‘Ooh,’ she was gasping. ‘Is that you, Nelson? Sailing?’
‘Yes,’ he said, turning off the video. ‘Supper’s just ready. Do you want to open some wine, Mel?’
‘He’s amazing,’ she whispered to me as I searched for the corkscrew. ‘How lucky are you?’
‘Pack it in, Gabi,’ I said, trying to sound friendly. ‘You’re preaching to the converted.’
‘I bet he’s dead good at knots,’ she continued dreamily.
‘I said pack it in, Gabi,’ I repeated, less friendly.
‘Why? Are you jealous?’
‘Are you engaged?’ I hissed.
‘Temper, temper,’ she said, lifting her hands.
Over supper we talked about Emery’s wedding – or rather, I unloaded all my rage about being duped into arranging it, and they agreed that I’d been stitched up like a kipper. I had to omit certain details, like the money I owed to Daddy, and Granny’s hot horse-racing tip. It was getting exhausting these days, remembering who knew what and what had to be kept from whom.
Strangely, Gabi seemed unwilling to discuss her own plans.
‘Oh, that’s boring girls’ talk,’ she laughed, with a sideways glance at Nelson when I asked about her ideas for the reception. ‘We can talk about that later!’
‘Talk about it now,’ said Nelson, pushing his chair from the table. ‘I’m off for a long bath while there’s still hot water left.’ He picked up a copy of Practical Boat Owner from the coffee table and tapped me playfully on the head with it. ‘Don’t disturb me, madam. Night, Gabi.’
‘Night, Nelson,’ she cooed.
‘Don’t use up all the hot water,’ I yelled at his departing back. ‘And keep your hands off my bath milk!’
The bathroom door slammed and the pipes started clanking.
Gabi sank her chin onto her hands and smiled into the middle distance.
‘Stop it,’ I said, crossly. ‘Stop flirting with him.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,’ she said. ‘He’s lovely, Nelson. You don’t know how lucky you are, having him doting on you the whole time.’
‘I know!’ I shouted, unable to contain myself any longer. ‘I know he is! He’s a wonderful man! But if you think he is, why are you getting married to Aaron?’
Gabi looked at me as if I were very slow. ‘That’s a whole different ball game, Mel.’
‘No, it’s not!’ I’d had a long day and my patience was filo-thin. ‘Gabi, you can’t ask me to be a bridesmaid and have me stand there while you get married to Aaron, knowing all the while that you’d rather be . . . rather be . . .’
‘Shagging Nelson?’ she finished.
I turned bright, bright red. ‘Well, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Yes, if you want to put it like that.’
‘Don’t be such a prude. There’s nothing wrong with fancying people – it’s perfectly normal. I told you before,’ she said patiently, ‘Aaron can give me the sort of life that—’
‘No!’ I said, losing my temper. ‘No, don’t give me all that cynical nonsense about partnerships and financial security! I can’t believe anyone could be that shallow or that mercenary! Are you telling me that if Aaron lost all his money, you’d just walk out?’
‘Um, that’s not going to happen.’
‘How do you know? You can’t promise to spend your life with someone just because they’re going to pay your bills! What does that make you?’
‘About the same as what your job makes you, I’d say,’ replied Gabi, nastily.
‘But it’s a job!’ I snapped back. ‘And I’m not confusing it with love!’
We both sat back, temporarily stung.
An awkward silence filled the kitchen, and I knew I couldn’t take back what I’d said. It was a bit like waking up on a lilo and realising the shore is suddenly a lot further away than you remembered.
‘Gabi, be honest with me,’ I pleaded. ‘If Aaron lost his job, if the TT had to go back to the garage, would you call off the engagement? Could you really do that? Is it really just his money that you love? Because if it is, please don’t go any further with this.’
‘Mel, you’re being melodramatic,’ said Gabi confidently. ‘Even if he did lose his job, Aaron’s not the sort of bloke to sit about waiting for handouts. He’s a grafter. And I like that. It makes me feel secure.’
‘And what does Nelson make you feel?’
Her confidence faltered. ‘Nelson’s different.’
‘How?’
