The Little Lady Agency

  Nelson had stopped reading aloud.

  ‘Well, go on,’ I prompted him. ‘Don’t get distracted by the recipes. Flip through to the tacky parties.’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing in it, it’s a load of arrogant nobodies who mistakenly believe we care what happens in their empty lives,’ he said abruptly and before I could stop him, he’d chucked my lovely brainless magazine in the bin.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I screeched. ‘Don’t start censoring my reading! You’re not the editor of the Guardian!’

  I dumped the cafetière and croissants on the table and scrabbled around to rescue OK! before Nelson could scrape his soggy cereal on top, as he was threatening to do.

  An unseemly tussle ensued, and I regret to say I won it with a very unladylike jab in the crotch area.

  ‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ I gasped, flattening out the pages. ‘Just because you work in fund-raising doesn’t mean to say you have to whip me with your social conscience in the comfort of my own home.’

  Nelson was doubled up, speechless, so I took advantage of his silence, grabbed the biggest croissant and poured myself some coffee, flicking straight through to the social section, as is my wont, because sometimes I’d find pictures of one or two dreadful Hoorays from my past, celebrating their fourth ‘twenty-fourth birthday’ or the opening of their new scented-candle shop.

  ‘Am I getting old,’ I mused, ‘or is everyone starting to look awfully familiar?’ That blonde girl looked like at least four girls called Emma that I went to school with, and that oily sleaze there looked just like . . .

  Orlando.

  ‘No,’ gasped Nelson, crawling along the floor to make one final grab at the magazine. ‘Don’t . . .’

  I calmly lifted the pages just out of his reach and continued staring in horror at the caption. ‘Orlando von Borsch shares a joke with Lady Tiziana Buckeridge on board her yacht the Saucy Sue, named after her successful libel action against the Sun newspaper.’

  It wasn’t a joke they were sharing. It was the same bloody air.

  I wished I could cast the magazine aside in the manner of an ice-cool Grace Kelly but I couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the brief copy above, which hinted at the ‘blossoming close friendship between playboy playwright Orlando von Borsch and the thrice-divorced Lady Buckeridge, nicknamed Buckaroo by the tabloids for her habit of discarding husbands’.

  It was a good job I’d made the decision to draw a line under Orlando and move on with my life. Because, seeing this horror, I felt a dreadful numbness in my stomach, where I’d normally expect to feel agony and rage. I felt gutted, literally, like a salmon.

  Well, OK, there was some rage there too.

  Nelson sat back down with a thud and reached up to the table for a croissant. ‘I didn’t want you to see that,’ he said with a note of resignation in his voice. ‘I could have paraphrased it for you.’

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ I replied defiantly. ‘It’s much better to . . . see for myself.’

  I mean, I didn’t even know Orlando was a playboy. He drove a knackered Porsche 924, for God’s sake. And the only creative writing he ever did was on his parking-ticket appeals. I seethed inwardly. The mercenary, sleazy, gold-digging reptile.

  ‘I hope you’re going to start listening to me about dating lounge lizards, Melissa,’ snorted Nelson, unable to resist. ‘Just because a man pays you attention doesn’t mean you’re somehow obliged to devote your life to him. You’re worth more than that.’

  But I wasn’t listening any more. I was trying to coax the flame of anger into an inferno big enough to engulf the lingering memories of the happy times I’d had with Orlando.

  Then the phone rang, and I grabbed it in case it was Emery, another regular OK! reader, calling to revoke her plus one wedding invitation. Or my father, calling to check I hadn’t lent Orlando any money.

  ‘What?’ I spat into the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Melissa,’ said Mrs McKinnon. ‘You sound agitated. What do we do before we answer the phone?’

  ‘We think of our favourite thing and smile so the person on the other end can tell how pleased we are to hear from them,’ I parroted automatically.

  How and where does this stuff lodge in your brain?

  ‘That’s right!’ said Mrs McKinnon and, bizarrely, I felt much better. ‘What are you up to for lunch?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I admitted.

  ‘Excellent. I have a rather last-minute lunch date for you, if you’re able to take it?’

