Little Lady Agency and The Prince

  ‘People?’

  ‘Don’t laugh. She gets you round the knees and hoists, like you’re a caber. Some Scottish army bloke taught her. Broke Cully Hatton’s collarbone at Cowes last year.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, making a mental note to stay outside grappling distance of Imogen Leys in future. ‘Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure if she knew the whole story . . .’

  There was a faint snort at the end of the line.

  ‘What?’ I demanded, suddenly conscious that Nicky actually seemed to be prolonging the call. My senses abruptly went into panic mode, as I counted down the seconds until I said the wrong thing. ‘I suppose you’re imagining Imogen chucking me now, are you?’

  ‘No,’ chuckled Nicky, rather sweetly. ‘I’m imagining you chucking Imogen. I’d say you were about a match for each other. I’ve got to hand it to you, Melissa – banned for good behaviour? God almighty. You’re so going to ruin my social life before this is over. Any other clubs I should know about?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘You realise, thanks to you, I’m going to need a whole new set of friends at this rate? The ones I’ve got think I’ve gone mental. Ha!’

  As his tone turned more conversational I started to relax, and tried to picture what he’d be doing on the other end: laughing, rolling his eyes at the same time, scratching at his ear as I’d noticed he sometimes did when he was amused at something.

  My skin tingled, and I reminded myself that Nicky flirted with everyone. Not just me.

  ‘Well, just keep remembering how much this means to your grandfather.’ I twisted the phone cord around my fingers. ‘I mean, would it kill you to stay at home with a DVD instead of falling out of a nightclub?’

  ‘Depends on the DVD,’ he said. ‘Unless . . . Melissa!’ he gasped, in fake delight. ‘Are you offering to stay in with me? Is it a date?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am not offering. Daylight hours and well-lit evening engagements only.’

  Nicky sighed. ‘I’ll have to stick to clubs you don’t know about, then,’ he said darkly.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Nicky,’ I said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re a member of any clubs in Paris, are you?’

  ‘I might be,’ he replied. ‘It depends if you’re going to get me banned from them.’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I, er, I just need to find some details for a client. Someone’s moving to Paris and needs to know where the right places to go are. I said I’d look into it for them.’

  ‘Seems like an odd way to do it. Shouldn’t they ask around themselves? See if they like it, like the people?’

  ‘Well, yes, that would be the way I’d go about it,’ I agreed. ‘But they’re moving fairly soon, and, to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know the city very well yet.’

  ‘Ah, but I do,’ he said. ‘Had some top nights out there. Who’s the client? Man? Woman?’

  ‘Man and woman,’ I said, my heart thumping. ‘Fashionable, young married couple. Very, um, modern.’

  ‘Hmm. OK,’ he went on, to my surprise. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Would you? I’d be so grateful!’ I said, visions of Jonathan’s impressed face swimming in front of me.

  Nicky let out a long breath, which sounded inappropriately intimate, gusting luxuriously as it did straight into my ear. ‘Good. I like to have favours owing with beautiful women.’

  Ooh, I thought, with a little thrill: beautiful women.

  ‘Are you flirting with me, Nicolas?’ I asked sternly.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he said. ‘It’s quite early, you know.’

  Too late, I saw the bearpit of owed favours open up in front of me, but I rallied myself before Nicky’s radar could pick up any distress signals.

  ‘I’m glad you’re up and about,’ I said, ‘because that means you haven’t forgotten about the polo match we’re going to this afternoon.’

  ‘How can I forget any of the appointments I have with you?’ he drawled playfully. ‘Even if I could, I see you’ve written them in my diary. In your adorable schoolgirl handwriting.’

  Now that was flirting. I felt my blood rush faster and I had to pull myself together before it showed in my voice. ‘Ray’s picking you up at one o’clock at your flat. Smart casual, please. And shave. Prince William will be playing.’

  ‘Just checking – you haven’t put me down to play too, have you, Melissa?’ he enquired. ‘I mean, polo isn’t another of my hidden passions, like sailing?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But supporting elephant charities is.’

