-dancers, which raised a smile from Jonathan, at least.
‘Very Fred and Ginger,’ he said, taking my arm to help me off.
‘I’m more of a Gene Kelly girl myself,’ I replied archly.
Jonathan pulled a face. ‘Oh, I know your sort. Don’t tell me, you like a man to be a man even when he’s doing pirouettes?’
‘Especially when he’s doing pirouettes.’
We walked over to the coffee stand, and Jonathan bought us both an espresso, then I went over to pick up Emery’s dress from the Left Luggage counter.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Jonathan said when I collected my bag. ‘What is that in there?’
‘My sister’s wedding dress,’ I said without thinking.
He flashed me his dry grin. His serious mood had vanished like dew in the morning, and he was back to the professional charm. It was a relief in one way, and a slight disappointment in another. ‘Now that is one complicated story, huh?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘After I stopped my sister’s wedding because I was in love with her fiancé, my therapist made me carry it around to remind me that getting married is just another avenue for shopping, but without the potential for sale or return.’
Jonathan stopped walking and looked at me seriously.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You should have mentioned that to Bonnie. She’s really into these alternative therapy techniques. Is it working for you?’
Good God, was there nothing this man wouldn’t believe?
‘For heaven’s sake, Jonathan! Of course it’s not!’ I laughed, and walked on. ‘I don’t need to carry a dress around to know that getting married is a massive waste of time and energy. Although, if you ask me, trussing the bride up in a long frock she can’t walk in, in a colour that makes her look two sizes bigger than normal, and then haranguing her about how much it costs is a pretty good metaphor for married life.’
I was about to add that my private life was out of bounds, but realised it was a bit late for that. Still, I reminded myself, no more information.
‘You’re not keen on getting hitched yourself then?’ he asked, deadpan.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘So, the dress . . . ?’
‘My sister’s,’ I repeated. OK, but absolutely no more.
‘You’re carrying your sister’s wedding gown around town in a
Marks & Spencer’s carrier bag?’ he spluttered. ‘Is that some kind of bizarre British tradition or something? Doesn’t she mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, losing patience. ‘My sister’s getting married, I’m making her dress. This is her toile – the trial-run dress before I cut into real fabric – which she now wants altered completely.’
Too late. I’d missed Jonathan’s trap completely and walked straight into it.
‘You have a sister!’ He did his pointing thing and I was in too kind a mood with him to pull him up on it. Then his face went dark. ‘I think Bonnie saw it. It’ll be all round Manhattan.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Let it be all round Manhattan. I can email her, if you want, and explain about my therapist?’
‘That would be great,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Listen, I should go. I’ve got a stack of emails waiting for me back at the office. Can I put you in a taxi home?’
‘That would be nice.’ I could see a black cab at the end of the street. Miraculously, it had an orange light on and I waved at it. ‘How are you going to get back?’
‘I could do with the walk.’ Jonathan looked at his feet, then looked at me, a serious expression in his eyes. ‘Listen, what I’d really like to do is take you out for dinner. To say thank you for this afternoon.’
‘You don’t need to do that,’ I said, embarrassed.
‘No, really,’ he insisted. ‘I’d been dreading seeing Kurt and Bonnie again. I thought it would be a trial. Instead I feel kinda . . . good.’ He grimaced and amended himself, ‘Good in a way. And that’s because of you.’ He touched my arm. ‘I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you, up there on the wheel. It was out of line. But thank you for listening, all the same. You’re a very good listener. I appreciate it.’
My stomach fluttered with butterflies. Jonathan looked so sweet and serious and far away from his scary persona that it was hard not to want to slide my arms around his neck and give him a big comforting hug. He’d loosened his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt, and suddenly I wished the taxi was another mile away. Three or four sentences away, at least.
But, I reminded myself sternly, that’s not what he’s paying you for! And how wrong would it be to start flirting with a man still aching so obviously? There was a reason he was hiring me after all: I was the protective screen over that broken heart!
No, I thought. I had to remain professional, uninvolved, completely Honey, the companion he was hiring for her wit and detachment. The moment I started blurring the lines between Melissa and Honey, it would all be over, in a variety of awkward ways.
Anyway, he was far too grown-up for me.
‘Well, it’s all part of the service!’ I said. ‘I had a lovely time. I’m just pleased it wasn’t raining. Although that would have been a more representative view of London.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘I’ve been here long enough to know that. So listen, we’ll put that dinner in the diary some time?’ he said. ‘I so wish it could be tonight but . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘Just as soon as you clear that stack of emails, eh?’
The taxi pulled up next to me. For a moment Jonathan looked as if he was about to wave it away, but then he opened the door and turned back to me. ‘So, are you going to tell the cabbie where to go?’ His expression was neutral, but this time I spotted the tease. If he wanted to dig up information about the real me, he was going to have to try a lot harder than that.
‘Trafalgar Square, please,’ I said to the driver.
Jonathan laughed, took out his wallet, and gave the man a twenty-pound note.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said, closing the door and making a phone gesture to his ear.
For five self-indulgent minutes, crawling through the evening traffic, I let myself pretend he was talking about a real date, not an appointment for a pretend one. Then I wound my imagination back in, and directed the driver to Nelson’s house.
