The Little Lady Agency

  ‘Oh, Mel!’ he said, sounding aghast. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise how . . . You just seem to take these things in your stride. I mean, you didn’t seem that cut up about Orlando.’

  ‘Well, I was! I am!’ I sobbed, outraged by his insensitivity. ‘Of course I’m cut up about Orlando! Just because I don’t go on and on about it . . .’

  It didn’t mean I hadn’t been praying every time the phone rang, or hanging around until the last minute so I could be there when the post arrived. Avoiding certain parts of town so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of the good nights, and switching off the radio when certain songs came on, so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of the bad ones.

  ‘Dignity’s about the only thing I have left!’ I howled, ignoring the ominous build-up of snot in my nose.

  Nelson enfolded me in a bearhug, and I buried my face in his shoulder gratefully.

  ‘Go on, have a good cry,’ he said into my hair.

  I wept into his jacket for a bit, then felt Nelson shuffle us to the far side of the pavement so my back came into contact with the brick wall. I wondered for a moment what he was doing, then heard him say, ‘No, honestly, she’s fine,’ to a passer-by, and realised he was trying to shield me from public gaze.

  Was I fine? I wiped my eyes where my mascara must have smudged, and composed myself with a few deep breaths.

  ‘Nelson,’ I said, when I could trust myself to speak without hiccuping. ‘Be honest with me. Have I made a complete fool of myself?’

  ‘With Orlando?’ He looked me straight in the eye. That was the thing about Nelson: he always told me the truth. Even when a white lie would have been kinder. ‘Yes, you have a bit. But only because you’re determined to see the best in people. That’s not a crime. In his case, I’d say it was an achievement.’

  ‘But I love him,’ I whimpered.

  Nelson gave me a hard look.

  I corrected it to, ‘Loved him,’ and hated myself for caving in so quickly. But Nelson was right, and we both knew it.

  ‘I know you loved him,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But, Mel – he wasn’t right for you.’

  ‘And I suppose you know who is?’ I couldn’t help feeling riled by the weary tone in his voice.

  ‘No, I just think you’re such a romantic that you made yourself ignore the obvious warning signs. Like his slip-on shoes. And his year-round tan, and . . .’ Nelson saw my face and checked himself. ‘Maybe it’s about time you had a break from men altogether. Be single for a while. Appreciate yourself a bit more, since these revolting lounge lizards you end up with clearly don’t. What is it your stupid magazines say? “Take time out to learn to love yourself.”’ Nelson rolled his eyes to indicate that although he endorsed the idea, he hadn’t retracted his usual opinion of self-help jargon.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly taken enough time out,’ I said tartly, before I could stop myself.

  I adored Nelson, but it galled me to take drip-feed relationship advice from a man who hadn’t had a snog since our Millennium Eve party, especially when it was delivered in such a patronising manner.

  ‘OK, well, you’re obviously fine now,’ he huffed, and set off walking again.

  I hurried to catch him up and slipped my arm through his. ‘Sorry.’

  Nelson made an indeterminate noise and we walked along in silence for a while, but by the time we turned into our street, he was happily discussing curry ingredients.

  Half my brain was discussing curry ingredients along with him, but the other half was busy soothing the jagged edges of my heart, and wondering whether Nelson actually might have been right about taking a break from love altogether.

  I hated it when he was right, but the more annoyed his advice made me, the more right I knew he was.

  4

  I woke up the next morning at the usual office time. The momentary pleasure of realising I didn’t have to get up was swiftly replaced by twin dull thuds: one in my chest reminding me that I’d been made redundant by Dean & Daniels as well as by Orlando, and the other in my stomach reminding me why I should never eat mango chutney with Nelson’s curries.

  The combination pinned me firmly to the bed.

  Before I could roll over and go back to sleep, Nelson knocked very gently and put his head round the door. ‘I’m going to work now, but I’ve made you a pot of coffee. Very strong.’

  The smell of the coffee went quite a way to waking me up, and his thoughtfulness was also soothing. I was so lucky to have a flatmate like Nelson.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumbled. ‘You’re a doll.’

