Much as I disliked him, it was nice to hear evidence of my father being romantic, just to balance things up. ‘But you were a catch too,’ I reminded her. ‘You were gorgeous! I mean, you still are. Daddy was just as lucky as you, don’t forget.’
‘Mmm.’ Her brow creased. ‘The trouble is, darling, when one has a gift like that, it’s a bit like being a violin virtuoso. One feels compelled to share it with as many people as possible.’
I thought about Jonathan. When I was with him, I felt clever and beautiful. Maybe all his clients felt like that too. Was that a gift he could switch on and off?
‘So why is he so vile to you now?’ I asked, turning my attention back to my father.
Mummy looked surprised. ‘Oh, he’s not always vile to me, darling. No! He can be utterly delightful when he wants to be.’
I must have looked shocked because she laughed at the expression freezing my face.
‘He can!’ she insisted. ‘You just see the worst in him.’
‘It tends to stick in the mind.’ Mummy was, I noted, saying all this with the luxury of having my father at a few hundred miles’ distance.
‘You know, it’s much better to have a marriage with ups and downs than for it to be monotonous,’ she went on, happily. ‘More reason to stick together if you don’t know what tomorrow will bring.’
For a moment, I couldn’t hide my disbelief. I had spent my entire childhood convinced that my parents were constantly on the brink of acrimonious divorce. So had Emery. We had even discussed whether we should plead to be re-homed with Granny rather than split between our parents.
‘And, of course, what you girls don’t know is that your father is terribly good at—’ Her eyes were twinkling.
I held up my hand in horror. ‘Please! No! There are things I don’t need to hear.’
‘I’m not saying he can’t be a total bastard,’ she said seriously. ‘He can be perfectly filthy, for no good reason at all. I’m just saying that you don’t see everything, darling. Marriage is complicated.’
‘I wish he’d turn a bit of that charm on to me,’ I blurted out.
She put her hand on mine. ‘Oh, Melissa, I know Daddy can be a pig, but he adores you.’
‘Don’t make me laugh!’ I objected. ‘He takes enormous pleasure in making me feel stupid. He always has done. I seem to spend my whole life trying to make him happy, then he just cuts me down – for the fun of it.’
I bit my lip. I so rarely talked about my father, especially not to my mother. I was scared that once I started, I might not be able to stop.
‘I know he’s not very demonstrative,’ she went on, ‘but, darling, he was awfully proud of you at school.’
‘Was he?’ I squinted at her.
‘Oh yes.’ Mummy nodded. ‘The way you always settled in straight away, and made new friends. He was so proud that you never made a fuss, like Allegra did. You just got right on with the task in hand. He used to call you his little soldier.’
‘Did he?’ Not to my face, at any rate. ‘I wish he’d be a bit nicer to me now,’ I said woefully.
She squeezed my hand. ‘Darling, you’re really terribly alike, you two.’
‘I most certainly hope not!’ I protested.
‘Oh, you are. You get things done, just like him. And he trusts you. You are the only one with his keys to the London flat, don’t forget. I’ve never had a set.’
I sighed. Emery and Allegra got Mummy’s long legs and sexy cheekbones; I got Daddy’s networking abilities. ‘Big deal. He never argues with Emery and Allegra.’
‘Oh, he does, darling,’ said Mummy. ‘He has shocking fights with Allegra over the phone and Emery just vanishes whenever she hears raised voices. You’re the only one who sits there and takes it. Don’t, is my advice. He likes it when you fight back. Makes him all warm inside. You should do it more often.’
‘Why can’t he just give me presents, like any normal father?’ I demanded. ‘I hate arguing with him! He’s a professional arguer! And he’s my father! I shouldn’t be arguing with him at all!’
‘Darling, just stick to your guns,’ she said. ‘When you’re married, you’ll learn to work out which issues are worth fighting for and which you have to sacrifice on the altar of expedition. Women’s lib and all that.’
