The Little Lady Agency

  ‘Sorry. But, you know, work.’ I spread my hands in apology.

  She shook her head. ‘It must be.’ She wagged her rolled-up bridal magazines in my direction. ‘Whatever he’s paying you, it’s not enough. Oh . . . shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jonathan’s in the office!’ Gabi turned tail and thundered down the stairs, screeching something unpleasant about Patrice as she went.

  I can’t pretend that I didn’t look forward to Friday enormously. I didn’t have time to diet myself into svelte dinner-dance elegance in forty-eight hours, so instead I withdrew some money from my replenished emergencies account and bought a truly miraculous corset from Rigby & Peller. It gave me a wasp waist, and the sort of bosom you normally saw only on milkmaids and Bavarian bierkeller women.

  With this structural assistance, I decanted myself into an old cocktail dress of Granny’s: a gorgeous blood-red sheath with a sweetheart neckline, which masked some of the cleavage and skimmed discreetly over my curves. I washed and dressed my wig into a sophisticated up-do and spent quite a long time perfecting my Audrey Hepburn make-up face.

  It would have been nice to have had Nelson’s seal of approval on this glamorous and very un-me outfit, but he’d left the house by the time I emerged, pink and steaming, from the bath. He and Roger Trumpet had planned a weekend at sea in Nelson’s dad’s boat, and they’d gone out for an early steak supper in preparation for catching a very late tide.

  Still, I thought, hailing a taxi to the hotel, maybe it’s for the best. When I’d told him my Friday plans, Nelson had made more than a few snide comments about Jonathan – recently, with Gabi’s gleeful encouragement, he’d taken to referring to him as Remington Steele or the Gay Divorcee. Since he’d only met him at formal occasions, when Jonathan was in his buttoned-up, paranoid office mode, I didn’t think Nelson was being very fair. And I did wonder if there was just a tiny hint of jealousy there too: Nelson had been the only man in my life for so long, and now there was another handsome, opinionated grump on the block.

  Nelson and Jonathan had a fair bit in common, come to think of it. I suspected that that was why Nelson had taken agin him.

  Jonathan was standing at the bar, browsing a cocktail list and looking impatient but immaculate in his dinner jacket. His black silk bow tie was a proper one, not a pre-tied monstrosity, and his shoes shone like jet. Even in the dim light, I could tell the fortnight in Italy had given his pale skin a golden glow and he must have had his hair cut, because it was shorter than normal, cropped close over his temples and gleaming like polished bronze.

  My breath caught in my throat. He looked so unbelievably grown-up and self-possessed that for a moment I was too scared to approach him.

  He shot back his sleeve to check the time and saw me hovering at the entrance. A broad smile spread over his face, displaying his beautiful square teeth, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  I walked over, feeling self-conscious.

  Well, I didn’t walk. To be honest, I shimmied. It was something to do with the corset and the high heels.

  ‘Honey,’ said Jonathan, stretching out his hands. ‘Wow. You look absolutely stunning.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I was trying very hard to be casual. ‘You look very smart yourself.’

  Jonathan took my hands, raised the right one to his lips and kissed my knuckles. It was an old-fashioned gesture, but it suited him, and the setting. My stomach fluttered beneath the whalebones.

  ‘What a gorgeous dress!’ he said, looking me up and down approvingly. ‘Where do you find all these wonderful clothes?’

  I made a ‘this-old-thing’ gesture, but felt as though a million bubbles were jetting through my veins. ‘It belonged to my grandmother,’ I said. ‘She used to sing in nightclubs in the fifties. Very upmarket ones, too, I might add.’

  ‘Well, she can’t have looked more show-stopping than you do in it. You carry off that vintage look so well.’ He gave me a modified wink.

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so,’ I said, loosening my hands before they started perspiring, and deliberately looking around the bar so I wouldn’t have to meet his eye and make a fool of myself.

  Then I thought, why not?

  I lifted my chin and gazed straight into Jonathan’s grey eyes. ‘I sometimes think I’m a vintage girl. A proper 1950s woman’s woman.’

