The Little Lady Agency

  ‘Help yourself to sugared almonds,’ I said. ‘And ignore the illustration on the instruction leaflet. As you can see, a rose-tinted mother and sister are not provided. By rights, the instructions should feature a bitter, spinster sister.’

  ‘You’re sure you’re not making the cake?’ he teased. ‘Emery hasn’t signed you up to drive her to church?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I groaned, gathering up four circles of net. ‘I think this is Emery’s way of getting herself banned from any more organising.’

  ‘Not as dumb as she looks then,’ said Nelson. He picked up some tulle circles with surprising enthusiasm. ‘Right then. Let the bridal favours commence.’

  We sat there fiddling with bits of sequinned tulle, listening to Frank Sinatra and arguing about who exactly he’d been married to and in what order. All the while, I racked my brains for a clever way to bring the conversation round to Gabi and how Nelson might feel about her.

  Eventually, when Nelson went to get a third bottle of wine, in the absence of any inspiration dawning, I decided to jump straight in and hope for the best.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say for ages – you were so sweet to Gabi when she and Aaron split up,’ I began. ‘I don’t know many men who could have passed paper hankies with that sort of sensitivity.’

  Nelson shot me an arch look. ‘Let’s just say I’m an old hand. Anyway, she seems more cheerful these days. Whatever it is you’re telling her, it seems to have worked.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all just women’s magazine stuff. I don’t know that I’m much help,’ I said. ‘I only told her to be honest with herself.’ I looked over at him, but he was intent on his knots, his blond eyebrows knitted in concentration. ‘Don’t you think that’s important, to be honest with yourself?’

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘But within reason.’

  My attention was caught by the quick, deft way Nelson’s fingers twisted the ribbon into perfect loops, then dispatched them into tight little knots. His paper doves looked as though they were billing and cooing, whereas mine looked as if they’d been recently winged by a cack-handed shot.

  ‘Pass me another handful of net?’ he asked, looking up and seeing me staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, I was just admiring your, er, handiwork,’ I said, sipping at my wine.

  Hadn’t it been Gabi who had said how strong and capable Nelson’s hands were? It was funny how I’d never noticed things like that about him until she started banging on about it all the time. But he did have rather nice hands. Outdoor hands. Manly hands. Even when he was fiddling about with camp things like net and miniature turtle doves.

  In Nelson’s hands, they didn’t look camp at all, come to think of it. Quite the reverse.

  Nelson dropped a finished bonbonnière on the pile. His pile was about three times bigger than mine and three times more elaborate.

  ‘So have they officially split up then? Gabi and Aaron?’ he asked, as if he were enquiring about the rent.

  Gabi. Yes. Back to the matter in hand, I reminded myself.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I think she’s in love with someone else.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nelson. ‘Aaron’s boss?’

  ‘No!’ I looked at him, trying to assess how serious he was being. Not easy, since my attention was being impaired by the wine and the fact that Nelson was wearing a new shirt that made his eyes look very blue.

  Once you started noticing things like that, it was hard to go back.

  I pulled myself together. ‘No, um, someone very different.’

  ‘Different from Aaron?’ Nelson raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? I think Aaron’s the perfect man for her. Whether she wants to recognise that, of course, I don’t know,’ he added loftily. ‘Why is it you girls always want to pretend you’re something you’re not, then try and find a boyfriend to prove it?’

  ‘Meaning?’ I demanded. Nelson could be unbearably smug sometimes.

  ‘Well, Gabi obviously doesn’t want to accept she’s a dyed-in-the-wool material girl . . . Don’t tell me. This other bloke – is he some kind of Guardian-reading, muesli-eating, save-the-whale kind of open-toed-sandal bore?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that,’ I snapped.

  He shrugged. ‘I rest my case. She’s just having a last-minute panic with the absolute opposite of what she wants, just to be sure she wants Aaron.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘All girls do that,’ he said confidently.

  ‘What absolute nonsense. And you would know that how, exactly?’ I demanded. ‘In your vast experience of women?’

