The Little Lady Agency

  Naturally, he’s never bothered to remember that I loathe gin fizzes. I always order it if I need to have a drink in front of me, but don’t actually want to drink anything.

  ‘Honey?’ said a low voice, somewhere around my ear.

  I ignored it for a moment, until I realised that the voice was talking to me. I swivelled around on my bar stool, clamping my knees together so my skirt didn’t ride up.

  Suddenly I understood why sultry starlets always looked so moodily preoccupied in their pictures; they weren’t dwelling on some good-for-nothin’ man, they were concerned about whether their good-for-nothin’ stockings were still in place and not on show.

  ‘Oh, yes, hello!’ I said.

  Lord Armstrong-Siddeley, as I clearly couldn’t call him aloud, looked exactly like my granny’s old Basset hound and I took to him immediately. His eyes were rather bloodshot and his country suit drooped, but in an expensive manner.

  He seemed about as nervous as I was, so I extended a hand, and he shook it gratefully with a good honest grip. A signet ring crushed into my fingers but I gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked, since he appeared rather lost for words. It was an odd situation all round, but nothing that couldn’t be soothed with a few thoughtful questions. ‘Have you had a very tiring day?’

  ‘Oh, um, yes.’ He was staring at my legs.

  ‘Are we going to have a drink first, or is the table booked for seven?’ I enquired, to distract him from my discreet skirt rearrangements. It was riding up again.

  ‘Seven thirty. Table for two. In the Grill.’ He tugged at his collar, unable to meet my eyes.

  I slid off the stool to prevent further distraction. I wasn’t used to being ogled. ‘It is quite hot in here, isn’t it? Would you like something to drink to cool you down?’

  That did the trick. Lord A-S turned to the barman and ordered a double Scotch, and I stuck with my gin fizz so I wouldn’t be tempted to drink anything and get giddy.

  Over several Scotches and gin fizzes (which I disposed of discreetly in the potted palms while he was blowing his red nose) we discussed his collection of pre-war farm vehicles. Well, I say ‘discussed’; if there’s one thing Mrs McKinnon drilled into us, it’s that chatty girls are popular, but not as popular as good listeners. I knew that from the outside I appeared enthralled – regularly shifting expression, gentle nods of encouragement, faint hums of surprise – but internally I was wondering whether to have lamb or steak and also how exactly I could mention to Lord A-S that one can have nostril hair removed quite painlessly these days.

  ‘So do you have a car of your own, my dear?’ he asked eventually, catching me out by ending a sentence without starting a new one in the same breath.

  ‘Oh, er, yes,’ I said. ‘I have a Subaru Forester.’

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, choking on an ice cube. ‘That’s not a young lady’s car, is it, my dear?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I replied, surprised. Most of my friends had Golfs, which are OK, but I had had to buy my own car, and not request it as a birthday present. ‘I bought it from my father’s gamekeeper up in Scotland.’ Which was semi-true – there was some mention of gambling debts, but on whose side I never worked out.

  ‘I say, car like that – I bet you must be quite a handful, Honey. Well, I can see that already!’ He smiled at me in a whisky-enhanced fashion and I am afraid to say a hint of a leer had entered those bloodshot eyes. ‘Quite a lively young thing, are you? Quite . . . sporty?’

  I remembered too late that Honey should probably drive a cute little Mini or a Ford Fiesta or somesuch. Damn.

  ‘Sporty? Oh no,’ I replied firmly, determined to get back onto safe fictional ground. ‘I was quite the worst netball player Surrey ever saw. But I wasn’t bad at hockey,’ I conceded, seeing his obvious disappointment.

  The effect was immediate. ‘I bet you were. You have wonderful legs,’ he dribbled. ‘I can quite imagine you playing hockey, streaming down the wing in your gym skirt, fresh air in your lungs, chest heaving under your hockey shirt . . .’

  Men have such romanticised ideas about school games – quite why, I will never know – so I tried to put him straight. ‘Oh, yes. Shin pads chafing against sweaty shins, mud caking on one’s frozen thighs, bruises forming all over one’s weary body . . .’

  Lord A-S leaned forward in high excitement. ‘Do you have any of your games kit?’