  ‘Why not?’ I said, dully. Orlando and Buckaroo stared mockingly up at me from the kitchen table, all teeth and grease and tans. I slapped the magazine shut. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘The Lanesborough,’ she said. There was the sound of perfectly manicured nails clattering over a keyboard. ‘He’s one of Eleanor’s clients, but she’s holidaying in the Med at the moment. His name is . . . Marcus Anthony and he’s a businessman. I must confess, I haven’t met him in person – he came to us via a personal recommendation, but Eleanor assures me he’s exceedingly nice.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. Marcus Anthony. Classics expert, probably. Cords and a pipe, with an interest in tragic plays. No wonder he needed to arrange private-sector company. Still, a bit of flirty appreciation and a nice meal was just what I needed right now. ‘What time?’

  ‘Be there for twelve thirty,’ she said. ‘You are a very good girl, Melissa. A credit to the agency.’

  I beamed, and replaced the receiver.

  Nelson was staring at me over his croissant. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I stalled. Oops. I’d totally forgotten he was there.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Oh . . . that. Hughy. It was Hughy. He wants to run through a couple of things about this party at Dean & Daniels. He’s taking me out for lunch.’

  You know, it truly disturbed me how good I’d got at lying. I never used to be able to lie like that. Maybe it was my paternal genes finally emerging.

  Nelson narrowed his eyes again.

  ‘Don’t do that, darling,’ I said, levering myself up. ‘It’ll become a habit and before you know it, your face will look like a tortoise.’

  I swished out of the kitchen and shut myself in my bedroom where I focused on making myself look as beautiful as possible. And it did make me feel better to see how blue my eyes looked with fine brown eyeliner and how bright my skin seemed against Honey’s golden mane. As I rolled on my black silk stockings and clipped them to the new suspender-belt I’d bought at Peter Jones, it felt like fastening on armour. Armour that only I could see.

  Marcus Anthony was waiting in the bar at the Lanesborough, fiddling importantly with some Palm Pilot gadget.

  I knew immediately why he’d chosen that particular name; if you squinted your eyes, he looked a little bit like Russell Crowe, circa Gladiator. Gabi thought Russell Crowe was God’s gift and claimed she’d ditch Aaron like a week-old pizza for ten minutes alone with Russell in his little Roman skirt, but I didn’t understand that surly charm thing. In fact, I thought surly charm was a contradiction in terms.

  I didn’t get a good feeling about Marcus, although I doubted it mattered, since he was clearly getting such a good feeling about himself already. His black shirt was unbuttoned one button too far for a lunch date and there was more than a suspicion of fake tan about his hairline.

  Worse than that, he was wearing slip-on shoes and no socks, but I pushed my doubts aside and forced myself to be cordial. It was what I was there for, after all.

  ‘Hello, Marcus,’ I said politely. ‘I’m Honey.’

  ‘Well, hello,’ he said, taking my outstretched hand and kissing it. His eyes flicked up to my face as he did so, as if he expected me to swoon at his feet. ‘You really are a honey, aren’t you?’

  I removed my hand as graciously as I could and suppressed the urge to wipe it clean. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I said.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, believe you me. What can I get you to drink, Honey?’

&
nbsp; ‘A sparkling mineral water, please,’ I replied.

  He summoned the waiter with a practised gesture. ‘A bottle of Perrier, please, and a bottle of Krug – two glasses.’ He looked back to me with a knowing smile playing around his wet lips. ‘I’m sure the lady will change her mind.’

  I forced out a tight smile to the waiter, and said, ironically, ‘Well, that’s what we ladies do, isn’t it?’

  Marcus guffawed. ‘And that’s why we men love them, eh?’

  Fortunately, he was too busy throwing his head back to laugh at his own wit to notice my sub-glacial stare. The waiter saw, though, and moved his eyebrows in a barely perceptible display of sympathy.

