Nelson leaned in very close and dropped his voice to a discreet level. ‘Before I go and get the coffees,’ he said, with a very serious expression on his face, ‘how bad is the bad thing that’s happened, on a scale of one to ten? Because anything above an eight and we don’t have time to waste on espresso.’
A shiver of horrible realisation ran over my skin. I knew what he was thinking, and I was ashamed at my own foolishness. ‘Seven,’ I admitted. ‘Six, maybe.’
He rolled his eyes, and said, ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
In the meantime I took deep breaths. Dignity. Calm. Poise.
Nelson was back in three minutes and placed a double espresso in front of me. ‘So you’ve been working as an escort,’ he said. ‘Do you want to tell me why?’
I gaped at him. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Because I’m not an idiot, Mel,’ he said, exasperated. ‘I guessed what that Bobsy girl was up to and just put two and two together. And the way you snuck out of the house dressed as Minnie Mouse was a clue.’
‘Did you follow me?’ I demanded. I’d taken great pains to distract Nelson by telling him there was a suspicious-looking council worker hanging around the back yard.
‘Of course I did!’ Nelson looked affronted. ‘You think I’d let you put yourself in danger like this and not follow you?’ He pursed his lips. ‘Don’t wear shoes like that if you want to go undercover again. I could hear you clip-clopping three streets away.’
I put that to one side for a moment. ‘Were you going to come into the Lanesborough?’ I spluttered, my imagination bulging with mortifying scenes. ‘Then what were you planning to do? What were you going to say?’
Nelson had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t quite got that far. I think I was going to claim you were my wife, or something, and drag you away . . . Anyway, more to the point, what the hell did you think you were doing? You of all people!’
‘It wasn’t what you think,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t there to . . .’ I dropped my voice discreetly ‘. . . have sex.’
Nelson’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Which century are you living in?’
‘It’s not that kind of agency,’ I insisted. But as I said it, even I was forced to acknowledge that it was, or else that creep wouldn’t have booked a room ahead of time. My skin crawled with revulsion.
Nelson, meanwhile, was giving me his best You Silly Girl look. I had my pride. I tried to fix my own reasoning for taking the plunge in the forefront of my mind. ‘It’s about providing companionship, for men who appreciate good company. Mrs McKinnon runs it – our old Home Ec teacher. She’s the most upright and well-mannered woman I know.’
Was she, though? Faced with the seedy reality now dawning on me, my rosy vision of Mrs McKinnon was slipping, and I didn’t like what was underneath. She’d never even met that Marcus Anthony man. In fact, she was really taking Bobsy’s word for my safety. Bobsy, of all people! I was still of a mind to go round there and tell Mrs McKinnon how very, very disappointed I was in her.
‘Oh, stop being so naïve!’ Nelson jabbed his plastic spoon on the table in front of me to emphasise each word. ‘I can’t believe you’re being so deliberately obtuse! She’s running an escort agency!’
I glared at him. ‘That’s not what I was doing.’
‘It might not be what you were offering, but that’s what you were working for! How many girls on her books put the shutters up after coffee, do you think?’
I dragged my dignity up tall. ‘It isn’t always about sex, Nelson. Haven’t I always told you, there are far more useful things a woman can offer a man than just sex? And since you ask, it made a nice change to feel appreciated for once. I’d rather get paid for being interesting company than be expected to put out for the price of a pizza.’
Nelson groaned. ‘For God’s sake, don’t start defending it. Should I blame myself? Is this because I told you you needed a break from relationships? I mean, when I said you should value yourself a bit higher I didn’t mean literally.’
‘Believe it or not, this isn’t about you,’ I snapped. ‘It’s about me.’
We sat in silence and glowered at each other over our coffee cups while the freeform jazz burbled away in the background.
Nelson suddenly leaned forward and peered at me. ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re wearing that blonde wig?’
‘So I can be a different person,’ I said haughtily. ‘I don’t wish to be recognised.’
‘I only recognised you because of that ridiculous wiggle you have when you walk,’ he admitted. ‘Especially in that skirt. It’s like watching two big men wrestling in a small sack.’
‘Thanks.’
