The Little Lady Agency

  ‘When?’ I demanded, mentally scanning the guest list. How could I have missed Jonathan’s name?

  ‘Oh, this morning,’ she said, airily. ‘I don’t think it was very nice to slam the door in his face, Mel. He’s a real sweetie – once you get to know him.’ She held out her arms so I could pull the dress over her head.

  My mind was whirring furiously, but not getting any purchase. It was like trying to drive a Land-Rover out of a quagmire.

  I sat down and forced myself to think. How long would it have been before Honey and Jonathan were invited round to dinner with Emery and William? At least I’d found out before I had to face my own sister over the smoked salmon.

  ‘Get dressed,’ I said. ‘Has he met Daddy?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snorted Emery. ‘You think I make a habit of buying houses with Daddy in tow?’

  ‘OK, fair enough. But I meant, does he know who Daddy is?’

  Emery looked at me very seriously while she readorned herself in her swathes of velvet drapery. ‘Melissa, Daddy may be rather embarrassing, but I hardly think Jonathan’s going to cancel any temps you’re supplying, just on Daddy’s account. And believe me, dropping his name doesn’t get you discounts with estate agents.’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Melissa? Honey?’

  ‘He seems rather fond of you too,’ observed Emery. ‘Do all your clients call you honey?’

  ‘Stay there,’ I said to Emery. ‘Have a cup of coffee. Do not answer the phone or touch a thing. I mean it, Em.’

  I grabbed my bag, took a step towards the door, then was paralysed by a tortuous thought. Which was more important right now? To keep Jonathan from knowing who I was, or to keep my agency a secret from the family?

  Aargh.

  As Gabi had made clear to me, Jonathan was an unattainable fantasy: a client who would soon want to find a real girlfriend of his own. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure, and our relationship could end tomorrow. I could end it tomorrow if necessary. Indeed, I probably should.

  Whereas my family were going to be around for a long, long time. And though I knew Daddy would have to find out eventually, I wanted to be able to tell him in my own way, and not because Emery let something slip at the wedding rehearsal about my client base.

  And Jonathan understood about professional confidentiality, something that Emery couldn’t even spell.

  I took a deep breath. I would have to throw myself on Jonathan’s mercy, even if it meant him having a good laugh at my expense.

  ‘Actually, Em,’ I said, spinning on my heel, ‘would you mind popping down the road to get some fresh milk?’ I pulled a ‘silly me!’ face. ‘We’ve just finished the last of it and I’m sure Jonathan will want a cup of tea.’

  ‘All right,’ she said amiably. ‘Which way do I go?’

  ‘Out of the door, turn right, then left,’ I said. There were at least three shops selling trinkety things between the office and the nearest supermarket in that direction, which, I reckoned, would give me enough time to concoct a suitable story.

  Emery arranged another velvet shawl around her neck, which made her look as if she’d fallen head first into a dressing-up box, and pulled open the door. I heard her exchange a quick hello with Jonathan, then there was another gentle knock as Emery’s feet clattered down the stairs.

  ‘OK for me to come in now?’ Jonathan asked, putting his head round.

  ‘Please do.’ I fiddled with the last few buttons on Emery’s dress and put the dummy in the corner. I was vibrating with nerves. This was the moment I’d been dreading ever since I realised that it had started to matter what Jonathan thought of me – me, Melissa, as opposed to Honey. And if I’d got out of bed when my alarm went off, instead of dozing off again, I could have had clean hair.

  ‘A-ha! The famous wedding dress!’ He pointed to it with raised eyebrows. ‘And that was the famous sister!’

  ‘Now, listen, Jonathan, let me explain . . .’ I began, wanting to get it all out of the way.

  ‘No, me first,’ he said, proffering the bouquet. ‘Here, I brought you some flowers.’

  ‘How thoughtful, thank you!’ I said, rather more stiffly than I meant to. ‘There’s no need, really . . .’

  Why did that come out of my mouth when I was secretly thrilled to get them?