  Jonathan’s eyebrows twitched. ‘A proper 1950s man’s woman, if you don’t mind me saying. What can I get the proper woman to drink?’

  Mindful of my complicated underpinnings, and the even more complicated situation, I told myself firmly to insist on a gin fizz. But I heard my voice say, ‘A Martini, please.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jonathan. He turned round and ordered it, with a Scotch for himself.

  One Martini. Just one Martini to get me in the mood, then it was straight back onto the gin fizzes, and back onto the straight and narrow, I told myself.

  ‘So,’ said Jonathan, guiding me gently to a table with his hand just touching the small of my back, ‘were you very busy while I was away? Or did it feel kind of quiet without me?’

  ‘I had a lot more time on my hands,’ I said, slipping into a booth. ‘But I made a lot of scruffy young men less scruffy and very happy.’

  ‘Oh, damn,’ sighed Jonathan. ‘There I was, hoping you’d been sitting twiddling your thumbs without me.’

  He gave me a solemn look. Dinner jackets clearly brought out the James Bond in him. I sipped my drink and smiled with my eyes over the rim of the glass.

  There’s something about cocktail glasses that just makes a girl feel flirty, don’t you think? Something about the rather saucy way you have to cradle them in your hand.

  ‘There was no one there to remind me when I was being crass,’ he went on, ‘no one to tell me off for pointing at stuff, and no one to glare at the bella mammas when they tried to hit on me.’

  Ouch. Did I do that? I wasn’t sure what he meant by it – seeing off bella mammas was what he was engaging me for, after all. I assumed he was trying to get a rise out of me, so I let it go, rather than make myself look stupid.

  ‘Who are we meeting for drinks?’ I asked.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. In the bar.’

  Jonathan looked surprised. ‘No one.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, confused. ‘I thought . . .’

  I wasn’t sure what I thought. Suddenly I wasn’t sure of very much.

  ‘Can’t I take you for a drink on your own?’ he asked, with a more familiar edge of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said quickly. ‘But if you want me to deflect women for you, there aren’t many in here. And I don’t see you pointing at anything so far.’

  Jonathan laughed. ‘That’s what I missed. Can I get you another?’

  To my surprise, my glass was empty, bar one small olive.

  ‘Just one,’ I said, holding up one finger for emphasis.

  Three Martinis made the dinner part of the evening swing past in a very amusing blur. I was seated between an estate agent and a fundraiser, both of whom were terribly interesting, and very keen to talk about something – anything – other than estate agency and fundraising. Consequently I picked up some very handy fishing tips and several recommendations for health spas in Turkey, which I seem to remember writing down on a napkin, although I never subsequently found where I put it.

  I was planning to sit out most of the dancing, since I’d had a couple of glasses of wine with the meal. Nelson had slipped a little card in my handbag, which read: ‘Two drinks, charming; Three drinks, philosophical; Four drinks, dancing on the table; Five drinks, Orlando von Borsch.’ I reckoned, with the food, I was approaching the wild dancing stage, so when the band struck up, I deliberately started a new conversation about the London Underground with the man opposite; since his last rant had been about how the cab drivers were basically running London, I reckoned he’d keep me anchored to my seat until at least one glass of wine had worn off.

  I
was nodding my head and trying to focus on something other than his quite remarkable nostril hair when I felt a hand on my bare shoulder.

  Tiny electric shocks tingled all the way down my back.

  ‘Honey,’ said a voice above my head. ‘Do you mind if I steal her away, Edward?’

  My companion looked rather narked – he had, after all, just worked up a healthy head of steam about bus lanes – but before he could even open his mouth, Jonathan had led me by the hand onto the dance floor.

  ‘I’m not fit to dance,’ I protested as he slipped his arm round my waist and began to guide me expertly in the limited space available.

  ‘I prefer my partners a little tipsy,’ he said, turning me round with just the tiniest pressure on my back. ‘Makes them more manoeuvrable.’