Nelson half smiled, but his eyes were still flinty with anger. Then even the half-smile evaporated. ‘Melissa, you have got to wise up. I worry about you.’
‘You don’t need to.’ I was calming down now, and there was only a simmering disappointment coursing through my veins along with the espresso. It had been a horrendous day, all told. My cherished illusions about both Orlando and Mrs McKinnon had been shattered – as well as some illusions about myself. God, I felt so tired. The sooner I could climb into bed and forget today ever happened, the better.
Nelson, however, was only beginning. ‘I mean, it’s one thing trying to see the best in people, but not at the expense of ignoring other clanging great warning signs,’ he started off. ‘And then trying to persuade yourself the most unacceptable behaviour is reasonable . . . I mean, for crying out loud, Mel!’
‘I’m not entirely stupid, Nelson,’ I interrupted before he could get into a hectoring rhythm. ‘I knew what the possibilities were, and I admit I was perhaps a little . . . naïve in imagining I could control the situation. But I won’t let you make me feel small for trying to earn some money using the best of my abilities.’
‘Your typing is just as good as your conversation,’ he groaned.
‘Yes, but my problem-solving is much better. And I’m never going to make a decent life for myself doing filing and selling the odd T-shirt, am I?’
I looked at him obstinately.
He looked back at me obstinately.
We remained locked in this cross stalemate until I cracked. I hated it when Nelson was mad with me.
Anyway, I thought, rallying, look on the bright side: first, at least I’d established that I definitely wasn’t the sort of girl who could sell her body for cash; secondly, that sleaze Marcus would never be able to eat at the Lanesborough again; and, lastly, there was something very chic about being able to throw a punch hard enough to knock a grown man over. So that was two positive new discoveries I’d made about myself I wouldn’t necessarily have realised under normal circumstances.
‘I don’t want to fall out about this, darling,’ I said, grabbing Nelson’s hand. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to look after me like that, and I am grateful, honestly.’
Nelson sighed and ran his other hand through his hair. ‘Listen, Mel, my brother Woolfe needs a new office manager. It’s just part-time, but promise me you’ll go and talk to him about it.’
‘OK,’ I said, with some reluctance. To be honest, the thought of yet another office that needed organising filled me with complete weariness.
‘And promise me, on your honour, that you’ll never, ever do anything like this again,’ he added sternly.
‘Nelson,’ I said tetchily, ‘you’re not my father.’
‘Promise me!’
If I hadn’t been feeling so worn out and cross with myself and with the world, I might have fought more. But suddenly I didn’t have any fight left, so I agreed, and let Nelson bundle me home in triumph on the bus.
7
By the time the bus lurched to a halt at our stop, we’d sulked our way to some kind of truce.
‘You know what your problem is, Melissa? You’ve got floral wallpapered patches in your brain,’ said Nelson as we walked down our road. He slung a comforting arm around my shoulder, in lieu of apology.
&n
bsp; ‘I know,’ I said, curling my own arm round his solid waist. ‘It comes of being left on my own as a child. Too much Enid Blyton and not enough Jilly Cooper, that’s my problem.’
‘Yeah. You can spot a pirate or a rare-dog smuggler at a thousand paces, but not a double entendre.’
‘Good job I have you, isn’t it?’ I added, with a squeeze.
Nelson grunted. ‘Makes me wonder what I did in a previous life to be saddled with the responsibility.’
I could tell he was still cross, but was also trying very hard not to remind me of my idiocy. I was more touched by this Herculean effort than by his rescue attempt. Nelson loved being right. My forgetting to pay the Congestion Charge after he’d left a Post-it note on my dashboard could keep him chirpy for days.
When we got to our front door, he said, ‘Listen, why don’t you put the kettle on, and I’ll go to the shops and get some food for supper? I fancy a nice quiet evening in, and obviously you’re not safe to be let out on your own.’
The words might have been teasing, but Nelson’s tone was kind. I knew he growled like a big bear, but he could be terribly protective and gentle too. My heart lifted a little. ‘Lovely. Here,’ I said, searching in my bag for my purse. ‘Let me give you some . . .’
‘No, thank you,’ said Nelson airily. ‘I’m not laundering the profits of prostitution.’
