Little Lady Agency and The Prince

Imogen leaned forward to get Nicky’s attention, so the front of her dress gaped, revealing an expanse of flat golden chest. She had those visible bones between her neck and her cleavage, like Paris Hilton. I didn’t think my body contained those bones. I’d certainly never seen them.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘where are we going on afterwards?’

  Nicky shot a look at me. ‘I might just go home,’ he said nonchalantly.

  Imogen’s face registered shock. ‘Home? What? Why?’

  ‘Where’s that, then?’ bellowed Chunder, snapping his phone shut. ‘New bar?’

  ‘No, home,’ said Nicky. ‘Where I live.’

  ‘You are so not going home,’ retorted Imogen.

  Gabi, Aaron, Nelson, Leonie and Roger tried not to stare at the mini domestic unfolding in front of them. Zara merely smiled, oblivious.

  Nicky didn’t bother to reply. He just raised an eyebrow, in the manner of a young Mediterranean Roger Moore. I couldn’t work out whether I should get him to stop doing that.

  ‘You told me that the whole point of wasting an evening here was that we could go on somewhere else afterwards,’ hissed Imogen. She was trying to hiss in an undertone, but there wasn’t really much point when we were all sitting so close together. ‘There’s no way I’d have worn my Missoni – you promised me we’d only have to spend an hour or two with the do-gooders, then go somewhere interesting . . .’

  She looked around the table. We were all trying to convey utter disinterest, but I could see Gabi’s lip twitching. Gabi didn’t take being talked down to by posh people. There were Dean & Daniels customers all over SW1 still trying to work out where the odd smell in their bathroom was coming from, who could vouch for that.

  ‘What?’ Imogen demanded.

  ‘Were you in Hollyoaks?’ asked Gabi innocently. ‘Only I’m sure I’ve seen your face before.’

  Imogen snorted furiously. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘No, now you mention it, I’m just thinking of the dress,’ said Gabi. ‘I’ve seen that dress on someone from Hollyoaks. That’s it.’

  Imogen was about to retaliate when the puddings started to arrive, and distracted everyone. They were brandy-snap baskets in the shape of sailing boats, with spun-sugar sails and cargos of strawberries and cream, afloat on a sea of red sauce.

  ‘Look carefully at those,’ Nelson instructed us. ‘Admire them. You have literally no idea how much they cost per unit. And neither does Araminta.’

  ‘They’re too nice to eat,’ I said, watching in horror as Roger crushed his in half and scooped most of it into his mouth. Then he remembered Zara, and played delicately with the rest.

  ‘Some kind of crumble would have been more than ample,’ sniffed Leonie. ‘It’s not as if most of the anorexics here are actually going to eat them.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Nelson, tactfully ignoring the second part as Gabi and I dug into our puddings. ‘You can’t beat good English rhubarb, in season, with proper custard . . .’

  ‘Nelson is fantastic in the kitchen,’ I added, as Nelson was highly unlikely to blow his own trumpet. ‘Completely organic.’

  ‘There you go, Pig,’ said Nicky. ‘Not as boring as he looks.’

  Nelson gave him a funny look.

  ‘I love a man who can cook, don’t you, Leonie?’ I went on. ‘There’s something so sweet about eating a meal someone’s gone to the bother of cooking for you.’

  ‘And why eat out when you can stay in and have the same food for a fraction of the price?’ she agreed enthusiastically.

  ‘Because someone else washes up?’ suggested Gabi. ‘And you get to leave your flat? And dress up?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ I said hurriedly. ‘But staying in’s good too. Especially on a school night!’

  A light went on behind Imogen’s eyes, and she leaned across the table. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going home with her!’ she hissed, cutting her eyes at me.

  ‘Duh!’ said Nicky offensively.

  ‘She’s going home with me,’ explained Nelson, at which Nicky, Imogen and Leonie all looked askance.

  It fell on deaf ears, though, because various clankings and bangings on the PA system suggested that the raffle was about to be drawn.

  ‘Tickets out!’ said Nelson heartily. ‘Here you go, Mel, these are yours,’ he added, handing me two. He passed a small wedge of tickets to Nicky. ‘Very generous of you, um, thanks.’