  I could see what he meant. My arms had gone a bit loose and were draping themselves in apparent elegance round his neck, while my feet, usually four seconds behind my brain, were moving in close harmony with his. We moved around our allotted space rather gracefully. Jonathan’s buttoned-up exterior hadn’t hinted at rhythm like this. He danced with a nonchalance that made his easy steps even more impressive.

  ‘Hey, you’re good at this!’ he said.

  ‘Not as good as you.’

  ‘Maybe you’re only good when you’re dancing with me.’ He arched his eyebrow cheesily – presumably because his hands weren’t free to do his click and point thing.

  This was a whole new level of charm that I wasn’t really prepared for, and even though I knew it was purely chat, my heart flipped.

  ‘Is that a line from a film?’ I enquired, trying to sound unimpressed.

  Jonathan grinned. ‘Hey, sassy.’

  ‘Shh,’ I said. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘String of Pearls’ turned into ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’, and we shimmered around the floor like a couple from the Peggy Spencer School of Dance, Penge. Actually, it wasn’t so much like Come Dancing, as something from a black and white romantic comedy. My feet seemed to go wherever Jonathan wanted them to, and for once I wasn’t even counting in my head. There were never enough boys to go round at my dancing class, so I often ended up being the man, since I was taller than most girls – taller than most of the boys, actually – so I did have a dreadful residual habit of leading. But tonight I was floating lighter than the feathers on Ginger Rogers’ hem.

  I was dancing like Honey. I felt like Honey.

  I was Honey.

  The band played ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ and ‘Cheek to Cheek’ and as I whirled round I couldn’t help basking in the admiring glances. If the staff of Dean & Daniels could have seen anal-retentive Jonathan and frumpy Melissa now, they wouldn’t have believed their own eyes. Then the tempo slowed, and I recognised the smoochy opening bars of ‘Moonlight Serenade’.

  I didn’t want to sit down now, but a slow dance?

  Jonathan sensed the abrupt stiffness in my back and spread his fingers wide along the base of my spine, reaching from my tail bone up to my waist. There was a layer of dress and a layer of good old-fashioned corsetry between his hand and my bare skin, but I could almost feel the heat of his fingers.

  ‘Should we stop here?’ he murmured in my ear, and his voice sounded so husky I went hot and cold and hot again.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he added.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded slightly and sank a little closer into his arms, close enough to feel the warmth of his neck when I breathed in.

  It was without a doubt the most thrilling, dreamlike experience of my whole life up to that point, moving slowly, instinctively around the darkened dance floor in his arms. Even though I knew it was a corny thing to be thinking, I didn’t want the song to come to a close. But it did, the final chords faded away in a ripple of applause, and at once I felt deflated.

  After lingering for a tantalising couple of seconds, Jonathan’s hand left my back, and he took my hand to lead me off the dance floor. As we approached our table, I could see several conversations stop and I braced myself for re-entry into the real world. However, just as I was making polite pre-conversation eye contact with my hairy-nosed lawyer, I felt Jonathan guiding me away from the table, towards the door.

  ‘We need a little fresh air!’ Jonathan was saying in a general table direction, loosening his bow tie and picking up a bottle of champagne and two flutes as we passed. ‘Guess we overdid it! Would you excuse us?’

  I just smiled and let myself be led out.

  ‘What was that for?’ I murmured out of the side of my mouth as we wove through the tables.

  ‘Well, we’ve just given an exhibition foxtrot display, and I guess everyone will be expecting me to take you somewhere private – so I can let you know how admiring I am of your backwards dancing,’ he said.

  ‘What lengths you go to in order to be convincing,’ I murmured.

  Jonathan gave me a sideways, rather quizzical look. ‘Plus, I’m hot and I need some air.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said, quickly.

  In the corridor we passed one of the female guests from our table, and Jonathan paused to greet her.

  ‘Hello, Sophie,’ he said. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Awfully much, thank you. You made such a gorgeous couple on the dance floor!’ she gushed. ‘Fred and Ginger all over again!’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ said Jonathan. ‘But I flatter myself I’m more like Gene Kelly. My partner here prefers her dancers more muscular.’

