‘Hello, Melissa,’ said my father. His eyes glinted dangerously and I had the abrupt, paralysing sensation that he knew everything. Not that this was anything new or even necessarily significant: he’d been able to make me feel guilt on demand since I was old enough to sneak biscuits.
‘Melissa!’ said my grandmother, rising from her seat as if to leave. ‘Thank God you’re here to talk sense into everyone.’
‘Sit down, Dilys!’ snapped Daddy. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Granny compromised by getting up but going only as far as the drinks cabinet, where she poured herself a large gin and tonic. My mother’s eyes followed her movements longingly, but she tore her gaze away and puffed hard on her cigarette.
‘I wish you would give up, darling,’ said Granny, vaguely. ‘I did. It gives one terrible lines . . .’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘That bloody Gwen Morrison . . .’ my mother began, then paused dramatically, ‘has resigned.’
Daddy had finally caved in under serious pressure and Gwen Morrison had been engaged as Emery’s designated wedding planner from Town and Country Weddings: a nice, efficient girl who’d been at school with Allegra, and was therefore completely used to dealing with crisis after crisis. I’d met her only in passing, but she looked the sort to thrive on impossibilities and stress. She wore one of those upside-down nurse’s watches on her jacket lapel.
I furrowed my brow. ‘Hadn’t you just taken her on?’
Emery shot Daddy a surprisingly poisonous glare. ‘Taken her on, or just . . . taken her?’
My mother flinched. ‘Emery!’
I stared at Emery, unsure of what she meant, exactly. ‘Taken her where?’
‘There was a misunderstanding,’ Daddy responded smoothly. ‘I don’t think Gwen was quite up to the task in hand, so we decided to let her go.’
‘Martin, my dear, she is threatening to sue you!’ exclaimed Granny in a sunny voice.
‘OK, OK,’ I said, before my mother could chime in, or faint, or do whatever it was she was psyching herself up to do. ‘But the wedding isn’t until December, and you’ve been planning this for simply ages. Isn’t it just a case of, um, chasing up the canapés?’
As I said this I knew it wouldn’t be. Emery’s face and my mother’s clenched fists confirmed it.
Daddy, though, looked delighted. ‘Well, quite. I knew we should have called Melissa. Jolly good, sweetheart. That settles it.’
My father never called me sweetheart. Ever.
Besides, it settled what?
‘But, no, hang on,’ I stuttered. ‘Listen, I’m happy to help out, but I, um, I can’t . . .’
‘Can’t what, Melissa?’ demanded my father, turning all Jeremy Paxman. ‘Can’t help your own sister organise the wedding of her dreams?’
‘Well . . .’ I struggled to find some vestiges of resistance, but it was impossible. He was giving me his specially destructive stare.
‘Can’t make a few calls? To save your poor mother from a nervous breakdown?’ he continued, appalled. ‘Can’t be bothered to give up a precious morning to address invitations?’
‘Of course I want to help but I just don’t have enough hours in the day!’ I protested, seeing weeks of complete misery shimmer up before me like a nasty mirage. ‘I mean, honestly, I’m run off my feet as it is!’
That, of course, was exactly what he wanted me to say. Daddy’s thin mouth contorted into a curve of sheer delight, then frowned deliberately.
‘But what time do you finish at that estate agency? Five, isn’t it?’ His eyes twinkled nastily. ‘Plenty of time in the evenings.’
‘I’m, um . . .’ I could feel the heat creep up and over my face. Everyone was looking at me, their finely tuned trouble-sonars swivelling. I’d managed to keep my change of occupation from them until now and wasn’t exactly planning to enlighten them completely anyway. But Daddy had that look in his eye. Was this one of his double bluffs?
I couldn’t risk it.
‘I’m not working at Dean & Daniels any more,’ I admitted.
‘You’re not?’ exclaimed my father in mock shock. ‘What happened? Did they have to’ – he contorted his face into an unconvincing expression of sympathy – ‘“let you go”?’
‘Martin!’ snapped my mother. ‘Don’t patronise her! If Melissa was sacked, then let her be sacked!’
