Then he hung up and passed the phone back.
‘These imaginary partners come in handy, huh?’ he said drily.
I swallowed. Jonathan Riley, Honey’s boyfriend . . . That had sounded so easy.
‘Thank you. He’s not a real boyfriend or anything, just a nightmare client,’ I explained. ‘Won’t leave me alone. I think he’s got the wrong idea – you know, about how the client relationship works.’
Jonathan’s mouth twisted. ‘The lines got blurred, hey?’
‘Something like that.’ I was so thankful for Jonathan’s intervention that my mouth just ran away with me. ‘Some of my clients are a bit lonely, I think – not used to women being nice to them. It’s easy to end up misinterpreting the situation so I try to be gentle about letting them down.’ I pulled a face. ‘Maybe too gentle sometimes.’
‘Can’t blame us lonely old men, though,’ said Jonathan. ‘Honey’s the ideal girlfriend, even if she does only come by the hour.’
As he said that, I suddenly realised how utterly wrongly my words could have been interpreted and I could feel my face heat up with panic.
‘I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I wasn’t . . .’ I stammered.
‘No need for apologies,’ said Jonathan, a half-smile twisting his mouth, but not quite reaching his grey eyes. ‘I quite understand.’
Oh God. I looked at him, sitting there with faint traces of stubble glinting sexily on his square jaw, the programme from the NFT rolled up in his pocket, his hair messed up in rough little waves, and I wanted him so badly it hurt.
Just tell him how you feel! What have you got to lose?
‘So how’s the wedding planning coming on?’ he asked, changing the subject smoothly.
‘Oh, you know, the usual nightmare,’ I said. Clang. Another stupid thing to say, in light of his divorce. ‘It’s all last-minute panic,’ I went on hurriedly, hoping he hadn’t noticed that either. ‘Emery’s losing weight in some places and not in others, so I have to keep adjusting her dress, then my mother seems to be getting more nervous than her, and my . . .’ I was about to start telling him about Daddy’s demands, but stopped just in time.
This, I reminded myself, is precisely why you can’t see him any more.
‘I’ll be glad when it’s over,’ I said flatly.
‘Well, I have to say I’m kind of looking forward to it,’ said Jonathan, signalling for more hot chocolate. ‘But there’s one problem that I’m . . .’ He tailed off and looked at me almost sheepishly.
‘What it is?’ I asked.
‘No, I can’t,’ he said, fiddling with his empty cup.
‘Go on!’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘Ask me anything. I am here at your command.’
He met my gaze and his face seemed vulnerable, tentative even. ‘It’s a big favour to ask, but . . . Jesus, I haven’t asked anyone this for years, but . . . do you have a date for the wedding?’
‘No,’ I said. Was Jonathan asking me to be Honey at my own sister’s wedding? Surely not. ‘I’m a bridesmaid. Emery told me I wouldn’t need one. Why do you ask?’ I asked, trying to ignore the crossness building inside me. ‘Don’t tell me you want to take Honey to the wedding?’
The hot chocolates arrived and I missed seeing the reaction on Jonathan’s face. By the time the waiter had removed himself, Jonathan was concentrating on not burning his tongue on the drink, and I had wound my indignation back to manageable levels.
So much for thinking I really knew him! Obviously I didn’t know him at all! I told myself he was taking liberties but, deep down, I felt about three feet tall and thirteen years old. My pride was utterly scalded.
‘Well, I’m going to be there anyway,’ I said, hoping he would hear the martyrdom in my voice. ‘Why not?’
‘Would you?’ Jonathan looked relieved. ‘You know the whole shebang about my going to school with Darrell, and Darrell being the best man? Well, he’s invited a bunch of guys who it turns out I know from business school too, including some people who know Cindy, and . . .’ He shrugged and let me fill in the blanks. ‘They’re great guys,’ he said. ‘You’d like them. They certainly like the sound of this amazing girl I’ve been seeing. And I know you’ll be rushed off your feet, so I’d only need to borrow you for a little while.’