And he strode off before I could think of a good retort.
Inside, I took my Honey wig out of my bag, where Nelson had stuffed it crossly when we got on the bus, and I replaced it carefully on its stand on my dressing table, smoothing out the knots, until it sat there spreading a delicious pool of caramel-coloured curls around my various boxes and glass jars.
I’d miss being Honey, I thought. Just as I was starting to get to know her too. Still, she was a bit of a liability.
I peeled off my kept-for-best clothes slowly: the high heels, the soft cashmere jumper, the tailored skirt, the lace suspender-belt, the smoky-black stockings. They were my favourite wardrobe highlights but I’d never had the confidence to wear them all together like that before. Not out of the house, anyway. Maybe I should, I thought sadly. Then I had a shower, to wash off all the bad thoughts of the day, Honey’s sultry Chanel No. 19 replaced with bracing grapefruit shower gel.
Usually, putting on my silky lounge pants felt like the ultimate in Hollywood style, but now it didn’t. It felt somehow less glamorous.
To cheer myself up, I got the tub of ice cream I’d been eating one scoop at a time out of the freezer and curled up on the sofa with the remote control. I shouldn’t really eat ice cream, what with my rollercoaster curves, but it cheered me up just like champagne, plus it was cheaper and not so likely to lead to indiscretions.
I’d hacked my way through a good two-thirds of the tub, and was feeling much more like my normal self when the front door opened and I heard Nelson come in.
‘Hiya, handsome!’ I yelled morosely, digging out a really big bit of chocolate. ‘Kettle’s on.’
There was no reply from Nelson, and I realised there was another set of shoes clumping very slowly down the hall behind his. A very distinctive set of footsteps.
Which could only mean that Roger Trumpet was with him.
Nelson’s head popped round the door. ‘Roger,’ he mouthed, gesturing behind him.
Bloody hell.
I put the ice cream down, and hastily rearranged myself into a more ladylike pose, checking the radiators for any drying underwear or discarded stockings. My mind raced, searching in vain for something – anything – to talk to Roger about.
But it was too late. Roger shuffled into the room. ‘H’lo, Melissa,’ he said and threw himself into Nelson’s chair.
Poor Roger. Nearly thirty and already preparing for a lifetime of confirmed bachelorhood. No woman, apart from Magda, his cleaning lady, had set foot in his flat for over three years, and that included me. Nelson had told me several nights ago that Roger had taken up pipe-smoking since his cat got run over by a cycle courier. I’d thought about suggesting that these dismal single-man habits may in fact have been perpetuating his single state, but Roger was such a sensitive soul and I feared chipping away the warty exterior to reveal the handsome prince beneath could be a lifetime’s project.
‘Hello, Roger!’ I said brightly. ‘You’re looking well. How are things?’
‘Oh, fine,’ he said in a tone that suggested anything but.
His mood settled over the sitting room like a damp mist.
I could really have done without this. I was looking forward to an evening in, soothing my raw and aching soul with ice cream and junk television, not a sponsored silence with Chelsea’s least eligible bachelor.
But it would have been deeply discourteous not to attempt to cheer Roger up a bit, so I dragged a smile onto my face and attempted to engage him in positive conversation.
‘I heard you were going to Battersea Cats’ Home to get another kitten,’ I began. ‘Did you find one?’
Nelson came in with the teapot and mugs and immediately made cut-throat gestures as best he could with both hands full.
‘No,’ said Roger. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Oh dear!’ I sounded just like my mother. ‘Why not?’
‘Landlord’s clamping down on pets. I think he wants us all to move out so he can knock the flats into one and make it into a warehouse conversion.’
‘Warehouses? In Chelsea?’
‘Really?’ said Nelson, pouring the tea. ‘I had no idea heavy industry ever penetrated that far. What’ll they call it? The Old Pashmina Factory? The Old Sloanorium?’
‘It’s not funny,’ whined Roger. ‘I could be homeless.’ He took a cup from Nelson and blew heavily onto it.
I bit my tongue about the tea-blowing. I wasn’t against it, per se, but Roger did have rather challenging breath. Anyway, Roger wasn’t going to be homeless. His mother, Lady Trumpet, was loaded. ‘You can get another moggy, though,’ I said briskly. ‘If you have to move.’