I gave her a hard look. This from the woman with multiple split personalities developed to cope with her selfish husband’s private and public lives; the woman who shopped herself happy; the woman who thought learning tactics to counter her husband was better than getting him to stop being a bastard. Marriage as domestic guerrilla warfare, punctuated by emotionally loaded sex.
I shuddered at the thought and pushed it away.
‘I don’t think I want to get married,’ I said. ‘Not if that’s all I’ve got to look forward to. Now, can you write me a cheque for Emery’s invitation cards, please?’
21
Much as it pained me to take Nelson’s advice, there was really no need for Jonathan to be seeing me quite so often now that any budding match-makers in his immediate social circle knew he had a significant other. If he wanted to make dates for sight-seeing, or just general company, I decided that I’d tactfully suggest that that was a whole different ball game. I just wasn’t sure how I could suggest that it was a job for a real girlfriend without actually ruling myself out of the running.
As it turned out, Jonathan solved the small matter of post-Bonfire Night embarrassment for me with his usual mixture of gallantry and office efficiency. He phoned me, full of apologies, to explain that he wouldn’t be around for a few weeks: he had to fly back to New York to deal with some Kyrle & Pope business, and to tie up ‘some personal matters’.
From the tone of his voice, I could guess what those personal matters would be.
I thought about Jonathan a lot while he was away, and I missed his company. In comparison, the lads I had to escort to parties and office dinners seemed so gauche and dull. I went on a Murder Mystery weekend in Kent with a lecherous Welsh merchant banker who ended up being ‘murdered’ a little too enthusiastically; I spent another interminable evening at a St Paul’s School reunion where every other girlfriend seemed to be hired too.
But I did my best, thinking all the while of my growing professional reputation, and by the time Jonathan phoned me on his return, it was getting on for the end of November, and I could say, quite honestly, that my time was at a premium.
‘It’s the pre-Christmas rush,’ I explained to him when he expressed surprise that I had no free appointments that week. ‘I’ve got Christmas shopping to do for various clients, not to mention some sprucing up, as well as all those Christmas parties.’
I also had to finish a wedding dress, arrange a wedding, and make another six thousand pounds to hand over to Daddy so I could walk into the church with my head held high. But in the new spirit of emotional distance, I didn’t tell Jonathan that.
‘Can you make some time for me?’ he asked. ‘I need your advice about gifts for the girls in the office.’
‘How thoughtful of you!’ I said warmly. Clever and generous gifts would be a great way of shattering his miserable office image. Quentin had never given us presents at Christmas: just a catering-size tin of Quality Street from Woolworths, which Carolyn purchased with petty cash, and went through first, removing all the praline triangles and the big purple ones with the nuts.
‘A good manager keeps his staff happy, Honey,’ he said.
I strained my ears to detect any new note of formality or detachment but it was hard to tell, when Jonathan’s normal tone was so dry. I decided I couldn’t really tell over the phone. I’d need to see him.
‘Mmm,’ I replied, ambiguously. I seemed to be developing my own version of Emery’s ‘still . . .’ If I’d realised how useful it would be, I’d have done so years ago.
‘Are you available for a lunch meeting or not?’ asked Jonathan.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said truthfully, looking at my diary. ‘Not this week.’
> ‘I see,’ said Jonathan, again, inscrutably.
‘But how about next week?’ I added. I did want to see him. It was no good pretending I didn’t, but, I reasoned, as long as we met in a controlled and professional lunchtime environment, where I wouldn’t be able to kid myself about his twinkly eyes, there would be less chance of me making a complete fool of myself.
‘Next week looks good to me,’ said Jonathan, in the same measured tone. ‘When?’
I scanned the diary for a good long lunch space. ‘Wednesday?’
‘Wednesday looks good for me too,’ he said, almost too quickly to have looked at his diary. ‘Do I have to rush you back for another client afterwards?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘You can have me for as long as you want.’
Jonathan laughed – his short, quick, dark laugh – and a little ache bloomed in my stomach. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed hearing it.