I stared at him, speechless. I had never had such an enjoyable and romantic day out, and Jonathan had never been sweeter or more relaxed with me, but all I could feel now was crashing, stomach-numbing disappointment. In him and in me. Because for the first time, it really brought home to me what I’d been doing. I’d managed to convince myself that our meetings were starting to mean something more, but at heart, I’d been renting myself out to him. And I still was.
And yet, why not, I thought fiercely, as my pride staged a late resurgence. Why not? I’ll show him Honey bloody Blennerhesket. I’ll show him exactly how glamorous and sexy I can be. I’ll make him wish he’d put his cards on the table when he had a chance, then I’ll never, ever see him again! The rat.
‘It’ll be a night to remember,’ I said, exerting superhuman control over my cracking heart.
Jonathan’s face creased into a smile. ‘Hey, thanks. You’re a star.’
My heart thumped in my chest, and I tried to ignore how boyish he looked when he smiled.
How could he look so cheerful? He wasn’t even upset that he wouldn’t be seeing me again! Thank God I hadn’t made some girlish declaration of my own – how embarrassingly misplaced would that have been?
‘Don’t mention it,’ I said, through tight lips.
I directed my gaze out towards the shoppers and buskers on the South Bank, and tried to quell the mixed feelings jumbling up inside. There was no point wishing Jonathan was asking me to the wedding as Melissa, when it was my own fault for inventing Honey in the first place. I had to get a grip on myself. And I had to do it quickly.
Before I could say anything else, he bent down and clicked open the catches on his briefcase.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.
‘Have you?’
He stopped rummaging and looked up seriously. ‘Now, come on. You don’t think I’d miss you off my Christmas shopping list, do you, um . . . ?’
There was a faint pause, where before he would have said ‘Honey’; we both felt a little awkward, now we both knew that that wasn’t my name.
‘Should I close my eyes and hold out my hands?’ I asked, gamely.
‘You can do,’ he said, playing along.
I shut my eyes, not to build up the suspense, but so I wouldn’t have to look at him, relaxed in his baby-soft cashmere sweater, or see any expectation on his face. I didn’t want to see what I was going to be missing.
Jonathan’s voice broke through my concentration. ‘You can open your eyes now.’
I opened them. He’d cleared the table of old cups and saucers and screwed-up sugar bags to give proper prominence to a tell-tale pale blue bag which now sat regally between us.
‘Tiffany!’ I breathed. ‘Should I open it now?’
Quite a big pale blue bag. Too big for jewellery, though.
‘Go ahead.’ Jonathan leaned back in his chair. ‘I know fancy English girls prefer Garrard’s but this is a present from your favourite American client, OK?’
‘OK,’ I said, fumbling with the ribbon. Inside was a tissue-wrapped box, and inside that was a tissue-wrapped . . . silver photo frame.
I tried not to feel disappointed. He was a man, after all, and photograph frames seem to be programmed into all men’s internal gift lists.
‘Oh, thank you!’ I said, trying to undo the tissue without tearing it. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘You haven’t seen the picture!’ protested Jonathan.
A picture?
‘I’m being careful,’ I protested. How much did he want to rub it in, I wondered.
Crossly, I pulled away the last layer of tissue to reveal a photograph of me and Jonathan standing by a table at the Dorchester ball – him, dark and wry in his black tie, me,
surprisingly luminous, wreathed in smiles.
I had no recollection of the photo being taken, but there were cameras all over the place that night, and I had been a bit squiffy. We made a really gorgeous couple, I thought, suddenly unable to be angry. Just like something from the smarter party photos at the back of Tatler. I really suited blondeness. Or was it just being with Jonathan that lit me up like that?
‘You like it?’
‘Do I like it?’ I looked up, blinking back tears bravely. ‘It’s beautiful!’
‘And the picture?’
‘I meant the picture, stupid!’ I said, without thinking. ‘Where did you get it?’
Jonathan looked pleased. ‘That would be telling,’ he said. ‘But, ah, you can change it if you want.’
‘I don’t think I will change it,’ I said quietly. ‘It’ll remind me of a wonderful evening.’
Our eyes met, and the full impact of what I’d done hit me like a bucket of cold water. After the wedding, there would be no more balls, no more shopping, no more lunches. This was a going-away gift. And he meant it that way.
