The Little Lady Agency

  I wondered when I should tell him this would be our last appointment. Not just yet, I decided. Later.

  Jonathan blinked rapidly and scanned the menu in front of him. ‘So, hey. Hmm. What do you recommend?’ he asked, looking up.

  ‘Oh, er, fish cakes?’ I wasn’t letting myself even look at the menu. The truth was that I’d more or less abandoned all interesting food in order to fit into the bridesmaid’s dress Emery had chosen for me to wear. There was no time to make something of my own, so she had gone out and bought me a column dress in pale green beads and silk from Monsoon: I was so touched by this act of thoughtfulness that I hadn’t made a big fuss about the fact that she’d bought the size that had fitted her, not me.

  After all, I had two weeks and a large selection of Pants of Steel. Columns didn’t do much for me, not with my hips and bosom, but whose wedding was it, after all?

  ‘Fish cakes,’ mused Jonathan. ‘Mmm. Interesting. What are you having?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ I said, in surprise. Jonathan never bothered to ask what I was having until the waiter came; he wasn’t that sort of man. ‘Grilled sole, probably.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The Marilyn Monroe diet plan,’ said Jonathan, knowledgeably.

  ‘How did you know that?’ I asked, curiously.

  Jonathan pretended to look aggrieved. Well, I think he was pretending. ‘I’m not just an estate agent,’ he said. ‘I do have interests.’ He flapped his napkin self-consciously onto his lap. ‘And one of them happens to be Hollywood. Proper Hollywood, not all this computer-animated, McDonalds tie-in nonsense.’

  I tried to keep my voice Honey-ish and dry, despite the quickening of my pulse. I had no idea we shared an interest. ‘Now he tells me. Please don’t say you like dressing up as Hollywood film stars,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, you guessed. Actually, it was my five-room collection of Judy Garland memorabilia that Cindy left me over,’ he said, deadpan.

  ‘Really?’ I said, less certainly.

  ‘Joking!’ Jonathan rolled his eyes. ‘No, I collect original film posters. Great investments, you know. I have a guy in New York who finds them for me and crates them out.’ He leaned in and whispered, ‘Actually, I’m having a bit of a Vertigo moment right here in this very restaurant.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. I couldn’t remember exactly what happened in Vertigo. Did it have something to do with mad birds? My stomach lurched unpleasantly and not because it was very empty.

  ‘Because you’re still blonde,’ he said, staring at my ladylike up-do. ‘And in that neat little suit. I kind of liked you in your natural state. Dark and mysterious and, ah, somewhat unbuttoned.’

  I pushed my fringe out of my eyes awkwardly. Running alongside my impulse that morning to appear as smart as possible had been a totally contradictory feeling: since Jonathan had seen me as Melissa, the whole act of donning my Honey uniform suddenly seemed a bit silly, and fake. But I wanted him to choose between us, to know that Melissa and Honey were two different people.

  ‘I came along off duty today,’ he added, helpfully, gesturing to his glasses and jumper. ‘I thought you might too.’

  That off-duty thing again. What did he want me to say? Self-doubt swamped me. At least when I was concentrating on being Honey I could make conversation. When it came to making moves on Melissa’s behalf, I bottled it every time.

  ‘Jonathan, you’re paying me for my shopping expertise,’ I reminded him. ‘And I shop better in my suit.’

  ‘And a very glamorous suit it is. What red-blooded man could complain?’ he replied gallantly and then the waiter appeared and I knew I’d missed another chance.

  After lunch, I whisked up and down escalators all over London with Jonathan in tow, ticking off the gifts on his list while he patiently carried the multiplying bags and hailed taxis. As the darkness began to creep across the inky sky and the Christmas lights started to glow out of the dusk, I don’t think I’d ever felt so happy or so festive.

  I’ve always prided myself on giving just the right present, so I had to ask a few personal questions, but Jonathan seemed happy to fill me in. We bought old-fashioned shaving kit from Jermyn Street for his father, the Anglophile; bone-china coffee cups and Fortnum’s goodies for his mother, the bridge queen; pink and glittery fripperies for his little nieces; and a gorgeous red-leather overnight bag for his Frequent Flyer sister. By the time we’d finished gliding through the tinsel-wrapped halls of Harvey Nichols I felt as though I knew his immediate family pretty well.