Gabi twisted her wine glass. ‘Look, Aaron understands me. We’re the same sort of people. Nelson’s . . . well, he’s . . . different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Look, Mel,’ she started, then stopped. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand.’
That really riled me. Wouldn’t I understand? But I bit my lip and tried to keep my temper.
‘Nelson is lovely,’ I said, ‘but you’re just using him to compensate for the complete lack of romance with Aaron! You can’t be in love with a fantasy of someone!’ It was pouring out of me now. ‘It’s totally self-delusional.’
‘Oh, so says the great self-deluder!’ Gabi snorted.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded.
‘Oh, I’m not in love with Jonathan Riley!’ she said, in a hoity-toity posh voice. ‘Oh no, it’s just for work! I mean, yes, I talk about him constantly and yes, he’s a total sweetie when he’s with me, and yes, I’m always planning fun things to do and see, but it’s OK for me to flirt with him, because I’m not falling in love, honestly! I know what I’m doing! I’m always in charge and in control and able to cope with everything life throws at me because I’m just a can-do kind of Home Counties gel!’
I looked at Gabi in horror as her voice rose hysterically. I couldn’t remember us ever having a row before. And I couldn’t believe she thought I talked like that.
‘Jonathan’s all you ever talk about. It’s even worse than Orlando,’ she steamed on. ‘And it’s not just him that’s totally different out of the office, it’s you too! It’s as if this Honey personality has a licence to do whatever the hell she likes while nice sweet Melissa remains the same as ever. So you can flirt and carry on with Mr Grown-Up Bastard Estate Agent, and have the time of your life falling for a man you secretly don’t think you should have. You want to have a close look at yourself, “Honey”, because I’m not the self-deluding one here!’
I gaped at her. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t fancy Jonathan?’
‘Well, no, it’s not . . .’ I blustered. ‘It’s work. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, that’s the whole point. I mean, Jonathan just deals with Honey and, I mean, that’s not really the way I am so . . .’
Gabi did her Ricki Lake side-to-side head-shaking thing – without a shred of irony. ‘For crying out loud, Mel, listen to yourself!’
I took a couple of deep breaths. There was some truth, I had to acknowledge, in what she was saying. It was flattering that Jonathan could relax with me, and yes, it was nice to flirt with him, a man totally out of my league, but I knew it was just his professional charm. He made me flirt well, in the same way that playing tennis with an expert improves your own game. But at the bottom of it all, what kept it all safe, was the simple fact that all the flirting was Honey. Jonathan didn’t know me. He wasn’t ever going to know me.
Was he?
Gabi and I looked at each other over the debris of the supper, and, all of a sudden, I felt terribly, terribly gloomy.
‘Oh, Gabi, I don’t want us to fall out,’ I said, taking Gabi’s hand. ‘I don’t mean to sound negative. It’s just that . . . you’re my best friend and I don’t want to see you make yourself unhappy. Money isn’t everything, you know.’
I didn’t add that I couldn’t believe someone as nice as her could be so calculating.
‘Believe me, Melissa,’ said Gabi, ‘I refuse to be unhappy. I’m just not so sure about you.’
I didn’t think it was that simple, but in th
e interest of our friendship, I kept that to myself for the time being.
16
Some of the Little Lady’s services were easier than others. I preferred the assignments that gave instant results: the hairdressing, the wardrobe adjustments, the confidence-boosting pep-talks. It really was gratifying to see the improvements one could wreak in only a few hours, just by encouraging and flattering where encouragement and flattery had never ventured before.
I wasn’t so keen on the jobs that required me to be a bit unpleasant – although, as Nelson kept reminding me, if I could practise my self-assertion at work, it might help me stop being such a pushover at home. One job I seemed to be doing over and over again, as word spread through the south-west London bachelor community, was vetting domestics.
‘I’m too scared to sack her’ was the most common problem, closely followed by ‘I can’t tell when she’s been’. ‘I don’t know if she has a visa’ was another popular one, but I tried to steer clear of actual legal issues.