  ‘And can you have a think about the phone bill, please.’

  I pulled the covers back over my head.

  ‘I’m not doing this because I want to be mean’ – Nelson’s voice drifted sternly through the goose-down – ‘I just want you to sort yourself out. While you’re still used to getting up before ten.’

  I had to concede he had a point.

  I wasn’t brought up to sit around feeling sorry for myself, no matter how bad things were. When Nelson was safely out of the house, I hauled myself out of bed, drank the coffee, showered, got dressed, applied some artful make-up and put on my best clothes. Feeling better already, I phoned the number on Mrs McKinnon’s card, made an appointment and obtained directions, then hopped on a bus to Chelsea.

  Of course I didn’t tell Nelson or Gabi where I was going. I was going to drag myself out of the doldrums first.

  Mrs McKinnon’s address was in a very smart street indeed, with more blue plaques than estate agents’ boards. Her office was only a third-floor flat, but the front door was as shiny as red nail varnish and there were overflowing hanging baskets of pansies outside.

  I rang the brass bell and was buzzed in. The hall smelled of furniture polish and fresh flowers and daily cleaning, and there wasn’t a single piece of junk mail lying around. I took off my shoes to tackle the three flights of stairs better, and paused halfway up the last flight, so I could replace them and catch my breath before arriving in elegant calm. No point in looking unfit and at a disadvantage.

  I was expecting a secretary, but there didn’t seem to be one in sight. Instead, Mrs McKinnon herself was perched on the edge of the reception desk.

  ‘Good morning, Melissa,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘How are you?’

  Mrs McKinnon’s firm but friendly handshake was the template for mine, so it was no surprise to find it rather comforting. She always insisted on the importance of hand cream in making a really good first impression; she kept a nailbrush on her desk and wasn’t afraid to use it on us. I think, in her head, she was teaching at a different school entirely. Perhaps even in a different century entirely.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ I said, wondering if she would feel entitled to point out any shortcomings in my manicure now that I was grown up.

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that. Do come in,’ she said in her beautiful Edinburgh accent.

  I followed her into the office, remaining a few paces behind so I could get a better look at the pictures on the wall. To my surprise, they were rather racy prints from some Victorian magazine.

  Mrs McKinnon had not changed at all in the ten years since I’d last seen her. Her tweed skirt was perfectly pressed, her laced-up high heels were perfectly polished and, from this vantage point, I could see that the seams of her stockings were still perfectly straight.

  She was never what you would call pretty, but there was definitely something rather attractive about the general aura she gave out, like discreet French perfume or lavender furniture polish.

  ‘So, Melissa,’ she said, taking a seat behind her desk. It was empty, apart from a cherry-red iMac, a leather-bound notebook and an orchid. ‘What can I do for you?’

  I slipped onto the leather-studded chair and took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m rather between jobs right now, and Bobsy Parkin suggested I give you a ring,’ I said. It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea whatsoever what I was meant to say next. Our conversation on the phone had ext
ended only to time and place. I didn’t even know what sort of temping agency this was, or whether I should have brought my typing certificates.

  ‘Bobsy!’ said Mrs McKinnon, wearily. ‘I do tell her . . . Dear me, Melissa, no one calls her Bobsy any more. She much prefers Eleanor these days.’

  ‘I didn’t even know that was her name,’ I admitted.

  ‘I wish you girls would embrace the grown-up world.’ Mrs McKinnon looked pained and tapped her fountain pen against her notebook. ‘After all I taught you about making a good impression.’

  ‘Oh, but you did!’ I exclaimed hurriedly. ‘I carry hand cream, a whistle and a spare pair of tights in my bag at all times!’

  She smiled, opened her book at a fresh page and leaned back a little in her chair. ‘So, did Eleanor fill you in about my agency and its clients?’

  I nodded, eager to please, out of habit. I didn’t want Mrs McKinnon to think that Bobsy and I hadn’t had a long and exciting chat about how great her job was. Even though we hadn’t, exactly.

  Mrs McKinnon examined me closely over the top of her glasses and I adjusted my nod to a vague shake of the head.