  ‘Good heavens!’ I laughed. ‘It’s far too small for me now!’

  ‘Nnngh,’ he spluttered in response. ‘How small?’

  I was saved from having to find an answer to this bewildering question by the arrival of the waiter, who led us to our table.

  I let Lord A-S order for me, as I’d always found that although men profess to prefer women who enjoy their food, the sight of them actually demanding three courses plus wine and cheese doesn’t come over so well. Besides which, Lord A-S was clearly a man from my father’s rigid mould, and I guessed (correctly) that any attempts to order my own food would be pretty futile.

  Not that this bothered me, since he was paying, and we both happily ploughed into prawn cocktails, followed by steaks, washed down with claret for him and a Babycham for me.

  By that point, I was warming to Lord A-S, despite his persistent interest in my games record at school and also my experience with horses.

  ‘Those are horse-riding thighs, am I right?’ he demanded unexpectedly, halfway through his crème brûlée.

  I looked down to check my stockings weren’t visible, then remembered that Mrs McKinnon had probably told him that Honey shared his interest in point-to-point. ‘Oh, yes, indeed. I love a good ride!’ I said cheerfully.

  His eyes lit up – again, I seemed to have said exactly the wrong thing. ‘Got a stallion at home, have you? Eh? A young stud?’

  ‘No,’ I lied, creatively. ‘A pony, called, um, Babycham.’

  ‘Oh, I can just picture you in jodhpurs, my dear,’ he groaned. ‘Streaked with mud after a hard day’s chase, chest heaving under your riding jacket . . .’

  My chest – again. I gave him a dark look. Was there a single leisure activity that wouldn’t involve my chest heaving?

  Still, I conceded, if he wanted to drool all the way back to his estate thinking about me flattening some poor horse, let him. He was clearly having a pretty good time and I’d barely had to break sweat conversationally. It made a pleasant change to discover that well-brought-up girls with wholesome hobbies were a big turn-on for some people.

  In fact, I thought, savouring a mouthful of crème brûlée, if I started flirting the poor man would probably explode.

  Just to see what would happen, I smiled across the table in a sultry fashion and was gratified to see Lord A-S whip out his red spotted handkerchief to mop up the beads of sweat on his brow.

  Mind you, there was a limit to how much drooling a lady should encourage in the course of one meal.

  ‘It is awfully warm in here,’ I said briskly. ‘Are you feeling well at the moment?’ It’s my fail-safe topic changer with men; there’s nothing they like better than an exploration of possible symptoms, and no topic of conversation they won’t abandon to do so to a sympathetic ear.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, looking alarmed. ‘Is it the old trouble flaring up again?’

  I didn’t know what the old trouble was, but I nodded supportively. ‘Are you under stress at the moment? You really ought to be taking care of yourself, you know.’

  Lord A-S swigged the last of his wine disconsolately. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, my dear. You really can read me like a book, can’t you?’

  Yes. It was a very simple leather-bound book with a lot of pictures and not many words.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’ I soothed, relieved to be out of the treacherous waters of innuendo. I didn’t always get innuendo, by which time it was often too late and I found myself struggling in the whirlpool of proposition. ‘And have a glass of water, for heaven’s sake.’

>   Well, out it all came: the worries about the fishing rights, the funny twinges he was getting in his ear, the ghastly rash on his leg, the Ukrainian domestic who’d unwittingly destroyed his secret collection of Edwardian pornography, the son who was only hanging on at Ampleforth by a hair, the astrology-fixated daughter who was determined to go to New York to become a nightclub singer despite never having left Bourton-on-the-Water. Worst of all, he confided, the mentally unstable wife who was bedridden and unable to accompany him on his sorties into town.

  No wonder the poor man needed some restful and amusing company over dinner.

  I had it all sorted out by the time we’d got on to our second round of crèmes brûlées.

  ‘. . . so tell Rory that if he passes his GCSEs you’ll give him four thousand pounds to spend on a car of his choice,’ I finished up triumphantly.

  ‘Four thousand pounds!’ Lord A-S – or Lester, as he was now insisting I call him – looked utterly horrified.