  ‘Elephants! How nice. Would you like me to bring anything for the raffle?’ he bantered on with irony. ‘A car, maybe? An elephant? Or should I prepare my Rolex to be surrendered at short notice?’

  I smiled, despite my best intentions. ‘Just yourself will be quite satisfactory.’

  ‘I always aim to satisfy,’ he drawled, and I could virtually see his dark eyes twinkling as he peered over the top of his Gucci shades.

  I had several sneaky reasons for escorting Nicky to the charity polo match at Cowdray. First of all, Alexander had sent me the tickets with a charming note about this being one of the events of the Season he enjoyed most, but since he was unable to attend, he’d consider it a huge personal favour if Nicolas and I could represent him there. More to the point – as Alexander and I both knew and didn’t need to say – it was yet another occasion when there’d be photographers and columnists from the usual glossy magazines, who could note him being polite and sober, and the more evidence there was of that in the press, the better.

  Thirdly, Prince William was playing. And I wanted Nicky to experience the novelty of not being the most important person there.

  Does that sound mean? It wasn’t meant to. I just wanted Nicky to see that he didn’t need to be the centre of attention all the time. That his title wasn’t the only interesting thing about him.

  I was slowly putting together my own explanation for why Nicky was such a dreadful attention seeker, and what I could do about it. I’d realised very early on in my Little Ladying that with most clients there was usually something under the surface that needed fixing, sometimes not even related to the ostensible problem – Nicky was no exception.

  I’d gathered from a chat with Granny that he’d been brought up by nannies at home with Alexander and his grandmother, Celestine. Nicky’s mother, Oriane, had spent ‘her better years’ schlepping round Europe with rock stars, and had been recovering from it ever since. As far as Granny knew, Oriane now lived in the south of France where she made bead necklaces that sold for ludicrous amounts in Ibizan boutiques, while poor Jean-Marc the racing driver had just vanished, apparently, in 1981. Whether it was of his own accord, even Granny didn’t know.

  Obviously, all this, even without being an evicted semi-royal, would give anyone a complex. Granny assured me Nicky was seeing ‘at least’ two therapists. But in the short term, how could I put a lid on the resultant fooling around?

  It was Nelson, ironically, who’d given me an unwitting clue when he’d been grumbling to Roger over the phone about ‘the Nicker-snapper’. Roger had taken agin Nicky about as badly as Nelson had, although with rather more cause, if you asked me, given Nicky’s shameless flirting with the object of his affection. To listen to the pair of them, you’d honestly have thought you were in an old biddies’ tearoom somewhere.

  ‘I know,’ Nelson had been saying. ‘He thinks everyone’s looking at him, even when they’re not! And it’s not even like he’s a real prince!’

  I’d glared at him across the room and made ‘pack it in’ motions. This whole ‘real prince’ thing was getting rather old.

  Nelson had roundly ignored me. ‘If you ask me, he has to have people staring at him, or else he’ll realise he’s just a common-or-garden cheesy Sloane freeloader. If people stop looking, he’ll stop existing!’

  Long pause, while Roger had obviously let rip at the other end.

  ‘I don’t think Zara really thought that, Rog
.’

  Another long pause, accompanied by much forehead-furrowing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Roger.’ He’d turned round at this point, and said, talking down the phone but staring straight at me, ‘No, I have no idea what sensible women see in men like that, either.’ Then his eyes had rolled and he’d sighed heavily. ‘Roger, no, I don’t think he’s in denial about being gay, mate. Sorry.’

  At that point I’d got up and left the room before he could see I’d been Googling for photographs of Nicky in his swimming trunks.

  I went through the rest of my morning’s appointments in a rather distracted mood. My mind kept shuttling back to the newspaper, wondering whether Alexander – or anyone – would think I was up to something, getting myself mentioned alongside Nicky. A couple of times I nearly put down my pen and went out to get a Mail, but each time the phone rang and a fresh new crisis emerged, until finally, at quarter to one, Nicky’s driver, Ray, called for me, and I had to leave for the polo.

  ‘Looking very lovely today, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said Ray, as he opened the door of the Bentley for me.