  I smiled at him, tingling with delight that he’d remembered, but his face was completely straight.

  Sophie looked as though she was about to swoon. I’d never seen Jonathan have that effect on anyone at work, but in black tie he was a whole other proposition. ‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded a bit too enthusiastically. ‘I can see that. You were both wonderful! So in tune with each other! It must be that couples’ chemistry!’

  ‘Will you excuse us?’ Jonathan drifted us off down the corridor, walking away from the noise and the heat of the ballroom until we reached a secluded window, looking out onto Hyde Park.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ he said, taking my hand and looking at me very seriously. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  My heart had just about recovered from the dancing, but suddenly it felt as if it had stopped completely. The way he was looking at me, all serious and attentive, was more flattering than any compliment I’d ever had. Jonathan had such perfect manners, but he managed to make them seem so natural and spontaneous.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me,’ I said.

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said. ‘Would you hold these?’ He held out the flutes.

  I took them, and he filled them carefully with champagne.

  ‘To Honey Blennerhesket,’ he said, propping the bottle on a nearby flower display. ‘The woman who helped me start over.’ And he clinked his glass against mine.

  The breath caught in my throat. I smiled, and Jonathan smiled back, a little wonkily, and suppressed a hiccup.

  Oh, he’s drunk, I thought and a cold thud of disappointment hit me.

  But hang on, said a small voice in my head: if he is drunk, it would be OK for me to play along with his romantic night-out behaviour – after all, I argued with myself, how much would I have given, after Orlando dumped me, to have a night of consequence-free flirting with a compliant partner?

  Besides, there was something about Jonathan that made me want to flirt back. I couldn’t help it.

  ‘I can honestly say that yours isn’t the only life Honey has changed,’ I said, sipping my champagne and flashing a flirty look at him through my sooty lashes.

  Jonathan leaned back against the alcove and held out his arm, so I could lean against him and look out of the window too. It was the kind of affectionate brotherly gesture Nelson often made after a couple of pints. I hesitated for a moment, then took a step nearer to him.

  ‘You know, Honey, when I first engaged you, I used to dread our appointments,’ he said, as
I leaned tentatively against his side. ‘It meant I had to go out, meet new people. Be on show. But now . . .’ He let out a long breath. ‘Now, for some reason, you don’t know how much I look forward to them. You know, I never thought I’d say that. When Cindy and I split I thought I’d never . . .’ He paused and corrected himself. ‘No, I used to dread going out even when I was with Cindy. You’re so different. You don’t make judgements, you don’t make demands, you don’t take sides. You just make me feel like a million dollars.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘You make me feel like at least half a million pounds.’

  Jonathan laughed and I could feel the vibrations of his laughter through the thin cotton of his dress shirt.

  I swallowed.

  ‘You’re worth double,’ he said. ‘Triple. You know, Honey Blennerhesket is just the sort of woman every man wants on his arm. Witty, independent, decisive, practical.’ He sighed. ‘Not to mention beautiful. And you won’t even let me have exclusivity during work hours.’

  I closed my eyes with pleasure, then snapped them open as the shock of what he’d said cut through the pleasure like cold water. He didn’t mean me, Melissa. He meant made-up, fictional Honey. Honey he was paying for.

  I should have stopped there, but the champagne running through my bloodstream fought against the disappointment.

  So what if he means Honey, I argued. You’re here tonight as Honey, aren’t you? And you’re here now. You work hard enough living up to her standards, why not reap some of the rewards? You can’t afford to pass up fabulously romantic opportunities like this . . .

  I luxuriated in our reflection in the dark window. That woman in the corridor was right: we did make a very handsome couple. And if I was playing a role, pretending to be someone I wasn’t, then so was he. He was pretending to be un-heartbroken, available, the courteous all-American gentleman. We were about as real as Fred and Ginger. Or Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse.

  ‘Honey,’ Jonathan began, turning me gently towards him, as skilfully as he’d turned me on the dance floor. ‘Honey, there’s something I must say to you . . .’