‘Yes, they did have to “let me go”,’ I said, jutting my chin. ‘They were being taken over by an American firm, so there were redundancies. And I was one of them. It happens sometimes.’
‘You’re getting to be the most redundant girl in Chelsea,’ observed Daddy. ‘So what are you doing now?’
‘Temping,’ I said and prayed Granny wouldn’t take it upon herself to assist me in my fibbing. Her lies tended to be rather baroque and I found it very counter-productive trying to keep up with her.
‘Temping, eh?’ Daddy raised his eyebrows, and I started to panic.
It could be that he didn’t know anything whatsoever.
It could be that he knew everything, and didn’t want to play his hand so soon.
It could be that he knew a fragment of something and was waiting for me to oblige by confessing the balance.
Honey wouldn’t do that. Not in a million years.
I clenched my teeth together.
‘Temping,’ I repeated with a forced smile, which came out more as a snarl.
He gave me a long ‘This is only half-time, Melissa’ look, but I was pleased to spot a shadow of surprise cross his face.
However, before he could gather himself for a new attack, my mother surprised everyone by entering the arena. ‘Well, in that case you’ll have plenty of time to help me out! I’m sure Daddy will compensate you for your time, won’t you, Martin? What’s your hourly rate for your temping agency, darling?’
I didn’t like to tell her it was currently averaging out at around a hundred pounds an hour.
‘Belinda, are you mad? I most certainly will not compensate her!’ Daddy roared. ‘Do you have any idea how much this is all costing me? Thank God Melissa’s embraced career spinsterhood – we’d be on the streets!’
Really. How can a girl not feel special when her own father talks about her in such adoring terms?
I looked over at Emery. She was hunched over her cup of tea, and flinched every time my parents yelled at each other. I suddenly felt very sorry for her. It was meant to be the happiest day of her life, after all.
I thought quickly. Jonathan was away for another ten days, which meant that I had fewer demands on my time than usual: just a few wardrobe overhauls and a small birthday party to arrange. If I really got my skates on, I could sort out the majority of the logistical problems for Emery and make some kind of plan for her to follow on her own as it got nearer the time.
December. It was quite a while away. Would I still be working for Jonathan then? I swallowed as a confusing blend of feelings swirled round in my head.
‘Melissa! I want a word with you in my study,’ Daddy said, and stalked out.
‘It’ll just be the old family responsibility lecture,’ said my grandmother, getting up to put the kettle back on the Aga. ‘I wouldn’t worry. We’ve all had it today already.’
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Mummy to herself, and lit another cigarette.
I gave Emery a pat on the shoulder. Vagueness was all very well for slipping under the radar, but it would be tough to vague out of her own wedding day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I soothed. ‘We’ll soon sort it out.’
‘Gwen took the files,’ said Emery dully. ‘It took me weeks to narrow down the colour schemes.’
I looked at the three of them.
Mummy chain-smoking and muttering distractedly to herself; Granny singing under her breath and looking troublesome; Emery rocking gently in her chair, apparently tranquillised.
Daddy, William and Grandad all highly conspicuous by their absence.
Single life had never seemed so appealing.
By the t
ime I’d walked through the house to my father’s study, he was already seated behind his desk and had assumed his preferred headmasterly pose. I cursed myself for allowing him to gain this tactical advantage so cheaply, but felt a familiar wobble of trepidation all the same.
Daddy’s study was the scene of all school-report dissection, uncomfortable debriefs about newspaper allegations, and other happy family events. It was dark and lined with bookshelves filled with old copies of Hansard and leather-bound books purchased from house sales. A large portrait of him in oils hung above the fireplace, while a beautiful black and white photograph of my mother at her coming-out party dominated the mantelpiece. There were no grand ancestral portraits because my grandfather had sold some to have the roof fixed and destroyed the rest in a fit of rage – the reason lost in the mists of time.
I leaned against the chair opposite him, rather than sitting down in it. ‘How can I help you?’ I said, with more bravado than I felt.
‘Sit down, Melissa,’ he said tersely. ‘I don’t think either of us have time to play games, do you?’
I sat down.