‘Can’t replace Liza,’ he mumbled. Liza was his cat. After Liza Minnelli. A white cat, apart from two huge black patches around its eyes, it had spent most nights screeching its head off on Roger’s balcony, entertaining its many admirers. All feline.
I could see the remaining ice cream melting just out of reach, but I seemed to have lost the will to lean over and get it. That’s what Roger Trumpet could do. He was a one-man nerve-gas explosion.
‘Still,’ I said, ‘if you do have to move out, you can always go and stay with your mum for a while. Surely she’s got plenty of room?’
This time Nelson practically exploded with no-no-no hand gestures and eye-rolling. I didn’t see why; Lady Trumpet was perfectly nice, if rather old-fashioned in her views, from what I’d gleaned from Roger and Nelson. Old-fashioned and keen to give Roger the benefit of her advice on all topics.
‘Don’t talk to me about . . . that woman!’ spluttered Roger, and I was astounded by the degree of animation suddenly on show.
‘Why ever not?’ I make a point of disregarding any sentence that begins, ‘Don’t ask me about . . .’ and so on. It’s never true.
Roger seemed stricken with some paralysing nervous complaint, so Nelson explained, ‘You know how Lady Trumpet is . . . quite keen for Roger to settle down and have a family of his own to take over the estate management?’
I nodded. Who wouldn’t have been, with the prospect of a son like that returning home to haunt you for the rest of your merry widowhood?
‘Well’ – Nelson shot a few quick glances in Roger’s direction, but he was still gazing twitchily into the middle distance like a thwarted badger – ‘Roger’s mother’s told him that if he doesn’t bring a partner of his own to her seventieth birthday, she’s going to fix him up with . . .’ He turned to Roger. ‘Who was it she’s going to fix you up with?’
‘My cousin Celia.’
I frowned. ‘Celia Minton? Wasn’t she at school with my sister? In Malvern?’
Nelson gaped hi
s fake gape at me. It was meant to indicate sarcasm and surprise, but it just made him look a bit cod-like. ‘Is there anyone, I mean anyone, you don’t know?’
‘Oh, my sisters and I went to lots of schools between us.’ But now I understood why Roger’s face was so grey. Celia Minton came to our house once and managed to break every item of china put in front of her. She might even have shattered a glass at one point; she was singing duets with Emery when it happened, and either she shattered it or Daddy squeezed it so hard it broke – we never established which.
‘Well, if it’s so awful, why don’t you find your own date?’ I asked.
I knew the answer to this already, but sometimes it’s better to flatter a man.
‘Who said I actually want a date?’ Roger said bitterly. ‘Anyway, I don’t think Magda works evenings.’
‘Well, if you’re contemplating hiring your partner . . . Mel, over to you,’ said Nelson. ‘I think this is more your field of expertise.’
I flushed bright red, and glowered at him. If I’d thought Nelson would be chivalrous and brush this under the carpet, I’d been wrong; I should have known he’d never let me forget it.
‘Melissa can be your date for the evening,’ said Nelson, with a very charming smile, ‘but it’ll cost you, I’m afraid.’
Roger nearly spilled his tea. ‘What? You’re an escort these days?’
For a moment, I felt very close to bursting into tears and running out of the room. It was almost worth storming out just to make Nelson realise he couldn’t tease me like that. And, I thought bitterly, he’d look very ungallant for making terrible suggestions.
But then if I did, I’d have to sit in my room all night, unable to return until Roger had gone. Roger would spread it around that I was working at Raymond’s Revue Bar, and I’d be damned if Nelson was going to make me feel ashamed of having an innocent approach to life.
‘No, I’m not an escort,’ I replied frostily. ‘What Nelson means is that I’ve started my own freelance girlfriend agency, providing discreet social cover for the temporarily single. You know, widowers who need help organising a dinner party, or . . . or high-flying gay men who don’t want to come out just yet, but need to take a partner to a business function. That sort of thing. All the comfort and efficiency of a girlfriend, without the sex. Or the demands for attention and flowers.’