  I regarded him in what I hoped was a wise yet quizzical fashion over the top of my coffee cup. ‘How much do you imagine a decent crammer costs these days, Lester? Hmm? Let me tell you, my sister Emery . . . I mean, Pomona, had to retake her A-levels four times at four different crammers and Daddy said he could have bought her a brain transplant more cheaply. I sometimes think he should have done,’ I added.

  The clouds lifted from his face. ‘Well, yes, I see what you’re getting at there. Jolly splendid idea! Bribery, what?’ Lester looked like a very pleased, very overripe tomato. ‘Good God, I wish I’d done this years ago! I had no idea girls like you could be so damned sensible!’

  I elected to ignore the ‘girls like you’ bit. I didn’t assume all blondes are dumb, even if Gabi did. And I was hoping my blonde mane was more St Tropez than the King’s Road.

  ‘Now then, Honey, what say we retire somewhere for a nightcap?’ he suggested in a treacly voice. A hand snaked under the table and patted my knee.

  I froze.

  The hand st opped patting and twanged my suspender belt.

  ‘Lester, please!’ I said, firmly. ‘That is most certainly not on the menu!’

  ‘Oh, Honey!’ he spluttered. ‘There are so many other areas of my life that I need help with! Practical help!’

  I smiled as politely and as maternally as I could. ‘Then I suggest you contact a doctor, Lester. I’m hopelessly unqualified to advise you, and I’d feel terrible about putting you at risk from my inexperience.’

  ‘I don’t see you as an inexperienced girl, Honey!’ he slavered, staring at me with a mixture of frustration and awe.

  I could see that my protestations were cutting no ice. In fact, my nannyish tone seemed to be heating things up. Desperate measures were called for.

  I swallowed and thought quickly. ‘Do tell me, when’s your birthday, Lester?’ I asked.

  ‘December. Twenty-eighth of December,’ he replied, confused.

  I pursed my lips and shook my head sadly. ‘Oh dear, you’re a Capricorn.’ My eyes drifted into a distant, hippy-ish expression. ‘The goat. I should have guessed from your clothes. I bet you’re a martyr to your knees and lower limbs, aren’t you? Varicose veins? Am I right?’

  Lester’s expression shifted noticeably. ‘Well, yes. That’s the kind of nonsense my Catriona’s always coming out with.’

  ‘Is it?’ I said innocently. ‘She sounds a very sensitive child to me. Rather innocent, and that’s such a precious thing in a young woman, don’t you agree?’

  The hot hand retreated from my leg and he looked troubled. I could tell he was being uncomfortably reminded of his daughter. Good.

  As soon as my leg was my own once more, I grabbed my bag from under the table, chattering away smoothly all the while. ‘I’m a Cancerian, you know. Home-loving. Which reminds me, I really must rush back, before I turn into a pumpkin! Can you believe what time it is? Nearly eleven! How time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.’

  ‘But . . .’

  I leaned over the table, taking care not to let my wig slip, so I could bestow a very daughterly kiss on his damp cheek. ‘Lester, I’ve had a splendid evening. Thank you so much. Have a safe journey home, won’t you?’

  ‘I will,’ he said faintly, and it was all I could do not to pat his head.

  I slipped out of the Savoy, collecting my jacket from the cloakroom on the way, and leaving a generous tip for the attendant with a flourish and a smile.

  It was a mild night, and as I walked down the Strand I could see the strings of lights glittering in the river along the Embankment. My heart felt quite floaty, although that may have been the cognac that Lester had pressed upon me over pudding – Gabi would have killed me if she knew he’d ordered the whole bottle to the table and I’d restricted myself to only one glass.

  I examined the floatiness while I crossed my fingers and wished for a taxi. There was a little relief in there – OK, so Lester was a little saucy, but I’d dealt with worse – mixed with pride in a job well done. I had flirted, I had flattered and I had sorted out his immediate problems with tact and ingenuity. And he had certainly appreciated my company.

  More to the point, I had done nothing that I would be ashamed to tell Nelson.

  Not that I was going to tell Nelson just yet, though.