  With two glaring exceptions.

  Eamon and Cindy, needless to say, did not feature on the list. Knowing how tense and horrible family Christmases could be, I skated around the topic sympathetically, but at the same time, tried to let him know I understood.

  ‘I can’t believe that’s the lot. You’ve done a fabulous job,’ Jonathan sighed, as we stood in the queue at Jo Malone, basket piled high with bath oil for the office girls. ‘It never used to be so simple with . . .’ His voice trailed off and an awkward expression clouded his face.

  ‘With Cindy?’ I asked.

  Jonathan nodded. ‘She wasn’t exactly the spirit of Christmas, put it like that.’

  ‘Well, not everyone is.’

  ‘Not every wife buys workout DVDs for their husband’s office staff,’ he replied tersely. ‘And not everyone fakes a cinnamon allergy and invents special religious restrictions to avoid seeing their in-laws over the holiday season.’

  ‘Well. She’s got an even better reason to avoid them now,’ I observed. ‘Clearly she’ll stop at nothing to avoid that turkey dinner.’

  Jonathan’s sternness melted into a reluctant smile. ‘Eamon. That poor bastard. Jeez.’

  ‘Is it all finalised?’ I asked. It wasn’t really the place to ask, but I found Jonathan felt easiest with apparently casual discussions about anything delicate.

  ‘It is,’ he said, dumping the basket onto the counter. ‘Tied up like a gift-wrapped Christmas basket full of shit. Pardon my language.’

  The shutters had gone down on his eyes, but I sensed a sadness behind them, and didn’t probe any further.

  The sales assistant started ringing the boxes of bath oil through the till: one each for the various PAs, and a special large bath oil and body lotion set for Gabi, whose supplies of Red Roses had dried up now Aaron was no longer buying it for her. It gave me a pleasant warm feeling inside to know that the girls would at least be able to soak away the stress of the office this year; if nothing else, the combined floral fragrance emanating from them would mask any lingering evidence of Hughy’s post-Christmas digestive problems.

  ‘Make sure you tell the girls you picked their present out personally for them,’ I reminded him. ‘They’ll be overwhelmed. Especially Gabi. Tell her you noticed she wore Red Roses and got this specially.’

  ‘He-e-e-e-ey,’ he said, suddenly clicking his fingers at me. ‘Am I dumb or what? Why did I never make that connection before? Melissa, of course!’

  ‘What connection?’ I said innocently.

  ‘You. You and the office. No wonder you know what to get people! You’re Saint Melissa of the Photocopier. The one Dean & Daniels let get away!’

  I put a finger to my lips and looked round mock-nervously. ‘Shh! Don’t reveal my secret identity!’

  He gave me a playful push on the shoulder. ‘Oh my God, you have no idea how jealous Carolyn is of you! She still gets all pissy when your name comes up.’

  It occurred to me suddenly: forget Honey – the Melissa who used to work for Hughy and Charles was nothing like the Melissa standing there now. I really had changed. If Hughy met me now, he might not even make the connection, with or without my wig.

  ‘Jealous of me or of Honey?’ I looked straight at him. ‘And why would they guess? Honey is a million miles away from the Melissa they knew.’

  Jonathan handed his credit card to the assistant with a friendly grin. ‘Who couldn’t be jealous of a bombshell like Honey?’

  Wrong answer, I thought sadly. r />
  Then he hesitated with the pen in his hand, and added, ‘But if she met the Melissa who’s running her own agency with such aplomb, I guess she’d be pretty jealous of her too.’

  My heart turned a full somersault in my chest.

  I wanted to ask him which one he liked best, which one he’d prefer to stick with, but somehow I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. I just stood there like a lemon while sales girls squirted honeysuckle and jasmine cologne around us.

  ‘Shall we go?’ said Jonathan, balancing yet another set of bags.

  ‘OK,’ I said brightly.

  We wandered down the street a little after that, picking up trinkety things for stocking fillers. I didn’t expect Jonathan to be so into browsing, but he fell upon Smythson’s with enthusiasm, and I couldn’t drag him out of L’Artisan du Chocolat.