  I noticed he didn’t call Nicky by his name. None of us had, apart from me. It was quite awkward. Not only was he meant to be royal, but he clearly moved in much more gilded circles than anyone Nelson and I knew, and, between us, we knew some of the crustiest, tweediest English people alive.

  ‘Good evening, everybody, my name is Araminta Belvedere,’ boomed a woman’s voice over the clattering. As she spoke, a second wave of glass-chinking and shushing threatened to drown her out. ‘Before we get on to the fun part of the evening, I’d like to spend a moment or two talking about the Sail Away charity itself . . .’

  Gabi, Leonie and I adopted our ‘listening carefully and seriously’ faces. But Chunder took out his mobile phone again, and started to dial. Imogen leaned over the table towards Nicky.

  ‘Nicks,’ she said, without bothering to drop her voice, ‘I can call Dimitri and ask him if he’s going to be . . . out this evening?’ She arched one fine eyebrow meaningfully. ‘There’s a new bar opening behind Davies Street and . . . what?’

  She caught me staring at her.

  ‘I can’t hear Araminta,’ I whispered. ‘Could you hold on a moment until she’s finished?’

  ‘I’m at some dinner!’ roared Chunder. ‘No! Half an hour! Yup!’

  ‘Sh!’ shushed Nelson.

  Imogen narrowed her eyes. ‘God, we’re not at school! Who are you, anyway?’ She looked at Nicky in appeal. ‘Seriously, Nicks . . . ?’

  Nicolas opened his mouth to defend Imogen, and I added, ‘Ooh, Nicky! Araminta’s bound to mention you and how generous you’ve been, any minute!’

  Immediately, Nicolas focused his entire attention on the speech, and Imogen scowled, thwarted.

  Araminta ran through the first batch of prizes – a case of champagne, a sailing jacket, a day’s use of an Aston Martin, a really quite super toaster that I had my eye on for my wedding list, his ’n’ hers haircuts at the salon Mummy went to in Belgravia.

  ‘And, the star prize,’ Araminta giggled girlishly, ‘is a weekend’s cruising with sailing enthusiast Prince Nicolas von Hollenberg on the family yacht, Kitty Cat!’

  A general ooh went round the room. Nicolas rose a little in his seat to acknowledge the ooh, brushing off the ripple of applause with a modest wave.

  ‘Cruising enthusiast, maybe,’ sniped Nelson.

  ‘Shut up, Nelly,’ said Nicolas, out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘And we’ll agree to pap them for Hello! magazine!’ called a voice from the other side of the room, creating another ripple of laughter and applause.

  ‘And the winning ticket number is . . . blue, seven nine seven!’

  We all scanned our numbers. Gabi seemed to be looking on her lap, as well as at the three strips on the table.

  ‘It’s me!’ exclaimed Leonie, waving her single ticket.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Gabi in disgust, throwing a second batch of tickets onto the table.

  ‘Oh, you jammy thing!’ I said to Leonie. ‘Did you really have just the one ticket?’

  ‘Yes. I’m quite lucky like that,’ said Leonie. ‘Do you know when this is likely to be? I’m not sure I can get time off work – I’m saving a couple of days’ holiday to get my new mortgage sorted out.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about mortgages,’ I groaned, at the same time as Nelson said, ‘Ah, maybe you can give Mel some recommendations.’

  I glared at him as Leonie’s eyes illuminated with thrifty zeal, but before she could launch into her mortgage advice, Sophie appeared, her strap pinned safely down with a large brooch. She leaned over Nicky’s shoulder, blushing from h
er forehead all the way down the cleavage of her dress. ‘Hello, um, your highness, would you mind coming up to the front to present the winner with her prize? We’d like to do some photographs, if it’s OK with you?’

  ‘He’d love to,’ I said firmly, getting up from my seat.

  ‘You’re coming too?’ asked Nicky. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose you have to. Make sure I don’t look at anyone else.’

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ demanded Imogen. ‘If anyone goes, it should be me.’

  ‘Why’s that, Piglet?’ asked Nicky.

  ‘Because I’m your . . . oh, piss off,’ she snapped.

  ‘Don’t worry, Imogen,’ I said, smiling as nicely as I could, ‘I’m just going to make sure they get his best side,’ and I ushered Nelson, Leonie and Nicky between the tables.