  ‘Mel,’ said Nelson, in his patience-of-a-saint voice, ‘just because I don’t have a girlfriend right now doesn’t mean I’m some kind of eunuch. I’m not entirely without experience of the opposite sex.’

  There was no obvious comeback to this, not without being actively rude.

  ‘Well, no, I’m not suggesting you are,’ I retorted, distracted by the sudden rush of blood to my imagination. I knew Nelson better than anyone, but there were still gaps when he’d been abroad travelling or I’d been living away at art college. What kind of experience had he had? What sort of girls had he been with?

  Nelson finished off his wine. Over the course of a long evening, we’d drunk a fair bit, but it didn’t seem to be affecting his knotting whereas mine was getting somewhat erratic. ‘Still, I suppose it gets rid of the what ifs.’

  ‘That’s what Gabi said.’

  What ifs. I looked at the almonds in my hands. My life was full of what ifs.

  What if the fiasco last night with Jonathan was meant to bring me to my senses?

  What if what I wanted was actually right here in front of me?

  What if Nelson had brought up the topic of ‘what if’ to exorcise his own ‘what if’ . . . with me?

  I fervently wished Gabi had never planted that idea in my head.

  I peeked over at Nelson. His head was bent in concentration while he laid almonds delicately onto the lace circles balanced on his palm: a vision of graceful strength. His hair, which I’d always thought of as toffee-coloured, now seemed the exact shade and texture of a teddy bear.

  Gabi was right: he was the perfect boyfriend. He was lovely.

  ‘So are you going to tell me who it is that Gabi’s secretly in love with?’ he asked without looking up, breaking into my thoughts.

  I nearly knocked over my glass. ‘Um, do you want to know?’ I stammered. ‘Would you be jealous?’

  Nelson roared with laughter. ‘Of course I would! Surely if anyone’s entitled to Gabi it’s me, the amount of time she spends round here, flirting outrageously!’

  I was surprised to feel a twinge of resentment in my stomach.

  I was even more surprised to hear my own voice saying, in a rather childish tone, ‘Well, it is you. And it’s not a joke.’

  That seemed to sober us both up, quick smart.

  We sat there, not looking at each other and twisting silver ribbon round our fingers. The Frank Sinatra CD finished, and an awkward silence filled the space.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nelson eventually, all the teasing gone from his face. ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you in love with her? Could you be?’ I asked in a small voice.

  ‘Gabi is a sweet girl,’ said Nelson. ‘She’s fun, and very pretty, and . . . you know. Lovable. But she’s not really in love with me. She’s just working her way round to getting married to Aaron, isn’t she?’

  ‘You’re so sensible,’ I moaned, wondering how I was meant to convey all that to Gabi without her going berserk.

  ‘I mean, I can’t blame her . . .’ added Nelson, then paused.

  I was about to berate him for being big-headed, when he went on, ‘It’s so much easier to have a crush on someone who you know isn’t going to respond – it makes it nice and safe and you never have to humiliate yourself by getting knocked back.’

  Did I mention that wine makes me weepy? And that I’d spent the past few weeks poring over white weddings I’d nev
er have and ordering engraved stationery for someone else? And falling in love with an older man who thought I was sexy and metropolitan, when in fact I was pear-shaped, on the shelf and more parochial than the lady president of Ambridge WI?

  Suddenly big fat tears were rolling down my nose and splashing onto the almonds in front of me.

  ‘Hey! What’s the matter, Mel?’ asked Nelson in a tender voice that only amplified my misery.

  ‘Come on . . .’ I heard a handkerchief being whisked out of his pocket and flapped open. Then I felt it pressed up against my nose.

  I took it gratefully and buried my face in it. It smelled of Nelson: warm, clean, and fabric-conditioned.

  ‘Is it Emery’s wedding?’ he asked. ‘Is it all a bit . . . close to home? I mean, you’re not crying because I don’t fancy Gabi . . .’ There was a sensitive pause, then he added, ‘Are you?’

  ‘No!’ I wailed. ‘Of course not! I’m crying because I’m just fed up of being me!’