Jonathan lifted his cup. ‘I know it should be champagne, but . . . Here’s to Honey,’ he said. ‘A great girl, and an even better dancer. Thanks for the memories.’
I lifted my cup in silence, wrapping myself in a haughtiness I’d seen my grandmother adopt to chilling effect. I refused to make an exhibition of myself now.
‘Goodbye, Honey,’ said Jonathan. The bastard looked almost cheerful.
‘Goodbye, Jonathan,’ I replied icily.
Jonathan put me in a taxi on the Strand and kissed my cheek tenderly. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d have called it romantic. Now it felt faintly mocking. ‘I’ll see you at the wedding,’ he said.
I could only nod in reply. Then he turned and I watched his broad back disappear into the frenetic shopping crowds.
I just about held it together until I got home.
Then I put the photo frame on my dressing table, ripped off my stupid stockings and suspenders, and cried and cried until I had no mascara left on my eyelashes whatsoever.
25
With Emery’s beaded, non-stretch size 12 frock hanging on the back of my wardrobe door as a constant reminder, and the dawn-till-dusk wrapping challenge at work you’d have thought the pounds would have dropped off in the last few days.
They didn’t. Knowing my fondness for Belgian chocolate, quite a few grateful clients had sent me massive great Christmas boxes, and it was so easy to work my way through a layer at a time while I stuck labels on presents with one side of my brain and finalised seating arrangements for Emery with the other.
I was happy to be busy, though, because unless it was occupied with trivia, my brain automatically ran excruciating loops of my last meeting with Jonathan, allowing me to experience a whole new spectrum of emotions, from anger to bewilderment.
I wouldn’t have been quite so stressed if Mummy and Emery hadn’t booked themselves into a remote Irish seaweed spa for five days before the wedding, leaving me with all the final logistical nightmares of co-ordinating caterers and florists and so on. To give them their due, they did ask me if I wanted to go with them, but I couldn’t take the time off work, and besides, if Emery was going to have the pre-wedding wobbles that all the magazines warned were inevitable, then frankly Mummy could deal with them in the comfort of their seaweed baths. I was having enough trouble getting the gold chairs to arrive at the same time as the marquee.
My London home wasn’t exactly a haven of tranquillity either, and more unsettling was the vague sensation that I’d somehow created the problem myself. Gabi was still no nearer to finding somewhere to live, and she and Nelson and the property sections of most local London newspapers had become a regular fixture on our sofas. Even when I came in exhausted at ten at night, they’d be there, heads together, delicious little snacks balanced on their knees on Nelson’s pensioner-special bean-bag TV dinner trays, imperiously crossing out houses with insufficient gardenage, or underwhelming amenities.
‘How long is this going to go on for, Nelson?’ I demanded, sotto voce, one evening while helping him with cheese on toast for three. ‘She was only meant to be staying a few nights!’
‘It’ll go on until she finds somewhere to live,’ he replied, sounding surprised and faintly reproachful.
‘You don’t think that the property she actually wants to rent might be this one?’ I hissed and immediately felt terrible.
‘Mel!’ Nelson looked askance at me. ‘Gabi’s trying so hard to turn her life round. I think you could be more supportive.’
‘Well . . .’ I picked at the cheese. ‘Just be careful. She and Aaron are meant to be on a break.’
‘I know. I’m perfectly capable of being careful,’ said Nelson huffily. ‘And to be frank, Gabi’s great company. I hadn’t realised how funny she was, to be honest. We have a good laugh together.’
Between organising someone else’s wedding and sticking to my principles about Jonathan there wasn’t much laughing going on for me. No wonder saints always looked so miserable on stained glass. No wonder Nelson had found a new best friend.
Emery’s wedding was the week before Christmas, and on the Friday lunchtime before, I switched on the answering machine, gave my remaining chocolates to the girls in the salon downstairs and caught a train home.
I made it to the church just in time for the wedding rehearsal, and even then I arrived before Mummy, Daddy and Emery.
William was standing at the altar on his own with his best man and the vicar. It was, I thought, a good rehearsal in that he’d probably spend the rest of his married life wondering where the hell Emery had got to.