  I knew already that Marcus was an entirely different animal to the amiable Lester. And as the conversation began to flow like a mighty river – in one direction and with no apparent means of diversion – I sipped my water and wondered why Marcus had contacted Mrs McKinnon at all. He obviously thought he was God’s gift to women, and probably spent most weekends trawling the bars of Fulham for underfed blonde teenagers to impress with his left-hand-drive Ferrari. He didn’t need company. He didn’t have a bed-bound wife, pretend or otherwise, and even though I thought he was a total sleaze, I was sure he was more than capable of finding his own dates.

  He just didn’t seem to be a typical Mrs McKinnon client. In fact, Marcus was exactly the sort of man she used to warn us off at school.

  I glanced up to see him admiring himself in a knife, while continuing to reel off the story of his latest takeover battle.

  But, I steeled myself, I wasn’t here to marry him, I was here to provide entertaining and pleasant company. And provide it I would.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘do you have any recommendations for lunch?’

  ‘I like a lady with an appetite!’ he leered.

  ‘Well, I always save room for pudding,’ I replied, aiming for a sisterly tone. I didn’t want to risk Honey-ish flirtation until I’d got a better grip of the situation, so I added, in a very unsexy, jolly hockey-sticks manner, ‘As you can see from the size of my hips.’

  His eyes bulged lasciviously, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. ‘They are delectable hips, Honey,’ he oozed. ‘Just . . . delectable.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ I raised the menu to eye-level to study it so he wouldn’t spot my blushes.

  Was I imagining the sound of lip-smacking behind the cardboard?

  We ordered – he insisted on my ordering from the à la carte menu and not the set lunch, even though I preferred what was on offer – and, fortunately for me, the food was so delicious it took my mind off Marcus’s auto-monologue. Not that I attempted to stop him; after all, what is more relaxing and gratifying than a long discussion about oneself? It was, anyway, much easier than making conversation, and allowed me plenty of time to familiarise myself with the dining room of the Lanesborough, though I maintained a scintillating array of ‘How fascinating!’ ‘No, really?’ expressions.

  Marcus ordered ‘a tasting plate of your finest desserts’ and watched me very closely as I picked self-consciously at the confections on offer.

  ‘Honey by name, Honey by nature,’ he mused stickily. ‘Tell me, Honey, do your collar and cuffs match?’

  It took me a moment to work out what he was on about. When the penny did drop, I blushed to the roots of my wig once more. But by now, I’d grown more inured to his flirtations, and with only twenty minutes of our lunch date to go, where was the harm in a little flirtation? I was about to bail out, after all.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you mean,’ I murmured, but I couldn’t stop the blush.

  ‘Oh, I love a girl who blushes,’ he crowed. ‘It’s so ladylike! And so rare these days! You really are a rare creature, aren’t you, Honey? With your beautiful olde worlde manners and that wonderful Miss Marple accent. It’s as though you’ve stepped out of an Alfred Hitchcock film! God, you could drive me wild.’ He leaned in a little closer. ‘You are driving me wild. I bet you’re a little tiger between the sheets.’

  By now, the only place I wanted to drive Marcus was over the edge of a cliff, but I smiled mysteriously.

  To my surprise, I experienced a sudden thrill of satisfaction from knowing that my collar and cuffs certainly didn’t match, but there was absolutely no way he was ever going to find out. And it wasn’t as though I was leading him on, because I hadn’t promised anything in the first place. Apart from Grade A fantasy material.

  Thank God he can’t tell I’m wearing stockings, I thought.

  My smile increased.

  Marcus downed the last of his champagne with a big gulp and signalled for a waiter to come over. ‘Could you put this on my room tab, please?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Room 316.’

  ‘Lucky you, staying here,’ I said, prepared to be chatty with the finishing line in sight. ‘Are you here on business?’

  He winked. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Well, what sort of business?’

  ‘Come up and find out.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I checked my watch and conjured up a rueful expression from somewhere. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave at half two.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Marcus beamed. ‘I’ve booked you for the whole afternoon.’

  Booked me? Like he booked the room?

  My face froze. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Come on.’ Marcus urgently shrugged on his jacket as if the fire alarm had just gone off. ‘I booked the room specially. And I don’t think I can wait one more second to see those fabulous hips unveiled in all their peaches and cream glory.’

  ‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I think you must have misunderstood . . .’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Marcus’s expression turned impatient, then lascivious. He slipped back into his seat. ‘Oh, I get it. You want to play a bit harder to get. Well, I can live with that.’ He leaned forward again, and this time, he slid a finger down my nose, and into my open mouth. ‘That’s even more of a turn-on, actually. The reluctant lady. I like it.’

  I resisted the temptation to bite his finger off. My head was throbbing with embarrassment, and I knew I’d gone way beyond blushing. My face felt white-hot. ‘There must have been some crossed wires somewhere, Marcus. I’m not . . .’ I could barely bring myself to say it. ‘I’m not a call girl.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, I am not!’ I glared into his stupid smug face. ‘I most certainly am not.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly girl. Get real. You think I’d pay hundreds of pounds for a little lunchtime chit-chat? I mean, it’s a charming way to combine foreplay and lunch, but . . . you know? Anyway, Eleanor was always more than happy to—’

  ‘Well, I’m not Eleanor!’ I snapped. ‘Mrs McKinnon should have made that perfectly clear. I would never, ever . . .’

  ‘Honey,’ he drawled, ‘if it looks like a call girl, talks like a call girl, and gets paid like a call g—’

  I punched him, as hard as I could, smack on the jaw.

  Marcus was thrown backwards by the unexpected power of my right hook, tipped over on his chair and, in falling, kicked over the table as well, dragging the tablecloth as he went, scattering cutlery, glassware and crockery everywhere. As he fell, I noticed, apparently in slow motion, that his fat face was frozen in a mask of utter bemusement.

  That said, he wasn’t nearly as surprised as I was.

  Shaking with humiliation and rage, I spun on my heel and marched out of the restaurant, head held high. I refused to stop or look back until I was safely on Knightsbridge, hailing a taxi to Mrs McKinnon’s office like a Valkyrie hailing a horse of war.

  She was going to get a piece of my mind.

  Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, I don’t know – I never got as far as hailing a cab, because in my adrenalin-fuelled fury, I stormed right into someone outside the Lanesborough, nearly knocking him over.

  As I started stammering my apologies, I realised I needn’t ha
ve bothered. It was Nelson.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded, although I could guess exactly what he was doing. I struggled between relief at his familiar frame and horror that he was here to witness the messy aftermath of something I’d rather he’d never known about.

  ‘Are you OK?’ He looked concerned and touched my right hand. The knuckles were white but the skin around them was red raw.

  ‘Of course I’m OK!’ I spluttered. Now my momentum had been broken, the horrible reality of what I’d done was starting to dawn. ‘I’m not some child who needs to be chaperoned everywhere! Did you follow me here? Did you?’

  My heart was still hammering in my chest. I knew it wasn’t on to take out my fury and self-loathing on Nelson, but I couldn’t help it. It had to go somewhere.

  ‘Calm down, Mel.’ He put his hands on my shoulders and for a moment I longed to sink into his arms and be comforted, but I was twitching with rage and not entirely in control of my limbs.

  Besides, this wasn’t the place to linger. I didn’t fancy the waiter materialising at the door and billing me for shattered crockery. And I definitely didn’t want to see that sleazy creep, Marcus, who was exactly the type to sue first for assault and then non-delivery of goods.

  I wrenched myself from Nelson’s comforting hands, and began to march down Knightsbridge. There’s something about marching in high heels that really stirs up your internal fire, and I’d been wearing heels so long I could practically triple jump in them.

  I heard Nelson running down the road to catch up with me. ‘Suppose you tell me what’s going on?’ he panted.

  ‘No,’ I hiccuped.

  ‘Come on, Melissa!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I insist,’ said Nelson, and I could tell by his voice that he meant it.

  A police car went by, sirens on, lights flashing, and I shrank against him.

  Nelson gave me a strange look.

  ‘Not here,’ I whimpered.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He took my arm and steered me expertly into a coffee shop. I was powerless to resist: his forcefulness, the comforting smell of coffee and the abrupt jelly-ness of my knees now the adrenalin had worn off worked their magic on me and I sank into a booth.