  ‘What?’ Nelson put his big strong hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length so he could see my face, and so I could see the look of amusement on his. ‘How is this suddenly all about you? I thought we were talking about Gabi, or me, at the very least.’

  I got up and stumbled away from the table in the direction of my bedroom, but bumped into the sofa. I sank down on it instead, as if I’d meant to all along and put my head in my hands and sobbed.

  Nelson came and sat next to me, wrapping his arms around me, and tipping my head into his shoulder. I melted into him like a half-set jelly.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mel. Tell me what’s upsetting you. It must be tough, dealing with everyone else’s problems and not getting any help with your own.’

  ‘I’ve been so stupid,’ I hiccuped. ‘I’ve made a complete fool of myself, just like you said!’

  ‘Are we talking about Remington Steele here?’

  I nodded, miserably.

  ‘You’ve started to feel, ah, more than professional towards him?’

  I nodded again. ‘He’s so charming . . . and nice to me, but only because I was being flirtatious with him. And I was being flirtatious because he was paying me to be flirtatious!’

  ‘Sounds all right so far,’ said Nelson. ‘Why can’t you just agree that all bets are off and now you can be his real girlfriend? He obviously needs one.’

  I lifted my tear-stained, blotchy face. ‘Because he’d want Honey for his girlfriend, not me!’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ said Nelson.

  But my misery engine was running at full steam now, and there was no way of jamming on the brakes. ‘Anyway, even if he did fancy me, he’s totally on the rebound from his ex-wife.’ I wiped my running nose with the back of my hand. ‘He’s only being nice to me to make himself feel better. Then as soon as his heart’s mended, he’ll find someone new. Someone . . . proper!’

  ‘Mel, there’s no woman in London more proper than you,’ said Nelson stoutly.

  I ignored him and wiped my eyes hard with his hanky. ‘Why does no one nice want me, Nelson? Am I going to spend the rest of my life organising other people’s weddings, and sprucing up men for other girls to get off with? Am I really such a career spinster?’

  Nelson squeezed me. ‘Now you’re just being ridiculous. That’s just the wine talking. You’re a wonderful, gorgeous woman! Everyone adores you.’

  ‘Everyone adored Mary Poppins and she never had a boyfriend,’ I wailed, fresh tears springing into my eyes. ‘Just a huge . . . bag!’

  ‘Oh, Mel,’ said Nelson, hugging me to his chest. He probably thought I couldn’t tell he was laughing because I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel the vibrations in his chest.

  Now this is the weird thing. I don’t remember the order in which this happened, and bear in mind that we’d polished off a fair amount of wine, but not brainwashing amounts, but next thing I know, Nelson’s nose is brushing mine, and I’m moving my head so we don’t bump noses, and suddenly we’re kissing.

  Kissing! Me and Nelson!

  At first it was quite soft and tentative, in case, I suppose, the other person backed off with a shriek, but when it became clear that neither of us was going to, I felt Nelson’s arm pull me round so I was almost lying next to him, and I felt my own hand tangle up into his thick hair, and slide down his neck, which was surprisingly soft and, well, manly.

  It came as something of a shock to discover that Nelson was a really good kisser. I’d never even wondered about it before. Well, not much. His lips were soft and moved just forcefully enough against mine to make me wonder if he’d be as masterful as Gabi reckoned in bed; meanwhile his hands cautiously stroked and explored over my back and waist, finding all the right spots without groping or grabbing or making me conscious of any rolls of flab.

  It was so long since anyone had kissed me, and I’d been carrying so much pent-up desire around that it all seemed to flow out of me like champagne out of a bottle. Messily but enthusiastically. I could feel my whole body shaking, and Nelson kept wiping tears from my face with his fingers as he kissed me, and I was hiccuping into his mouth, which doesn’t sound as sexy as it actually was.

  All at once, everything made sense. That whole humiliating scene with Jonathan had been for a reason: to bring me and Nelson together at last! We had the best friendship in the world, and now it was going to move on to another level. It was Fate. It was right.

  I pulled him even closer to me, and kissed him with renewed gratitude. Thank God he’d put up with my ridiculous behaviour for so long. That had to prove it, if nothing else.