  I shifted from foot to foot, scanning the crawling traffic for an orange taxi light, and it dawned on me that maybe some of the floatiness was down to the stockings. The sensation of taut silk straps rubbing on my thighs and the faint swish of friction every time I crossed my legs did make me feel more Honey than Melissa. To be honest, Honey was far more flirtatious than Melissa would ever have been. But then Honey didn’t have to care about what her date thought of her, whether he’d heard of her father, or whether he’d want to call her again. In fact, Honey could enjoy wearing stockings because she knew the date was entirely under her control.

  All Honey had to be was entertaining, and I had no problem whatsoever with that.

  The ogling, though, would take some getting used to.

  A black cab appeared out of nowhere, and I got into it with a light heart, knowing I could claim the fare back afterwards and not have to justify it to myself later.

  I got in thankfully and closed my eyes as I sank into the seat. A wave of delayed relief washed over me. Now it was all over, I felt absolutely shattered.

  6

  Friday dawned bright and early and for the first time in ages, I woke up with a smile on my face.

  Hughy had phoned me several days previously in a complete state about the drinks party Dean & Daniels were throwing to celebrate the opening of the new offices and the arrival of the new American agents. Carolyn was meant to be in charge, but her sudden absence from the office with ‘food poisoning’ (pre-American-arrival chin job, according to Gabi) revealed that she’d only got half the arrangements made. Well, not even half: she’d ordered some glasses and written the memo reminding everyone to be on their best behaviour.

  For a very generous cash payment, but mainly as a favour to Hughy, I got on the phone and, in under three hours, had whipped up the necessary drinks, canapés, flowers, waiting staff and so on. There were some odd guidelines emailed over from the New York office, but it was far too late to chase up some of the requests. Some of Carolyn’s ideas – a Frank Sinatra karaoke machine, for instance – I decided to ignore altogether.

  It was a little galling creating a fabulous party for the very people who’d sacked me, but it was great to have some hard cash in my hand at last. Hard cash that I intended using to treat Nelson to a slap-up breakfast.

  Without even noticing what time it was, I got up, dressed, made the necessary adjustments to my face for leaving the house, and swung down to the corner shop for fresh milk and croissants. As a special treat, I bought a copy of OK! to read over breakfast. I was thinking of developing Honey’s personality along the lines of society characters culled from its pages.

  Nelson was up by the time I got back, standing by the counter in his box
er shorts and tartan dressing gown, staring blankly at the boiling kettle and mouthing to himself. He was a handsome man, but could look surprisingly tramp-like first thing.

  ‘Morning!’ I carolled gaily. ‘Coffee and croissants for two!’

  He spun round when he heard me, as if in surprise that someone else might live in his house. ‘Oh, are you up already?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ I replied, popping the fresh and warm croissants in a bowl. ‘Why don’t you just sit down and relax like the man of the house while I make you some breakfast?’

  Nelson narrowed his sleepy eyes. ‘Very wifely. I thought you didn’t want to be someone’s domestic servant.’

  ‘This is friendship. I am paying you back for your many morning favours.’

  Nelson muttered something I didn’t catch and swiped my OK! to read.

  ‘Didn’t you get a proper paper?’ he complained. ‘I know more than enough about Jordan’s breasts already.’

  ‘Don’t be a snob. Just think of all the lovely conversations you can start around the water cooler this morning,’ I said, looking for the cafetière. ‘Girls can only admire so much chit-chat about charity tax relief. Go on, read bits out to me while I make the coffee.’

  There was a pause, and the flicking of glossy pages, then Nelson recited, dutifully, ‘Prince Edward and his wife, Sophie, have a young daughter and a lovely house full of furniture. Victoria Beckham has bought a pair of shoes in Milan. Someone from EastEnders has had a swimming pool installed. But I think the story is really about the new boobs she’s had installed at the same time.’

  ‘Very good! You sound just like Gabi already!’

  ‘Diana Ross has a new record out, and now looks like one of those washing-up brushes, all moulded plastic with a weird explosion of hair on top . . .’

  I made the coffee properly, grinding the beans freshly, warming the pot, catching the kettle just before it boiled. I even got out the matching glass cups and saucers I bought at Portobello Market and put the milk in a jug, instead of dumping the carton on the table.