  ‘I don’t mind at all!’ I said, slipping onto the soft red leather of the back seat. Under heavy persuasion from Granny, I’d finally taken myself and the credit card Alexander had given me to Selfridges and let the personal shopper pick out a simple blue and white spotted wrap, which was a much more expensive version of three other dresses I already owned.

  Somehow, though, with the Honey wig and a pair of gold sandals, it looked substantially less simple.

  ‘Late night, last night,’ Ray informed me as we waited outside Nicky’s flat.

  ‘Really?’ I sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Where?’

  ‘Round at his friend Selwyn’s in Notting Hill.’

  ‘Not out on the town?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘No,’ said Ray, sounding surprised. ‘And, if you ask me . . .’

  Sadly Ray’s opinion was lost, as Nicky chose this moment to slide into the car next to me, and the atmosphere changed as if someone had turned on the lights.

  ‘Hello, Supernanny,’ he said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  I pretended not to be bothered, but a sudden wave of butterflies flew from the pit of my stomach to flutter high up in my chest, making my skin tingle and my heart beat faster. The temperature in the air-conditioned car seemed to go up a few degrees and I felt hot under my linen jacket.

  He was wearing a white shirt, jeans and a dark jacket, transformed into glossy-mag style by an air of careless confidence, and his thick dark hair was rumpled, as if he’d just got up. It was probably a look he’d spent all morning working on, I reminded myself.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, passing me a bit of paper, ‘your list of Paris clubs. And I thought you might like to see this,’ he added as we set off, chucking a copy of the Daily Mail at me.

  ‘Thanks! I really appreciate that, Nicky.’ I slipped the list of clubs in my jacket pocket and flicked through the paper to the offending page, trying not to seem bothered.

  There it was: the small photo I’d taken of Nicky in the bottom left of the page, next to a cut-out of a beaming Poppy Lowther in skintight jeans. I scanned through the lines: ‘Prince Nicolas . . . eligible young aristo . . . ointment heiresss . . . curvy honey . . .’

  I felt my face burn.

  He took the paper off me, rolled it up and rapped me playfully on the arm. ‘It’s going to take me years to rebuild my reputation after you’ve finished with me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to keep my expression nonchalant, ‘but at least you’ll have a reputation.’

  ‘Of sorts.’ He settled back in his seat. ‘Anyway. Well done. The old man will be chuffed. What’s your star sign?’ he added, shaking out the paper.

  ‘I thought only girls were interested in that sort of thing,’ I said warily.

  ‘Which is precisely why I am. Come on, what’s your star sign?’ He twinkled his brown eyes at me, and something inside me melted. Not on purpose. Like when you accidentally leave ice cream out.

  I heard myself say, ‘Pisces,’ and only just stopped myself from adding, ‘February the twenty-ninth.’

  ‘Pisces . . . Pisces . . . “A significant other disapproves of your current plans – stick to your guns. Your instincts are always right.”’ Hmm.’ He looked over the paper. ‘Does that mean that flatmate of yours? Nelly No-Mates?’

  ‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘And don’t call him Nelly.’

  Nicky gave me a sly look. ‘I bet he calls me worse.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lied. P. Nicky had just been the start. The Fake Prince of Bel Air, Slick Nick, Nicker-snapper, were just some of the more repeatable variations bandied about between Roger and Nelly.

  Nelson.

  ‘Ah, my mistake!’ Nicky pointed his finger at me and looked pleased with himself. ‘It’s the fiancé who’s disapproving.’

  ‘You make “fiancé” sound like some kind of illness,’ I observed.

  ‘Nothing wrong with engagements,’ said Nicky airily. ‘I’ve had three of them myself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I got treatment for them. Cleared up in no time. Hmm. What’s the fiancé’s sign?’

  ‘Capricorn,’ I replied automatically, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Nicky. ‘Cash, cars and credit cards, eh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Capricorns. It’s all they care about. Security. I bet he’s got three houses and a pension plan, eh?’