‘Now, you’re going to arrange this wedding of your sister’s,’ he informed me. ‘Don’t annoy me by arguing. You’re going to do it for a number of reasons. One, there is no way that idiot child can do it herself and I’m damned if I’m going to let Belinda loose with my chequebook. Two, since this wedding is already costing me an arm and a leg I can scarcely afford, we’re going to have to economise.’
His mouth twitched as he said this. It usually came back to money in the end.
‘Surely hiring another wedding planner would be a sensible economy?’ I asked. ‘She could negotiate better deals than me.’
Daddy didn’t even dignify this with a response. ‘Three, I don’t want some sneaky bitch coming in here and snooping about, selling details of my private life to the gutter press and generally poking around in my business.’
As if anyone was that interested in him! Revealing embarrassing details about wedding car deals and other cheapskate tactics, more like.
‘And four . . .’ He put his hands on the desk and let a smirk play across his face. ‘How to put this? I believe you owe me some money, Melissa.’
Damn. I knew he’d gone too quiet about the loan. He’d been quick enough to offer the money when he thought it would make him a few bob, though. I wriggled in my seat. ‘Yes, well, I hadn’t forgotten about that . . .’
‘I should hope not, little lady!’
My head snapped up as he said that, but my father’s expression was a mask of smiling concern. ‘It’s not good for a child to be in debt at your age, really. And I’ve let this debt ride for quite some time now.’
‘No, I want to pay it back,’ I agreed, spotting a way out. Talking business reminded me that I’d done some fairly nifty deals while in Honey’s stiletto slingbacks, which in turn made me sit up straight and concentrate on not getting rolled over by my father, as usual. ‘So if I organise Emery’s wedding, you’ll write off part of the debt, instead of paying for a wedding planner?’
Daddy threw his head back and guffawed with laughter, then fixed me with an unsmiling gaze.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But if you decide you’re too busy to organise the wedding, we may have to . . . ah . . . discuss the rate of interest on your outstanding debt. I do need that money, Melissa. Marquees don’t grow on trees.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling thoroughly boxed in. I reminded myself that I’d more or less decided to do it anyway, but my goodwill feelings towards Emery were beginning to evaporate.
‘But I can’t do it for nothing! I just don’t have time! Surely there has to be something in it for me?’ I suggested, clinging onto the last remaining shreds of my Honey attitude. I didn’t want to be completely under obligation.
‘Of course,’ oozed my father. ‘You can come to the wedding and bring anyone you like. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some phone calls to make.’
I stood up. Granny was right, he was a really very unpleasant man. But he had the knack of making me feel dreadfully disloyal for not bending to his will like a dutiful daughter should. King Lear had nothing on my father.
I supposed that was what made him such an unshiftable local MP.
I lingered in the hall long enough to hear him get through to Simon, his solicitor, and yell, ‘No, no, no, no! I don’t want to pay her off, Simon! I did nothing, and, anyway, it’s her word against mine . . .’
Then he poked the door shut with the snooker cue he kept behind his desk, and I went back into the kitchen to begin the long metaphorical trek to the church door with Emery.
The next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep in my old room, I forced Emery, my grandmother and my mother into Mummy’s car and drove them to a nearby tea shop where we ploughed through a list of things to do. I didn’t want to take Mummy to a pub and have her drown her sorrows, and I didn’t want my father dropping in and distracting us.
His influence was all over the plans as it was.
‘So, the cars are sorted out?’ I asked.
‘No cars.’ Emery shook her head. ‘Horse and carriage, from the Green Energy people. They’re constituents. Daddy says they’ll let us have that and five electric cars as long as I mention them in any publicity.’
‘Right.’ I made a note. ‘Cake?’
‘Local bakery is honoured to provide it.’
‘Do you have to be photographed with the baker?’ I asked sarcastically.
Emery shook her head, swinging her shiny curtains of hair from side to side. ‘Um, no. I don’t think so, anyway.’
‘Dress?’
‘You’re making that,’ Granny reminded me.
‘Oh, yes.’