My tactics varied, according to the client and the slacking levels of the cleaner. Posing as a house-proud new girlfriend, popping in unexpectedly during their alleged hours, was one; setting burglar alarms to make sure they’d been was another. If that failed, Nelson had passed on a real corker, which I was using now, in a far-from-spotless kitchen in Battersea Rise.
‘So you see, you’ll be on the internet!’ I explained cheerfully to the horrified cleaner currently trying to conceal a procession of ants on Linus Coren’s kitchen bar. She thought I was Linus’s bossy sister; she had already met Linus, an IT specialist who modelled himself on Derren Brown, and so posing as his girlfriend would have pushed the bounds of credibility too far. ‘All day! Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Internet?’
I nodded. Rosella was charging Linus nearly forty quid a week, every week, for moving the Star Trek action figures around on his mantelpiece and not much else. ‘Linus has his own website, Linus On-Line, and there are webcams in every room, you see, so one can log on and just watch what’s happening in the house. I know, it sounds terribly boring,’ I confided, woman to woman, ‘but apparently people go mad for this sort of thing. Obviously, it’s a bit of an intrusion for you, so Linus says he’ll up your wages by a pound an hour. But just think, Rosella! You could be an internet star!’
‘Cameras? Watching me all day?’
‘Yes!’ I sipped my coffee and beamed at her. The wage increase had been my idea: I had some sympathy for the cleaners, disinfecting pigsties, day in, day out. ‘So we’ll all know when you’re dusting and when you’re putting your feet up and eating Linus’s chocolate digestives!’ I laughed heartily to show I was joking.
Rosella managed a weak smile.
‘Biscuit?’ I said, offering her the packet.
She went to take one, then looked guilty and grabbed her duster.
When I got back to the office, Gabi was waiting on the bench outside, her lunch in a bag on her knee. Since our row we’d both been extra-careful to be nice to each other. I hated falling out with my friends, especially when it was only my worry for her that caused the argument. I’d decided to hold my tongue about Aaron until she got bored with planning her dream wedding; once the intoxication of buying stuff wore off, I was confident that she’d look at the long-term situation more rationally.
Which wasn’t to say that my heart didn’t plunge when I saw she had a whole armful of wedding magazines.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, following me up the stairs.
‘Chasing lazy cleaning ladies.’
There was a pile of post on the mat and I began sorting through it, while Gabi opened the windows and let some fresh air into the office. The final days of August had turned hotter than ever, and the roses on my desk were drooping in the heat.
‘Now that’s an agency you should start,’ said Gabi, settling herself into my leather armchair with her bagel and Cosmopolitan Bride. ‘Maybe I should leave Dean & Daniels and set up a sister agency with yours. The Little Lady Agency, in partnership with the, er, Helping Hands Agency.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. To be honest, it did rather annoy me, the way Nelson and Gabi still seemed to treat the business as a bit of a joke. They simply refused to believe that being nice, or firm, or flirtatious, or helpful, or mysterious to order could be in any way taxing.
‘Can I help myself to some Diet Coke?’ she asked, opening the fridge.
‘Please do,’ I said absently, spotting a postcard from Verona, which read ‘Been to Juliet’s balcony – nice first-floor apt, city views, stunning elevation, family oriented neighbourhood, no chain. Offers? JR.’
Jonathan had good handwriting for a man, I thought. That very American handwriting, that managed to look masculine and feminine at the same time. Firm but neat, and not without style.
‘Mel?’ said Gabi. ‘Why have you gone all pink?’
‘Hot,’ I said, fanning myself unconvincingly with the post. ‘Very hot in here.’
The card had taken well over a week to get to London. I looked at the date again. He’d sent it the day he’d arrived. Very efficient.
‘Mel!’ said Gabi. ‘You’re flushed. Here, have a cool drink.’
She passed me a glass of water and snatched the post off me as I stupidly put it on the table to take the glass. ‘Ah ha! A postcard from Jonathan!’ She read it, and gave me a knowing look. ‘Hmm, cryptic – and yet possibly romantic at the same time! Now I understand!’
‘You don’t,’ I said stoutly, but as a sop to our spirit of cordiality, I let her debate the tackiness or otherwise of scratch-card wedding favours (in specially embossed gift envelopes) for the rest of lunch.