  ‘No, they’re apology flowers.’ Jonathan’s expression turned serious; he did look quite stern when he was being serious. ‘The last few weeks have been pretty hellish, to be honest with you. I’ve been working twenty-four-seven, and I haven’t kept you up to speed with my movements, which was rude of me. You must have been wondering if something was wrong.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said, faintly. I had been wondering but that was my problem, not his, surely? ‘I mean, we did say it would make sense to scale the appointments down . . .’

  ‘But you still need to know what’s going on in my life,’ he insisted. ‘Otherwise it doesn’t work. And it is working, you know – when people invite me out for dinner these days they only ask if you’re around. And that never used to happen with Cindy, believe me.’

  ‘Really?’ I couldn’t help being flattered by that.

  ‘Really,’ he said, looking round for somewhere to sit. ‘I’ve never had a calmer or more amusing social life. You’re doing a great job.’

  A job. I sighed inside, but told myself it was just as well to know exactly where one stood.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Well, you’re my favourite client, bar none.’

  Jonathan settled into a leather armchair and flashed me a quick, warm smile that remelted my insides so fast that I had to turn away to put the flowers in water before I said anything I might regret.

  It made it even harder to confess the stuff I now had to confess. Honey was just so much cooler than Melissa.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Jonathan, to be honest, I didn’t want you to see me like this, but I’m in a bit of a pickle. As you saw, my sister’s turned up and she doesn’t know anything about the agency and . . .’

  I trailed off as Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

  God, without my Honey armour on, I just went to pieces.

  ‘How do you know her?’ I blurted out.

  ‘The adorable Emery?’ He gave me a teasing look. ‘That her real name? Honestly, now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said stoutly. ‘It’s just me with the alter ego.’

  Jonathan dropped the quizzical expression. ‘It’s quite simple – she and William, who it turns out happens to be an old college friend of my best friend Darrell, approached Kyrle & Pope’s office in Chicago about finding a house for them. Chicago suggested they speak to me since I was in London, and we put it together from there. Small world, isn’t it?’

  ‘Chicago?’ I blurted.

  ‘Yes.’ Jonathan’s eyebrow shot up. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No,’ I said. Emery? Looking for a house in Chicago? ‘Um, I meant, I didn’t know Kyrle & Pope had offices in Chicago.’

  ‘They’re looking at some of our London properties too,’ he went on, ‘in case the move doesn’t come off, which is how I met Emery. She’s pretty keen on Chicago, though.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. Emery hadn’t mentioned moving to America. Or buying a house anywhere, for that matter.

  Jonathan must have seen the confusion written all over my face. ‘You English families,’ he tutted. ‘So stiff upper lip you don’t even know where your own relatives live.’

  I assumed by that that either Emery hadn’t filled him in on our embarrassing family, or that he was so discreet he wasn’t going to mention it.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’d have bumped into each other at the wedding anyway, then!’

  Oh God. This was all falling to pieces faster than an IKEA table.

  ‘Jonathan,’ I said, sinking down into the armchair opposite his. ‘Can I ask a favour of you? A, um, personal favour?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, looking inordinately pleased with hi
mself. ‘Go right ahead. Melissa.’

  My head jerked up at that: it felt weird to hear my real name coming out of his mouth.

  I swallowed and composed myself. I had to get this right. ‘It’s rather awkward . . . and not very professional.’ I looked at my hands and twisted my signet ring. What should I tell him? That Emery thought I was a primary-school teacher? That I was really an MI5 agent, posing as a dress-maker?

  ‘Jonathan,’ I began again, trying not to sound like a nervous schoolgirl. ‘My father’s very old-fashioned, and, ah, somewhat in the public eye . . .’

  Jonathan’s expression had turned serious again, and he was nodding sympathetically, his face a picture of trustworthy understanding. I felt the truth suddenly rush out of me.

  ‘My father is a politician who’s constantly in and out of the papers because of one scandal or another, and he would go berserk if he knew I was running this agency. I wanted to keep it completely separate, hence my adopting a different name.’

  ‘And a different head,’ he added helpfully.