‘Well, there’s a tempting invitation,’ he said. ‘It might be an extended lunch. And then there’s all that shopping to do.’
‘Lunch, then shopping – what more could a girl ask for?’ I joked, without thinking. ‘Are you going to rub my feet afterwards too?’
There was an abrupt silence on the other end of the phone.
Horrified at myself, I sank my forehead soundlessly onto the desk.
‘OK,’ said Jonathan, sounding more brisk, ‘I’ll look forward to next Wednesday then.’
‘So will I,’ I said and put the phone down before I could ruin anything else.
There! All completely above board and professional. Now I could look forward to it without a shred of guilt.
I sharpened my pencil to block out Wednesday for Jonathan, when the buzzer went.
‘Hello?’ I said into the entryphone.
‘It’s me!’ crackled Gabi’s voice. ‘Can I come up?’
I buzzed her in, and got out the tin of special biscuits from my desk drawer while her feet thundered up the stairs.
‘Hello!’ said Gabi, bursting into the office with a broad smile on her face.
‘Hello, you!’ I said, standing up to take in the full effect.
Gabi had had her hair cut short and flippy, with deep chestnut highlights that made her dark eyes flash. She was wearing a neat red skirt suit that showed off her legs, resplendent in a fabulous pair of black stiletto heels. For a woman who claimed skirts made her brain seize up, it was quite a transformation.
‘You like it?’ she asked, giving me a quick twirl, nearly knocking over a lamp as she failed to regain her balance on the new heels.
I clapped my hands together with pleasure.
‘I’ve gone for the Honey Blennerhesket look, as you can see,’ she added, tugging at her hem.
‘I’m flattered! What’s it in aid of?’ I asked. Not Nelson, I hoped fervently. I was curious to know how their ‘little chat’ had gone; Nelson had cooked Gabi supper one night while I was sticking pins in Emery over at her flat, and now he’d taken some time off work and gone sailing with Roger, with only a brief, disapproving ‘Mind your own business’ before he went.
‘My new life,’ she said, pulling up a chair and helping herself to coffee and biscuits. ‘I had a really, really good talk with Nelson last week.’
‘Did you?’ I asked innocently.
‘I did.’ Gabi nodded. ‘He’s such a wise owl, you know. I can see why you’ve leaned on him so much over the years. He has this way of listening that doesn’t make you feel stupid – you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I am very familiar with that skill of his.’
Gabi beamed at me. ‘I felt so much better afterwards – and he cooked me the most delicious grilled trout! Eyes still in it and everything. Anyway,’ she went on, in semi-reverential tones, ‘Nelson suggested, quite rightly, that I should start by working out what I need to make myself happy, not rely on Aaron to do it for me. So I’ve decided to make some changes. I’ve got myself a pay-rise at work, I’ve eliminated toxins from my diet, and I’m going to move out of my mum’s place and find a flat of my own!’
‘Wow!’ I said. I’d almost forgotten that Gabi still lived with her mum: most days it felt like she’d actually moved into our house. Still, it was great to see her bouncy again. ‘That’s brilliant. Do you, er, would you prefer a cup of peppermint tea?’
Gabi looked down at the milky coffee she was dunking her chocolate biscuit in. ‘Oh, never mind. I’m allowed the occasional one. It’s more about the decision to give up toxins, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘So did Nelson have any advice about Aaron?’
Gabi licked dark Belgian chocolate off her fingers. ‘Well, after I had supper with Nelson, Aaron and I had a good long talk, and we decided that he should do the first term on his pathology course, and I should focus on my career, then see how we felt at the end of six months. He was really impressed with my pay-rise. It’s so nice having my own money to spend!’
I put aside my nagging suspicions about Gabi’s sudden ‘pay-rise’ and her ‘career’. I hoped it didn’t have anything to do with what Jonathan had told me she’d seen in the conference room: blackmail was not a pretty word. ‘But are you seeing him? For dates?’
‘Who? Aaron?’
‘Yes, Aaron!’ I retorted. ‘Who did you think I meant? Nelson?’