  I could feel myself blushing. That was true, but also . . . not the point. ‘Astrology is a load of nonsense,’ I blustered crossly, feeling very protective of Jonathan. ‘Anyway, I think you’ll find Capricorns are meant to be great lovers.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Nicky. ‘“Lie back and think of the Bank of England, darling.” Don’t argue with me about astrology, you romantic, imaginative Pisces. I’ve made a point of knowing all about this nonsense. Girls love it.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, bristling at the condescension, ‘maybe if you spent longer brushing up on proper topics of conversation, you’d spend more time with intelligent women and . . .’

  My voice trickled to a halt as Nicky lowered the newspaper and gave me the full force of his amused stare. As we passed by some trees the early summer light dappled onto his tanned face, and I noticed just how smooth and flawless his golden-brown skin was. My fingers twitched to touch it, to see if it was soft like suede or peaches.

  A few very charged seconds passed as he smouldered at me and I pretended to look disdainful. Inside, though, I was glad I’d remembered to put down the thick leather armrest between us. I wasn’t sure whether he was having me on, with all this ‘hey, ladeez’ routine. Whether it wasn’t just a private joke he was sharing with me, because he knew that I knew it was all an act.

  Or was it?

  ‘Pisces – very good at living double lives and very good at getting drunk.’ Nicky held out a finger towards me, as if reading my mind, then pushed a hank of blonde hair behind one ear. ‘And, yes, there are the telltale enchanting eyes.’

  While my mouth was still open in protest, but before I’d thought of what to say, he winked, and added, ‘I bet you just love having your feet rubbed, don’t you? Amongst other things.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ I said, and grabbed the paper.

  We drove through the gates of Cowdray Park and Ray parked next to a veritable showroom of gleaming limousines. Bentleys, Jaguars, Audis – most with uniformed drivers hovering protectively around.

  ‘If he plays up, call me,’ he muttered as he opened my door to let me out. ‘I can easily take him round the block a few times.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I muttered back under the cover of a smile.

  Ray tipped his hat to me and nodded.

  Nicky and I made our way across the grass towards the large marquee, and as my heels sank into the damp grass I was glad I’d remembered to put a spare pair of shoes in my bag. We’d only gone about three s
teps, however, before Nicky had his phone out and was texting.

  ‘Ah, I’ll have that,’ I said, swiping it out of his hand.

  He spun round as if I’d made a grab for his testicles. ‘What the hell are you doing? Give me that back!’

  I dropped it into the echoing depths of my handbag and clipped it shut. ‘No, sorry. Can’t have you getting distracted from the day’s events, can we? Or taking snaps of Prince William on your camera phone.’

  Nicky’s lovely mouth dropped into an unattractive sulk. ‘As if,’ he said. ‘He’s very dull. And balding.’

  ‘Is he? But then he is the heir to a throne. I mean, a really big one. I’m rather looking forward to seeing him,’ I went on cheerfully, approaching the girl with the clipboard. ‘Hello, there, it’s—’

  Nicky barged in front of me, but in a manner that made it look as if he were gallantly saving me from having to talk to her. ‘Hello. Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg.’ He paused. ‘And guest.’

  ‘Good afternoon, your highness,’ she said, with the blush that I’d grown accustomed to seeing on women’s faces when Nicky turned on the charm. ‘If you’d like to have a glass of champagne, the first chukka will start at three.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he said with a sideways glance at me, but I followed him as closely as a three-legged racer as he headed towards the bar.

  The main tent was decked out as splendidly as a London hotel reception room, with huge white floral decorations and arty bits of glass everywhere. Twenty or so large tables dominated the room, with heavy silver cutlery on the white tablecloths and four or more vast crystal wine glasses at each setting. The gentle tinkle of light jazz from the quartet in the corner was disturbed only by the equally gentle tinkle of champagne flutes and the flick of Cartier lighters as the other guests floated around networking furiously.

  I must admit that my eyes were skating from satin-swagged pillar to satin-swagged pillar, taking in all the faces that I knew. When I say knew, I don’t mean there was anyone there that I knew personally, but, as Gabi would have put it, the place was like an OK! TV special. I spotted half the emergency ward of Casualty, two people from GMTV, Lemar, Otis Ferry and Lizzy Jagger (not together), and Jay Kay from Jamiroquai. And that was just in the queue for more champagne.