I ditched my bags at the back of the church and walked down the aisle. It was lucky for us that the village church was about as picturesque as one could wish for: thick stone pillars, richly multicoloured stained glass, and a gloriously ivy-covered graveyard for photos.
‘Hello, William,’ I said, giving the groom a polite kiss on the cheek. William was looking rather shell-shocked, as was his best man. I guessed that they’d made friends on the football pitch, since Darrell was about six feet five and built like a barn door. Next to Darrell, even William, the sports jock of the year, seemed slight.
‘Darrell,’ said William, with a courteous gesture. ‘Darrell, this is Melissa, Emery’s sister.’
‘Hello, Darrell,’ I said. ‘You two look a bit stressed. Did you have a long journey?’
‘Not really. We’ve been playing golf with your father all afternoon,’ said William, almost succeeding in making it sound like a pleasurable activity. ‘Don’t worry, I let him win.’
‘Oh. I see. And where is he now?’ I asked, looking round the church. Daddy usually won anyway, one way or another.
‘Don’t know. We left him at the golf club,’ boomed Darrell. ‘Said he had some business to attend to.’
‘Right.’ I looked at the vicar, who was examining his watch.
‘Are we in any danger of getting started?’ he asked, wearily. ‘I have a parishioner on her deathbed in Little Rugley . . .’
‘Not unless you want to marry me and the lovely bridesmaid here.’ Darrell nudged me playfully, nearly knocking me over. ‘How about it, Melinda?’
William and I both shot him a dark look, and as I turned my head back, I caught sight of a dodgy-looking chap hanging about the lady chapel, fiddling with what looked like a mobile phone.
‘Who’s that lingering around the font?’ I whispered to William.
‘The photographer,’ said the vicar.
‘But I booked a woman!’ I said, panicking. ‘Dorothy Daniels, Wedding Photography.’
‘The photographer from the magazine,’ the vicar elaborated heavily.
‘What?’ I demanded, turning to William. ‘Which magazine?’
‘Not Which? magazine, no,’ he said. ‘Some other one. Hi? Hey? Hiya? You’d need to speak to your father about that.’
‘Would I?’ I said grimly. ‘You surpris
e me.’
Before I could put poor American William straight about Hello! Emery and Mummy waltzed in looking like Zen yoga specialists, making me freshly aware of how much I looked like a limp rag. Emery was glowing and Mummy looked about twenty years younger than she should. If anything, I was the one who looked like she’d been steeped in seaweed for five days.
‘So sorry, darlings! Bride’s prerogative!’ trilled Emery, landing kisses on William and Darrell, then me.
‘Is your father here?’ asked Mummy.
‘Not yet.’
Her brows wrinkled. ‘He’s been most elusive of late,’ she said. ‘Anyone would think he didn’t want to be found.’
I thought of the three piles of underwear and bit my tongue.
‘Never mind,’ she went on, more cheerily. ‘Doesn’t the church look super?’
I suggested we make a start, since the vicar was visibly flagging, and we got through nearly everything smoothly when the church door banged.
‘You look terrible!’ Daddy bellowed at me as he came striding down the aisle, an hour late and smelling of cigars. ‘Belinda, I hope the make-up artist you’ve booked is good at tarting up corpses for open caskets. Melissa’s going to need a whole hour on her own.’
I stared at him in shock.
‘He doesn’t mean it, darling.’ Mummy was breathing serenely through her nose, one hand on her diaphragm, the other on a pew. ‘He’s been filthy all week. Just having a bad reaction to spending money.’
‘Indeed.’ Daddy eyed me beadily. ‘Remind me to have a chat with you later, Melissa.’
‘Well, that more or less covers it,’ said the vicar, snapping his prayer book shut. ‘Unless you have any questions?’
‘Have you got your pre-nup signed yet, William?’ asked my father unchivalrously.
The vicar looked as if Daddy had just exposed himself to the choir and asked if there were any takers.
‘Not yet,’ said William with admirable aplomb. ‘I haven’t had it yet.’
‘You haven’t? Well, don’t forget,’ said Daddy, laughingly wagging a finger at him.
‘I won’t,’ said William, laughingly back.