  The massed cameras flashed while Nicky presented Leonie with a little wooden sailing boat in Sail Away colours, surrounded by delighted organisers, and I must admit, I did feel a warm glow of achievement.

  I’d cleared the first hurdle. Nicky hadn’t played up too much – obviously, he wanted this over as soon as I did – and I’d handled it pretty well. Five more months of this, and they’d be begging him to take over from Prince William.

  As I was thinking this, I felt someone pinch my bum.

  Since it was unlikely to be Nelson, I shifted my stiletto heel backwards and trod on the offending foot.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Nicky, which was actually worse than a yelp would have been.

  9

  Nelson was up bright and early the next morning when I stumbled into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Judging from the chirpy but flat way he was singing as he made breakfast, the joys of counting the raffle money and bagging up the cash had given him a refreshing night’s sleep. The sun was practically glinting off his halo as he wielded his special omelette pan.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ he said. ‘What you need is a good breakfast to put some colour back in your cheeks. How many eggs?’

  ‘Just the one,’ I said, helping myself to tea from the pot. ‘Saving myself for dinner in Paris with Jonathan. We’re going to a very nice restaurant.’

  ‘Ah ha!’ said Nelson, doing his fancy one-handed egg-cracking. ‘That ought to take away the taste of last night.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’ I said. ‘I’m not hungover, you know.’

  ‘I know you’re not. I was referring to the mental strain of shepherding that human virus all evening.’

  ‘You and Nicky didn’t hit it off, then?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t actually hit him,’ he replied. ‘Though given time I’m sure it can be arranged.’

  ‘Nelson!’ I protested, putting some bread in the toaster. ‘And I thought you’d like him, what with his sailing and everything.’

  ‘Hardly!’ Nelson’s good mood seemed to evaporate. ‘The showing off! It set my teeth on edge. “Our Milan house” this and “when we were skiing” that . . . It’s just so . . . so . . .’ He shook his head. Nelson came from the sort of old English family where revealing what you got for Christmas was deemed ostentatious. ‘And, I have to say, Melissa,’ he went on, looking at me like a cross dog, ‘I was watching the way that oily shortarse was looking at you all evening and I came very near to saying something. Ugh. He’s just . . .’ Again he trailed off and stabbed at some bacon with his spatula.

  ‘He’s just what?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Nelson could be like this – most protective of me. It was very sweet, but he did have ludicrously high standards.

  ‘I didn’t like the way he was treating you,’ he said, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. ‘Too much casual touching. And did you see the way he was sliming all over Zara?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I told Roger he needed to put his foot down.’

  ‘And too much bloody backchat. Especially with you. Doesn’t he realise you’re doing him a massive favour?’

  ‘Oh, now, come on, that’s repartee,’ I said, grabbing the toast as it popped up. ‘I quite like that. It reminds me of how Jonathan and I used to flirt when we first met. I rather enjoyed it, I must admit – it seems to happen only when I’m all wigged up. The magic of Honey, and all that.’

  Nelson turned round in his stripy apron, his face a mask of horror. ‘Oh, no, Melissa. No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you fancy this creep?’

  ‘Ha! Of course not!’ I buttered the toast.

  ‘Ding!’ said Nelson sarcastically.

  ‘I’m serious. It’s just . . . work.’

  ‘Jonathan was work, at first,’ he intoned. ‘And look where that ended up.’

  ‘Quite,’ I said, taking a buttery bite. ‘With an engagement ring. I’m hardly going to fall for someone like Nicky when I’m about to marry a proper man, like Jonathan. So, no, I don’t fancy Nicky, but if I’m going to be spending time with him, I need to be able to find him amusing in some respects. If that’s all right with you?’

  ‘It’s fine with me,’ said Nelson huffily, going back to his pan. ‘I just worry about you.’

  I put down my toast and went over to hug him from behind. ‘I know. And I appreciate that.’

  Nelson abandoned his huff long enough to lean back in acknowledgement of my hug, but then he remembered something else. ‘You have checked this whole yacht business out with the real owner, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it’s one thing you promising my power drill to Gabi for fixing her wardrobe rail, but promising a charity a ninety-foot ocean-going yacht’s something else.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘How do you know it’s a ninety-foot ocean-going yacht?’