14
As May turned into June, then July, and the hospitality season gathered pace, I maintained my steady stream of bookings, and bought a large desk fan for the office and a sexy summer wardrobe for Honey. Usually I hated buying clothes, but I had no qualms whatsoever about splashing out on pretty tea-dresses and ribboned cardigans; I felt so much more confident when I was in her push-up bras and hold-ups that somehow everything just seemed to work better.
Nelson resumed his seasonal whingeing about the blight of corporate hospitality ruining sport (he used to camp out in a sleeping bag before Wimbledon to get tickets) but since I was getting a decent view of Centre Court and Ascot for the first time in my life, in return for making light conversation with bankers, I wasn’t complaining. I had no time for needlework now, and having a free evening to relax and eat supper at home with my feet up on Nelson’s lap was getting to be a real treat.
I didn’t tell Nelson that. I didn’t want him getting an even bigger head.
Cracking the whip at work kept him too busy to go out much at first, but eventually Jonathan’s social life began to pick up, and he started to come out of himself a little more. According to Gabi, he was still the Demon Headmaster in the office, but more reports were seeping back, to her astonishment, about his popularity with female buyers.
‘I cannot understand it!’ she would fume over lunch in the park. ‘He spent fifteen minutes yesterday lecturing me about the’ – sarcastic bunny ears – ‘“unmotivational manner” in which I answer my telephone. How on earth is that sexy?’
I merely nodded and said nothing, because I knew Gabi wouldn’t believe me if I told her how charming Jonathan could be – under the right circumstances.
Jonathan was much more complicated than I’d first realised, and his moods changed like the London weather. I still wasn’t quite sure who was in charge: him or Honey. Not that I minded – it certainly kept me on my toes in a way that bossing surfer dudes around didn’t.
‘I’m going to be away for a fortnight,’ he informed me, dropping into the office unannounced one warm evening in early August. He claimed he was on the way back to the office after a viewing in Belgravia, but he didn’t seem in much of a rush.
‘Oh?’ I said, coolly finishing off a letter on my computer. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
Jonathan was perched on the edge of my desk, swinging his feet. He looked relaxed and was clearly in an excellent mood.
‘Going somewhere very nice,’ he said. ‘A series of wonderful hotels in Italy. Plus I’ve lined up a selection of interesting tours – ancient ruins, churches, a couple of vineyards . . .’ His hand traced an imaginary horizon in the air. ‘Wish you were coming too?’
I looked up. One eyebrow was cocked in question, but I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or not. ‘Jonathan, you’re not my only client,’ I replied evenly. ‘Educational though your holiday sounds.’
‘Honey, you know I could change that if you wanted. Put you on a retainer?’
‘I don’t want.’ I sent the letter to the printer. ‘I couldn’t keep it up fulltime.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ he said, sounding amused.
I wondered, from the expression on his face, if I’d said something amusing, but ignored it, to be on the safe side. I took the letter out of the printer, enjoying the feel of the thick paper. Having the right kind of notepaper was a small daily pleasure.
‘So I can’t tempt you?’ he added. ‘Call it a bonus?’
The idea of going on holiday with Jonathan was quite surreal, and I had no idea why he was even suggesting it.
‘Jonathan, look at my engagement book,’ I said, gesturing towards my desk diary. ‘I couldn’t just drop everything.’
‘Not even for your best client?’
I gave him a disbelieving look. A definite smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t like him to be so obviously flirtatious. I wondered if he’d been drinking over lunch. ‘All my clients mean a great deal to me.’ I signed the letter, then looked up at him over the top of my to
rtoise-shell glasses. ‘Anyway, what would be the point of coming on holiday with you? You’re going on your own, aren’t you? Who’s to see who you’re with?’
My heart beat a bit faster in my chest as I said this, but I tried not to let it show.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said seriously. ‘As ever.’
My heart sank, despite itself.
‘I should go on my own,’ he went on, ‘then I’ll only appreciate your company more when I come back.’
‘There’s no need to be gallant,’ I said, a little more crisply than I meant to. ‘No one’s listening.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘I’m not being gallant. I’m only telling you how I enjoy your company.’
What with his deadpan expression and my habitual assumption that all compliments were jokes, we weren’t exactly Bogart and Bacall.
‘It’ll be good for you to take a break, you’ve been working so hard! Are you all packed?’ I said, attempting to sound light, but succeeding only in sounding nanny-ish. ‘Got all your arrangements made?’
‘Yup. Patrice’s done everything but pack my bag.’ Jonathan stopped examining his nails and looked up at me. ‘Between you two, my life is completely planned out. All I have to do is turn up when you tell me to.’
‘How neat.’ I returned his deadpan look. ‘Business and pleasure, both beautifully organised.’
‘Indeed.’ Jonathan fumbled in his pocket. ‘OK, listen, since you’ve blown me out on the offer of a romantic Italian sojourn, I thought I’d offer you an alternative holiday bonus.’
He dropped a set of keys on the desk in front of me.
I was reminded unpleasantly of my father leaving me the keys to his Dolphin Square flat prior to some dubious housekeeping task.
‘Please don’t tell me you need me to let your cleaner in,’ I said.
Jonathan looked as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Would you do that? You don’t have to. She comes on a Monday and a Thursday morning. No, they’re my car keys. Have my car for the fortnight, go for a drive, enjoy yourself in it, whatever. The insurance is very comprehensive.’