‘You might have meant Nelson.’ Gabi looked a little shifty for the first time and her mouth clamped shut.
I was so ashamed of my own mean-spirited crossness at the thought of her dating Nelson that I shut right up too.
‘So . . . shouldn’t you be at work?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got the day off. I’m going to look at a few flats.’
‘Did Carolyn print off a list of rental properties for you?’
‘Noo!’ spluttered Gabi. ‘Do I look like I’ve got more money than sense? Of course I’m not going through Dean & Daniels.’
It dawned on me that Gabi might have come round to my office in search of something more than chocolate biscuits. ‘Do you want me to come with you to ask the hard questions?’
‘You? Ask hard questions?’ Gabi looked frankly incredulous. ‘Do me a favour. No, I’ve got a much better plan than that.’
The entryphone buzzer buzzed. ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Let me just get this.’
‘It’s me,’ said Nelson’s voice. ‘Can I come up?’
‘Speak of the devil – it’s Saint Nelson,’ I said to Gabi with a shrug, as I rang him in. ‘I hope he’s brought me lunch.’
Gabi and I both surreptitiously adjusted our hair and clothes as Nelson’s footsteps jogged up the stairs. This was the first time Nelson, Gabi and I had been in the same room since, well, since our moment of madness, and though I’d managed to shove it right to the back of my mind with lots of other things I didn’t want to think about, I still felt rather awkward and guilty.
‘Hello,’ said Nelson, not bothering to knock.
‘Hello!’ beamed Gabi.
If Gabi had transformed herself, Nelson was also looking more stylish than usual too, in what looked like a new suit.
Still, I reminded myself, as Nelson said, these things sometimes happen. I simply had to learn to be a bit more worldly.
I drew up my spine, which in turn yanked my thick black stockings up my legs, which in turn reminded me that in this office, I was in charge.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Nelson,’ I said, bracing myself for the lecture about stupid women leaving their own house keys on the kitchen table. ‘What did I forget at home then?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked blank, then looked at Gabi. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready for what?’ I demanded before she could speak.
‘Gabi’s viewing some flats and I’m going with her, to knock on the walls and make a fuss about combination boilers.’ He peered at me. ‘Sort of the same thing you do, only I’m not charging her for it.’
‘Oh,’ I said, faintly.
Gabi was looking much less shi
fty and significantly more radiant. ‘Shall we go?’ she said, abandoning an open packet of Balhsen chocolate biscuits for the first time in our entire friendship.
‘But, Nelson, you don’t know the first thing about combination boilers,’ I protested.
‘I know enough,’ he said, with a sideways smile at Gabi. ‘And we might have tea afterwards, so don’t make a big supper, will you?’
It occurred to me, with a loud internal clang of horror, that I might not have been the only one worrying about what Gabi would make of Nelson’s and my little secret.
To take my mind off the troubling mental picture of Gabi and Nelson touring flats like a married couple, I spent the rest of the morning making phone calls. I’d realised that I could combine significant portions of Emery’s wedding planning with my own business, and by lunchtime, I’d struck a most advantageous deal with a florist who was going to do the flowers for Emery at a bargain basement price, as a sweetener for being the sole supplier of my special ‘Year of Flowers’ package.
My seasonal specials were proving very popular amongst men who didn’t like to think too hard about gift-giving. For the specially guilt-ridden, I was planning to offer outrageously expensive last-minute panic-buying outings, in which I’d whisk them and their credit cards round Selfridges in ninety minutes flat, the week before. For everyone else, I’d devised year-long packages of treats for neglected female relatives – manicures, blow-dries, flowers, chocolates and so on. All the client had to do was work out how much he wanted to spend, and then enjoy reaping the monthly rewards for the rest of the year.
Roger Trumpet was the first on my list.
‘So you see, Roger, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Your mum gets a huge bunch of the most gorgeous roses every month, and they take care of the delivery and message and everything,’ I told him. ‘All you have to do is listen to her sobbing with gratitude over the phone.’