  ‘I Googled the Kitty Cat. She’s . . . rather special,’ he said, his mouth twisting up at the strain of admitting it. ‘Proper 1920s motor yacht, really stylish. Not that someone like P. Nicky would appreciate it. They’re just floating caravans for rich people.’

  ‘Don’t be all jealous,’ I said, reaching for more toast. ‘Alexander said I could do anything I liked, so long as Nicky started to look halfway decent.’

  ‘If I owned something like that I wouldn’t want that greasy little toerag anywhere near it,’ said Nelson. ‘God knows what you’d find down the sides of the bunks.’

  Deftly, he divided the contents of the pan between two plates and brought them to the table. I poured him a cup of tea, and we tucked in.

  ‘And another other thing,’ Nelson went on, wagging his fork, ‘I’ve been looking into his family – how come there are hundreds of so-called princes, and never any actual kings? Too idle to step up to responsibility, if you ask me.’

  ‘Nelson,’ I warned, ‘stop it. You’re starting to sound like Daddy.’

  He recoiled at that. It was about the worst thing I could say to him. We’d known each other so long, he knew exactly what I thought about men like my father.

  ‘I just don’t want to see you getting taken advantage of,’ he said, his face softening. ‘You always insist on seeing the best in everyone, but sometimes you need someone there to point out the worst too.’

  ‘Oh, come on. He hasn’t been that bad yet,’ I said, conveniently deleting the swimming pool/wrap-dress incident. ‘Give him a chance. It’s not in his interests to wind me up.’

  ‘Call his grandfather,’ said Nelson. ‘Just so everything’s out in the open.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him this afternoon,’ I promised. ‘Before I leave for Paris.’

  ‘Ah, Paris,’ said Nelson, with a half-smile. ‘Don’t forget my Poilane bread, will you?’

  ‘I won’t,’ I promised.

  Packing the remainder of my week into Half-day Thursday was no mean feat, and checking the time and counting off the minutes until I’d be sipping my G & T en route to the reassuring arms of Jonathan made the time go quicker and slower at the same time.

  Finally, I dispatched Corin Burgess after his intensive ironing class, and sat down to dial the number Prince Alexander had
given me for everyday enquiries. He’d actually given me two; the other was for dire emergencies. It would, he assured me, get through to him directly, or be diverted straight to their lawyer. I got the feeling that it was an arrangement that had been used before.

  The phone began to ring at the other end. I slipped my heels back on, sat up straight in my leather office chair and took deep breaths, while I ran through what I was going to say. Obviously, I couldn’t say that I’d offered the prize as a way of stopping Nicky putting the moves on the organiser’s daughter. And it would be gilding the lily to suggest that it had been Nicky’s own idea.

  I glanced at the Swiss cuckoo clock above my bookshelves. Quarter to two. The Eurostar left at ten past three, and got in at seven minutes to seven, after which Jonathan usually whisked me straight off to dinner somewhere . . .

  ‘Hello?’ said a silky coffee-commercial voice.

  I felt my pulse quicken with nerves, then told myself sternly to calm down. Alexander was just one of Granny’s old friends.

  ‘Hello, it’s Melissa Romney-Jones here. Do you have a moment to talk?’

  ‘Melissa, my dear! Of course!’ he said. Alexander really had that knack of making you feel like you were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to. ‘What can I do for you?’

  I explained about the charity dinner, omitting Nicky’s hitting-on-Sophie and the bum-pinching, but throwing in the leaving-early-to-go-home and the smiling-nicely-for-the-cameras.

  ‘. . . and so we thought it would be a nice gesture to offer a weekend’s sailing and sunbathing as a star prize,’ I finished up. ‘It went down so well with the organisers – they rang this morning to say it’s going into at least two gossip columns this evening, and I made sure Nicky said something nice about the happy holidays he’d had learning to sail on the family yacht.’ I paused, as the reality of what I’d done belatedly sank in. It was a bit of a liberty. ‘Um, I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘And was this your idea, or Nicolas’s?’

  I swallowed. Better to be honest. ‘Mine, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Melissa!’ said Alexander with a delicious dark laugh. ‘It’s a delightful idea! I applaud your quick thinking.’