  ‘So, that’s the lot,’ I said at last, as he hailed a taxi in Sloane Square and we scrambled into it with relief.

  I had noticed, with just a smidgen of pique, that my name wasn’t on the list of gifts to buy. I told myself I shouldn’t really expect it to be, but then again, he’d bought things for the girls in the office, so why not me?

  ‘Unless there’s anyone you’ve missed off the list?’ I added.

  Jonathan furrowed his brow. ‘No, I don’t think . . . Oh damn, yes, I have forgotten someone.’

  ‘Really?’ I held my breath.

  ‘My god-daughter, Hebe.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Yet another one. Penalty for not having kids of your own. What do you think? Cash? One of those rattly things?’

  ‘Do you want me to get her a silver charm-bracelet from Boodle and Dunthorne?’ I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. ‘Then you can just phone up and get them to send a charm to her every birthday.’

  ‘Great idea!’ said Jonathan. He was already checking his phone for messages.

  ‘I’ll do it from the office tomorrow,’ I said and looked at my watch. It was nearly half past five. Time to go home – only I didn’t want to go home. And I still hadn’t told him that this would be our last appointment.

  ‘No one loves me,’ said Jonathan. ‘No messages for me.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘So much for single life, hey? How about you? You heading out onto the town tonight?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shook my head. ‘Just staying in, probably, playing solitaire with myself.’

  ‘Ah. That’s the terrible thing about single life, all that playing with yourself,’ said Jonathan, soberly.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I nodded. I used to play Scrabble with Nelson, but he was rarely in these days, since he was usually with Gabi somewhere, and I wasn’t about to ask them if they minded my tagging along.

  I realised Jonathan was staring at me with a twinkle in his eye, and I wondered if I’d missed something.

  Then it struck me. Dur. Honey should be out at a glitzy Christmas party, or at a fabulous book launch, not stuck in on her own, like Melissa.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I was thinking about maybe taking in a film at the National Film Theatre – you want to come with me?’ He pulled a wry grimace. ‘It’s A Wonderful Life – I know, I know, cheesy, but kind of festive. Could you bear it?’

  My stomach flipped at the thought of two hours in the dark with him, then I reminded myself that it couldn’t be easy, spending his first Christmas alone. It was my Christian duty to cheer it up as best I could.

  ‘I’d love it,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  Jonathan leaned forward to redirect the driver, then settled back into his seat with a contented smile.

  It transpired that Jonathan had joined the NFT soon after he arrived in London, and regularly went to see old films on his own. I found this revelation rather sweet.

  ‘It gets me out of the house,’ he explained, as he bought me some nice chocolate to take in. ‘But I try to avoid the other film buffs. They’re kind of dorky,’ he added in a stage whisper.

  The cinema was packed with people and we had to sit quite close together, surrounded by our shopping. When the lights went down, I suddenly felt very tired but comfortable, and gently eased off my shoes once the auditorium lights were dimmed. It was pretty warm in there, what with all the people and my woollen suit, and my scalp started to feel rather irritated by my wig.

  I wish my Christmases could be like Jimmy Stewart’s – without the dying bit, obviously. I quite forgot where I was. As the film lulled me into cosy relaxation, my jacket came off, and the tight button on my skirt was loosened, and before long I was snuggled into my seat as if I was at home, letting tears run down my face during the sad bits and smiling like a simpleton when he came running back to his family, and everyone gathered around the piano.

  It was a bit of a shock when the lights came up at the end, and I realised that not only was I living in full-colour twenty-first-century London, but I was also sitting with my left foot resting, shoeless, on Jonathan’s knee, my blouse unbuttoned and my skirt about to fall down. I had to scramble to make myself decent, much to his amusement.

  ‘I’d hate to see what you’d look like by the end of From Here to Eternity,’ he said.

  ‘Passion doesn’t make me loosen my clothes, just central heating,’ I replied. ‘I’m English.’

  ‘Then let’s get tickets for Lady and the Tramp,’ he said deadpan. ‘I’ll bring an electric blanket.’