  ‘She didn’t really go into details,’ I conceded. ‘Just that she was having a fabulous time and getting a lot out of her work.’

  ‘Did she now? Well, Eleanor rarely has ten minutes to herself these days. She is a very busy girl.’

  I couldn’t imagine Bobsy being busy. Unless she walked dogs as well as middle-aged men. I didn’t say that, though. And I hoped it wasn’t showing on my face.

  ‘So what have you been doing with yourself since you graduated from art school?’ asked Mrs McKinnon, changing tack.

  ‘Um, I’ve been managing various offices for the last few years,’ I said. I hated this pushy bit of interviews, even when it was disguised, as now, with friendly chit-chat. We never really did much interview practice at school, and boasting was, by and large, frowned upon.

  I could practically hear Nelson yelling at me to stop being so self-deprecating, so I jutted my chin and pretended I was talking about someone else, instead of myself. ‘I’m rather good at it, actually. I’ve been on three IT courses and I’ve got excellent typing speeds. In fact,’ I added, seeing a chance to be ingratiating and truthful at the same time, ‘a lot of my job involves the sort of things we used to talk about in Home Ec – you know, getting organised, being pleasant and stimulating company, putting people at their ease. Event-catering. That sort of thing.’

  I paused and scrutinised her face for a reaction.

  Mrs McKinnon rewarded me with a Sphinx-like smile. ‘That’s very interesting, Melissa,’ she said smoothly. ‘Well done. Now, I expect you’re wondering what sort of agency I’m running here. So let me outline the nature of my work. As you know, I spent the best part of fifteen years teaching the girls at St Cathal’s how to be charming and decorative young women, so you could go out and make hapless men good wives. I like to think that most of my pupils were actually too good for most men.’ She adjusted the pearls around her neck. ‘But a few years ago I had what you might call a damascene revelation and decided someone of my particular abilities was wasted in the field of education.’

  A bell rang in my mind. Wasn’t there a rumour that Mrs McKinnon was sacked? Must ask Bobsy, I thought.

  I mean, Eleanor.

  ‘So, to cut a long story short, I decided to eliminate the middle man.’ She tapped her pen again. ‘There is a distinct shortage in London of charm and intelligence. Most young women today are power-crazed and utterly superficial.’

  I adored the way she could roll her rs like a V8 engine. It sounded so marrrrvellously disparrrrrrraging.

  ‘And yet, as I taught you at St Cathal’s, old-fashioned as it may be, there remains nothing more attractive than a young woman able to converse fluently on a wide range of topics while maintaining an aura of elegance and feminine allure. Is there, Melissa?’

  I nodded enthusiastically, but was thinking: surely that ruled Bobsy out? Attempting to pursue an intelligent conversation with Bobsy was always a bit like playing two-man Tag in Wembley stadium.

  Mrs McKinnon was on an emotional roll, however, and working to a crescendo. ‘It occurred to me, one parents’ evening, that there was a burgeoning market out there, of men—’ She leaned towards me, confidentially, and added, ‘Especially, shall we say, older, professional men like your father, who are in great need of a little temporary charm in their lives, to alleviate the stress brought about by the pressure of business and high finance.’

  Like my father? I was temporarily thrown. What could she mean?

  And did I want to know?

  ‘Men who, for one reason or another, are marooned in London without recourse to the restful company of their own wives, men who might appreciate a little discreet companionship and stimulating conversation, to ease the knots and troubles of the day. Provided by young ladies who are, I feel, utterly unappreciated by their own generation. Everyone benefits. I think of bringing the two groups together as not unlike a form of social work.’ She paused for me to agree.

  ‘Quite,’ I said, but I must admit that my mind was now somewhat distracted – wandering all over the place, in fact. What on earth could Daddy have to do with this?

  ‘I imagine you’re a delightful dinner companion, Melissa,’ she said.

  ‘Well, yes, I am, actually,’ I admitted. Because, without being vain, I was. You learn to keep chatting when your companion erroneously expects you to be supplying the dessert course. To be the dessert course, if you know what I mean. And I include Orlando in that.