Oh bugger, more like. I underlined dress on my list. It had rather slipped down my to-do list, what with Jonathan’s social demands expanding to weekends.
‘What about invitations?’ I asked. ‘Do you have a list of guests? Have you chosen your stationery?’
Emery looked as if she was about to dissolve into tears.
‘OK,’ I said quickly. ‘We’ll have to sort that out.’ I made a note and forced a smile onto my face. ‘See, Em? It’s not that hard! We’ll get there.’
‘I’m so glad you’re here, darling,’ said Granny, helping herself to the last éclair.
I beamed at her. Actually, if Granny were on the scene too, then it might just be bearable.
‘It makes me feel so much less guilty about the cruise,’ she went on, biting into her cake.
I stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Cruise,’ she said, through a mouthful of choux pastry. ‘Treating myself.’
Granny’s finances were shrouded in mystery. She always seemed to be well-off, despite not having had a job since the late fifties, when she had a brief but frightfully glamorous career as a nightclub singer, much to the horror of her family. It seemed to have made her a lot of money of her own, too. Mummy usually muttered something about ‘royalties on a record’ and closed the subject fast.
‘You’re going on a cruise,’ I repeated dully. ‘Thanks a lot.’
She winked at me and whispered, ‘More than one way to skin a cat, darling.’
I seethed and reflected that while everyone else in the family was an expert skinner, it always seemed to be me they ended up skinning.
I wasn’t in the best of moods when I got back to London.
Nelson knew how I’d be feeling after I’d spent the weekend up at home. When I got in, the kitchen was filled with the most delicious aroma of roast chicken and mashed potatoes and I was so grateful for his thoughtfulness that I could have burst into tears on the spot.
‘You look terrible,’ he said from the couch. He was watching a sailing video and eating Pringles from the tube.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I looked in the hall mirror. Did I look terrible? I did, really. My complexion wasn’t nearly as radiant as it was in my Honey wig. And maybe I took a bit more trouble doing my Honey make-up, since I had to
adjust it all for caramel-blonde hair, instead of whisking on my usual quick flash of rosy blusher and lick of mascara.
It’s true, I thought bitterly. Honey’s just an all-round better bet than Melissa. No one at home had even considered that it might be painful for an unmarried sister to be arranging a younger sibling’s wedding. Honey would have pointed that out straight away and negotiated a consultancy fee.
That hadn’t occurred to me until now, and I let a fresh wave of misery wash over me.
‘Gabi phoned for you,’ Nelson went on. ‘She’s coming over later to discuss her bridesmaids’ dresses.’
‘Oh.’ I shuffled over to the sofa and threw myself down at the other end, putting my feet on Nelson’s lap so he could rub them for me. ‘Great.’
Nelson gave me a good hard look, and said, ‘You know, you don’t look so terrible now I see you in the light.’
‘Too late,’ I said, hugging a cushion. ‘Damage is done. Will you do that magic reflexology rubbish on my feet, please? I’m a bag of nerves.’
‘You don’t mind if I watch this at the same time?’ he asked politely, starting to apply pressure to my big toes. ‘I’m on it somewhere, apparently.’
‘No, no.’ Already the tension was ebbing from my body. Nelson really did have lovely strong hands. ‘Watch whatever you like.’
Secretly, I quite liked watching Nelson sailing. It was nice to see him being rugged and practical, instead of spouting endlessly about sustainable developments and Gift Aid. He pointed out various sailing nuances that I pretended to understand while floating away on waves of foot-related bliss, and we were slumped there quite companionably, until the doorbell rang.
I looked at Nelson, peeved. ‘That’ll be Gabi.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, failing to read my mind for once. ‘I made extra mash. You’re not going to be short-changed on the supper front.’
‘I’ll let her in,’ I said, swinging my feet off his lap and shuffling to the front door, fighting back incipient resentment.
‘Hello!’ Gabi gave me a cursory hug, then bounded into the sitting room. ‘Hello, Nelson!’ I heard her coo.
I shut the door and marvelled that even as she was coming round here to discuss her wedding, she still bothered to get dressed up in her best clothes and full make-up in order to impress my flatmate.