  ‘Yes.’ I coloured up. ‘And the blonde thing. Anyway, I had no idea Emery was going to turn up here today – she thinks I’m running a temp agency. It would make my life much simpler if you didn’t mention the, er, girlfriend element of our arrangement, and just stuck to the, um, personal assistant side of things.’

  ‘I see,’ mused Jonathan. ‘But it sounds to me as if your father’s more likely to ruin your reputation than the other way round?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. Quite the reverse! No, no, it would be a stain on the family name and all that. Of course, I’m terribly proud of my business,’ I added quickly. ‘But I do rely on keeping certain boundaries and limits.’

  ‘Is this why you’ve been so careful not to tell me anything about yourself?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘You were guarding against anything getting around?’

  ‘Partly,’ I said. ‘And also I think I need an out-of-the-office life as much as anyone else, don’t you? Especially when I can’t just switch off at five thirty like everyone else.’

  He shrugged and a strange look crossed his face. I realised too late that he might have taken that the wrong way, and I regretted it immediately.

  ‘I can understand that,’ he said drily, before I could rush out an amendment. ‘Naturally it wouldn’t do for it to get out that I was hiring my love interest.’

  ‘Well, no.’ I didn’t add that nor would it do his reputation much good if he was dating Martin Romney-Jones’s daughter, on either a professional or an amateur basis. If he didn’t know that already, I certainly wasn’t going to enlighten him. Well, not right now.

  ‘OK, I think we understand one another,’ he said. ‘Temps it is.’

  I smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry it’s complicated. And,’ I faltered, ‘I’m sorry you had to run into my chaotic real life. Honey is much more organised. As you know.’

  ‘No problem.’ Jonathan winked. ‘I kind of like Melissa. She reminds me of Snow White.’

  I smiled dozily at him. I had to start taping him secretly to show Gabi just how endearing he could be. Meanwhile a sharp little voice in my head marvelled at how I’d started out this morning determined to keep Jonathan at a safe distance and yet had somehow ended up not only showing him my real self, but owing him a favour of discretion.

  This wasn’t how I was meant to be doing this.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, again, then bit my lip.

  Jonathan lifted his hands. ‘Listen, don’t apologise – I know what it’s like having family embarrassments,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know about it! I was married to a woman who refused to go out for dinner without interrogating the hostess about the menu first.’ He sighed. ‘You have no idea what a novelty it is to see your dinner partner eat bread instead of making the sign of the cross against it.’

  I knew he was only trying to make me feel better, but I was grateful, nonetheless.

  ‘Anyway.’ Jonathan slapped his thighs and made to get up. ‘I can see you’re tied up with Emery here. You want to rearrange that lunch and the Christmas shopping?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, er, yes, of course.’ I grabbed my desk diary. ‘When’s good for you?’

  We’d just agreed on a time and place when Emery burst back in with several bags and, amazingly enough, a pint of milk.

  ‘Jonathan!’ she said. ‘Cup of tea? Can we talk about houses? Do stay!’

  Jonathan pulled a regretful face. ‘I’m so sorry, Emery,’ he said, sounding suddenly more formal. ‘I’d love to, but I have to make a move. I just called in to check something out with . . . your sister.’

  We exchanged a brief nervous glance. Well, I was nervous. He looked discreetly amused.

  ‘About his temp,’ I elaborated. ‘He was just . . .’

  ‘Checking availability,’ Jonathan finished for me.

  ‘Oh, what a shame!’ sighed Emery. ‘I got custard creams and everything.’

  ‘Can we speak later in the week?’ he said to her as he left, shaking her hand courteously. ‘I’ve heard something on the grapevine about a fantastic property you might just love. But it’s still top secret, OK? Husband doesn’t know the wife wants to sell! Regards to William.’

  ‘Bye, Jonathan,’ said Emery, girlishly. She turned to me as Jonathan shut the door behind him, and mouthed, ‘He is so gorgeous!’

  ‘Isn’t he just,’ I said.

  ‘You know his wife left him for his brother?’ She pulled a sad face. ‘Poor Jonathan. I think he moved here to get over it. She wasn’t very nice, by all accounts.’