‘I’d better go,’ she sighed as two o’clock approached. ‘Patrice watches that door like a hawk. She’s got eyes in the back of her head. Mind you, that’s what happens when you have your face lifted as often as her.’
‘Bye, Gabi,’ I said, getting up to kiss her goodbye.
‘When are you going to come over and discuss bridesmaids’ dresses with me?’ she said, holding me at arm’s length, the better to fix me with her best beseeching look.
‘Um, I could maybe do Friday evening,’ I said, ignoring the little voice of reason screeching furiously in my head. ‘Let me just check . . .’
I flicked through my desk diary, and the phone rang.
‘Stay there, I’ll just get this,’ I said, picking it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Honey! Guess who’s back?’
OK, I had to admit it to myself: After not hearing it for a couple of weeks, it was a pleasant surprise to be reminded just how sexy Jonathan’s voice was.
I swallowed hard and tried to remain cool.
‘Jonathan!’ I said. ‘How was your holiday?’
By the door, Gabi was making silent film-heroine swooning faces. I turned away so she couldn’t see me.
‘You didn’t get my postcard?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘No.’ Why was I lying? Because I was paranoid about misinterpreting the card, I reasoned.
‘Oh, well, I sent you one. Two, actually. European post’s a nightmare. Listen, I’m back in the office right now, and I, um, have a very short-notice invitation for you, which I really hope you’re going to be able to make.’
‘Well, as luck would have it, my diary is open in front of me,’ I said, scanning the different coloured inks that denoted parties, clothes shopping or consultations.
‘How are you fixed for the end of the week?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m pretty busy, but for you, Jonathan . . .’ I said, letting my voice trail off flirtatiously.
Gabi made a faint choking noise and I checked myself, horrifed.
‘Fantastic. Could you face coming to a charity benevolent ball with me? It’s the, um . . .’ I could hear him flicking through the papers in his in-tray. ‘Can’t find the damn invite. Anyway, it’s some charity we’re supporting and I’ve got a table of clients and important bigwigs to schmooze, you know the deal. At the
Dorchester?’
‘Marvellous!’ I said, struggling to keep the excitement from my voice. ‘I think I could make that. Is it black tie?’
‘Guess so. I’ll have to call to check unless the invitation turns up . . .’ There was some muffled speaking. ‘Oh, thank you, Patrice. Patrice’s got the invitation right here.’
I could just imagine Patrice’s tightened face, handing over that invitation.
‘Yeah, it’s Friday night. And black tie. There’ll be scads of estate agents, I’m afraid,’ he went on. ‘But I guess there’ll be other compensations. And I hear they serve their champagne in the correct glasses.’
‘I should hope so too.’ I ran a finger across my eyebrow, smoothing it down. ‘So what time shall I meet you?’
‘How about eight? In the bar?’
‘Eight. Fine. I’ll look forward to that very much.’
‘I will too,’ said Jonathan. ‘And, by the way, thanks for leaving my car outside the house. Not a scratch on it, and a full tank of gas! Guess it’s not true what the guys in the office say about lady drivers.’
‘The guys in the office are probably just intimidated by a lady who can drive at all,’ I said, thinking of Hughy’s running repair bills at the local garage. The man couldn’t park on a rugby pitch without denting something.
‘Hey, don’t you go including me in that,’ said Jonathan. ‘There’s something very sexy about lady drivers. Don’t tell me – you have your own little driving shoes for the car, right?’
‘I do indeed,’ I replied, because I did. Now, was he trying to extend the conversation here, or was he just being polite? ‘Bright pink suede, since you ask.’
‘Honey, you remind me more of Penelope Pitstop every day,’ said Jonathan, and laughed darkly.
Prickles of sweat sprang underneath my arms, and I rushed to get off the phone before I could make a fool of myself.
‘No way was that Jonathan,’ said Gabi. ‘I could definitely hear laughing from the other end of the phone. I cannot believe you’re blowing me out for Dr No,’ she howled. ‘I’d rather have an evening in bleaching my moustache than endure ten seconds of Jonathan Riley out of office hours!’