  ‘I realise that it’s not exactly the temping you’ve been used to, but, if I can be utterly frank with you for a moment . . .’ And Mrs McKinnon tipped her head in that heart-stoppingly intimate way she used to at school.

  I must confess that I was hugely flattered at being taken into her confidence like this. All thoughts of Daddy flew out of my head.

  ‘Melissa, my dear, you have a rare combination of beauty, common sense and charm that would keep you as busy as you liked. Even more so than darling Eleanor. I could guarantee you a few evenings’ work that would leave you the rest of the week free for whatever other activities you wanted to do. And my clients enjoy frequenting the smartest restaurants. Claridges, Gordon Ramsay, the Savoy . . . It really is the most pleasant way of spending a few nights a week. You can be all done and ready to go home by eleven, unless . . .’

  She paused and raised her eyebrow in a meaningful way.

  ‘Unless what?’ I asked boldly.

  ‘Unless you and the client are having such an enjoyable evening that you decide to extend the appointment. That, of course, is entirely at your discretion.’

  Mrs McKinnon was looking at me as if she didn’t expect to have to elaborate.

  I must have looked a little shocked, because her expression softened and she quickly added, ‘But of course, I only said this to cover all eventualities, Melissa. It remains absolutely in your hands, and if you wish, the possibility need never even be considered.’ She flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Most of my clientele are in search purely of charming company and vivid conversation and I know you’ll be more than capable of satisfying every requirement on that score.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  Had I understood that right? Mrs McKinnon was running some kind of upmarket escort agency? Had the world gone completely mad?

  A tiny frisson of excitement trembled through me and I suppressed it at once. It was, as she said, entirely at my discretion. Which meant not at all.

  ‘I must stress, Melissa,’ she said lightly, ‘that there’s nothing at all untoward going on.’ She tilted her head persuasively. ‘Let’s just say it’s a matter of matching up enchanting young ladies like you, with men who truly appreciate all you have to offer, and are willing to reward it accordingly. Exactly what you offer is your decision entirely.’

  I nodded, slowly. I wasn’t what you’d call a femme fatale. Despite all those fl
attering compliments she was scattering before me, even Mrs McKinnon must see that. Since I didn’t offer a full menu to my boyfriends, there was no way on earth that any of her clients would be getting more than a bar snack.

  Still, the voice of reason in my head was pointing out that at least I’d be in charge of what was on offer. Which was more than I’d felt on some dates.

  ‘I see,’ I said again, more confidently. ‘It sounds very interesting.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it just?’ she said, and reached into her top desk drawer for a sheaf of papers. ‘Let me give you this to read through. No, no,’ she said, as I started to skim it, ‘have a proper look at home and ring me if you have any queries. May I take your mobile phone number?’

  I dutifully repeated my phone number and gave her my email address too, for good measure.

  ‘Excellent.’ Mrs McKinnon rose from her chair and extended her hand again. I could smell her perfume: Arpège. Just enough to float around her, not so much that it entered the room before she did. Spray here, here, and here, then walk into the cloud of fragrance.

  Why couldn’t I remember my Latin as well as that?

  ‘Thank you so much for your time,’ I said, politely.

  ‘Thank you, Melissa,’ she said, shaking my hand with just the right measure of enthusiasm. ‘I do believe that this is the beginning of great things.’

  To celebrate I bought myself a bunch of red tulips on the way home. There’s nothing like flowers to cheer you up and with tulips you really don’t have to spend a lot to make a nice display. I also relished the mental picture I presented of a smart young woman strolling through town with a bright bunch of flowers. Did she buy them herself? Were they a gift from a lover? Or did a flower salesman press them into her hands as she walked past the stall?

  All this forward motion had given me quite an appetite and I fell upon the fridge like a woman possessed, only to find the shelves emptier than Tesco’s on Christmas Eve. Nelson was ruthless like that: he only bought organic and chucked everything out the second it passed its sell-by date. He had left a note on the fridge door, reminding me that it was my turn to cook, and the realisation that soon I’d be able to go to Waitrose with a light heart and open purse filled me with indescribable joy.