  Suddenly, Nelson caught my face between his hands and pulled away to look at me. His expression was heartbreakingly serious.

  ‘We can’t do this,’ he said.

  I looked into his eyes. They were very blue, the colour of mussel shells, with tiny flecks of gold around the iris. Very beautiful. I’d never noticed that before.

  Of course we couldn’t do it. It would be treacherous to Gabi, it would ruin our friendship, it would mean a horrendous conversation in the morning. None of that explained the weird mixture of relief and disappointment that swilled around my chest.

  ‘I know,’ I mumbled. ‘Don’t . . .’

  Tears started to slide down my face. I’d made a mess of everything. Again.

  ‘Let me put you to bed,’ said Nelson, picking me up as if I were a large sail bag.

  I was so tired and weary that I fell asleep before he could haul my jeans off.

  20

  I woke up the next morning with the disorientating sensation of something being not quite right.

  I peeled open one eye cautiously: I was in my own room. Fine. I was on my own. Good. I had a shocking red-wine hangover that meant every thought and movement was taking place in slow motion.

  Not so good.

  In my experience, in hangover situations my brain usually withheld key memories until it adjudged that I was in a fit state to deal with them: the worse the hangover, the more blank my short-term memory remained.

  I lay there, concentrating on breathing quietly and, eventually, my brain ticked round to the fact that it was something on my body that didn’t feel right. Slowly, I lifted up the duvet, and peered underneath, not sure what would meet my eyes.

  I was wearing an enormous T-shirt with ‘I survived the Dun Cow Pub Crawl’ on it. Not that I could read that upside down. I just knew from having seen it on Nelson at times of low laundry levels. Underneath that, my knickers were firmly in place, but now riding up in a very uncomfortable manner.

  I lay back on the flat pillows, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes while my mind struggled to piece together the small but vivid fragments now feeding back to me. I honestly hadn’t felt that drunk at the time but we must have knocked back three bottles between us.

  What had I done?

  My overall memory of the previous night was a bit of a blur, but the occasional bright tableau leaped out in glorious Technicolor.

  Like N
elson’s face when I’d kissed him.

  And the weird look in his eyes when he’d stopped it.

  I groaned aloud. How could I have done that? How could I have let Gabi down so badly? How could I have made such an idiot of myself?

  Rather than lie there tormenting myself, I decided to have a shower and brace myself to deal with the consequences in a mature, adult fashion.

  I felt significantly better with clean hair and fresh clothes, and set about removing all evidence of the previous night from the living room and kitchen. Albeit in slow motion. When everything was looking even tidier than normal, I made myself some breakfast and distracted myself with a wedding magazine feature about table decorations, postponing the moment when I’d have to deal with what I’d done.

  Then Nelson walked in, his hair still damp from the shower. ‘Morning,’ he said. Too brightly?

  ‘Nelson,’ I began, gazing furiously at my plate. ‘I, um, listen, we have to . . .’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Nelson. He slipped into the chair opposite and grabbed my hand. ‘Come on, Mel. Let’s not make this into a drama. It’s just one of those things that sometimes happens with old friends when they’ve had a bit too much drink and they’re feeling sorry for themselves.’

  I felt a deep sting in my chest at that.

  ‘Is it?’ I said, still not looking up.

  ‘Yeah. One day you might be saying the same thing to Roger.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ My head ricocheted up in outrage, and I realised Nelson was teasing me. His eyes were crinkled up with a tentative smile.

  He might at least pretend to be devastated. ‘Are you saying it meant nothing to you?’ I demanded hotly, ignoring my churning hangover.

  Nelson raised his eyebrows and poured the tea. ‘Of course not! It was . . . very . . . very . . .’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Don’t finish that sentence. I can’t take much more rejection.’ I sank my head into my hands. Faced with Nelson’s matter-of-fact cheerfulness, my resolution to be adult about it was suddenly crumbling away.

  ‘Oh, Mel.’ A teacup was pushed in front of me and I took it automatically, letting it burn my fingers. I heard him put bread in the toaster. How could he be so normal?