  I blushed and thrilled all at the same time, but didn’t let him see.

  We wandered out onto the South Bank, which was festooned with white Christmas lights and busy with late-night shoppers, laden down with bags, making urgent calls on mobile phones.

  I knew it was time to go home, but didn’t want to be the one to suggest it. I also knew that I hadn’t yet got round to the sore topic of ending our business relationship, and that had to be done.

  ‘Want a hot chocolate or something?’ asked Jonathan, pausing by a café with outdoor heaters.

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  You’ve got to do it, I told myself. Just tell him. Get it over with.

  I sat there, trying to make my brain come up with a sophisticated, confident Honey-tastic argument, but it was stuck. It had been such a lovely day. I absolutely didn’t want to spoil it.

  Then Jonathan returned with two large cups. ‘This is pretty cool,’ he said, nodding at the festive scene around us. ‘I won’t say this often, but you know, it’s almost as good as at home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ He took a sip of his hot chocolate. ‘It’s really magical.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Good. I’m glad.’ I paused, and summoned up all my courage. ‘Um, I don’t know how to say this,’ I said, biting my lip. I looked up and saw Jonathan looking straight at me, his eyes very serious.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘I think . . .’ My eyes dropped to the messy table as my nerve faltered.

  Come on! You’re Honey Blennerhesket, bombshell extraordinaire. Get a grip!

  I rallied myself, and went on, ‘Jonathan, I think this should be our last appointment. I mean, you’re more than settled in London, you’re making new friends of your own, the divorce is finalised and I can’t keep taking your money for . . .’ I was going to say ‘for dates I enjoy going on myself’, but I changed it to, ‘I don’t want Honey to stand in the way of you finding a new girlfriend. You need someone to look after you for love, not money. You deserve it.’

  I met his gaze as I said that, and hoped he could read between the lines. If anyone was going to come between me and the chance to be with Jonathan, I couldn’t let it be Honey, for heaven’s sake.

  ‘I see,’ said Jonathan, retreating behind his unreadable office expression.

  ‘I mean, I’d quite happily carry on doing this for ever,’ I added. ‘But I think it’s time you had a real girlfriend, don’t you?’

  He smiled but there was something detached about it, and I felt a little chill blow through me.

  ‘Well, I guess so,’ he said. ‘A
lthough Honey will be a hard act to follow.’

  ‘Really?’ For an ecstatic moment, I wondered if he was about to tell me he didn’t want anyone to follow her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jonathan gravely. ‘I don’t know where I’ll find a girl quite so popular, or gorgeous.’

  Our eyes met and a shiver of pure happiness ran through me.

  ‘No wonder she doesn’t exist,’ he said quietly.

  Then my phone rang. My own phone, not my work one.

  I froze. ‘Ignore it.’

  It stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then it started again, at once.

  ‘What if it’s Emery?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘Oh God, you’re right,’ I said, cursing mentally. ‘She’s probably phoning to see if I can get the Pope and Charlotte Church to do the service at short notice.’

  I scrabbled in my bag. The number was withheld and the usual disturbing mental images of hospitals or police stations or my father sprang into the forefront of my mind.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Honey,’ droned a familiar, whiny voice. ‘Sorry to phone on your personal line, but . . .’

  ‘Bryan!’ I screeched. My skin crawled. ‘How the hell did you get this number?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I need to see you . . .’

  ‘No, you do not!’ My teeth were chattering – with suppressed hysteria, not the cold. ‘This is beyond a joke, Bryan. I’ve asked you politely to stop calling me, and now I’m telling you that if you don’t . . .’

  ‘We’re meant to be together!’ he yelled.

  ‘No, we aren’t!’

  Jonathan clicked his fingers and gestured to the phone. When I didn’t move, he reached over and prised the phone out of my trembling hands.

  ‘Hi,’ he said briskly. ‘This is Jonathan Riley. I’m Honey’s boyfriend. Now, she’s a very charming and considerate lady, and she’s too polite to tell you to back off and leave her alone. I am not too polite, however, and if you don’t leave her alone, I’ll come round and spell it out for you in sign language. Then I’ll break your fingers. You got that? Yes? Good. Goodbye, Bryan.’