  ‘So I hear. And is he? Over her, I mean?’ I asked carefully.

  ‘Well,’ said Emery, a gossipy expression stealing over her face. ‘I have heard, from various impeccable sources, that he has a particularly foxy new girlfriend on the go. Cindy’s livid, according to this friend of a friend of William’s, but whose fault is that?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m glad. William says Darrell says Cindy was a real ball-breaker. Or was it pussy-whipper? Can’t remember, but something like that. Some madly violent American expression. Anyway, they’re divorced now, so what right has she got to be peeved if Jonathan’s met someone new?’

  ‘None at all.’ Jonathan didn’t look pussy-whipped to me, but it went some way to explaining his impassiveness. Maybe he’d just got used to stonewalling.

  ‘I do hope he’ll bring this new girlfriend to the wedding,’ said Emery. ‘She’s got some fabulously racy hooker name – Foxy or Baby or something. Can’t remember exactly. I think she sounds rather amusing, actually.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he will bring her,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Still . . .’ said Emery, going thoughtful and dreamy. ‘I’d love to meet her. I might ask him if she can come too.’

  ‘I don’t think she will,’ I repeated, a little too insistently.

  24

  As Emery’s wedding hove closer and closer into view, I found myself sinking into a tediously self-pitying frame of mind. I don’t like being a moaning Minnie, but I’ve always been a little bit prone to imagining stressful moments as they’d be depicted in a film of my own life, and now I was being played by Audrey Hepburn at her most eyes-to-heaven (with obligatory Oscar-winning weight gain, naturally).

  Maybe it was the mind-numbing effect of spending most evenings twisting hundreds of net circles together while listening to Nelson lecture Gabi with touching patience about tenancy agreements, while she did cruel impressions of Jonathan trying to grasp the concept of Secret Santa, and reduced him to helpless laughter.

  Maybe it was the realisation that even my mother had a man who bought her saucy underwear, albeit as part of a bulk-buying deal.

  Maybe it was the fact that I was about to be a bridesmaid for the third time and Emery hadn’t even checked whether I minded being consigned to superstitious spinsterdom.

  And so, as I threw the final bonbonnière in the box, I resolved that my Christmas shopping trip with Jonathan would be our last appointment. Whil
e he was still dating Honey there was no way he could date Mel. And if he didn’t want to date Mel, I wouldn’t see him again, not for a million pounds an hour.

  Meanwhile, snuggled up on the sofa where I used to get my feet rubbed, Gabi and Nelson carried on talking about buy-to-let mortgages.

  To prepare me for his shopping assignment, Jonathan had thoughtfully emailed me a list of people he needed to buy gifts for; his estimated costs were generous, and the list wasn’t too long.

  Our original plan was that we’d have lunch, discuss the list, then I would go off and do the purchasing for him, sending the presents round to his office in a taxi. However, when he walked into J Sheekeys, he was dressed not in his usual sober charcoal work suit, but a pair of jeans and a moss-green cashmere jumper that made his red hair gleam. He was also wearing a smart pair of horn-rimmed glasses instead of his contact lenses, all of which gave him the appearance of a trendy young web designer, not an estate agent. The effect was startling, to say the least.

  It was the first time I’d seen Jonathan dressed so casually; he’d always worn a suit, even for our educational weekend visits.

  ‘I took the day off,’ he explained as I hastily fiddled with my napkin to stop myself staring too noticeably. ‘I thought I might as well come along with you and learn something! Is that OK?’ he added, peering at me. ‘Do you need a hand there? Have you dropped something?’

  ‘No, no! No. That’s absolutely fine,’ I spluttered. Suddenly my tailored skirt suit and knee-high boots seemed terribly overdressed. After revealing my real Melissa self, in all her greasy-haired glory, I’d rather gone to the other extreme when getting dressed that morning. My blonde wig had never been so neatly styled. ‘Fine, no problem at all.’

  ‘Great. You look stunning, as ever.’ He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and sat down. ‘Wow! Fish!’