I shook my head again, not trusting myself to speak as tears filled my eyes too.
‘I hope we won’t . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’re right – we owe it to each other to part in as elegant a way as we met. Melissa, I hope I can still be a special friend to you?’
I flung my arms round him. ‘Jonathan, I never want us to be less than special friends!’ I sobbed. ‘That’s not even in question!’
‘Then that’s something,’ he said, and I think he was crying.
Jonathan left half an hour later, and I spent the rest of the afternoon just sitting in my chair, staring at the wall, ignoring the phone, unable to move or stop the tears rolling silently down my face, until the light began to fade, and shadows started to fall in the office.
At seven, there was a tentative knock on the door, and when I didn’t answer, it pushed slowly open, and Nelson peered round, wearing his cricket whites.
I’d forgotten he had nets that evening. I’d promised to go along and video his bowling for later dissection.
When he saw my tear-ravaged face, and the roses, and the piles of Kleenex covering the desk, his expression changed into one of infinite kindness as he put two and two together and made about ninety. Without speaking, he crossed the room in a few steps and engulfed me in a huge bear hug, pressing my nose into his cricket jumper. There was such gentle concern in that simple, spontaneous gesture that a new reservoir of blubbing burst open and I howled for the romantic cocktail nights and sexy mornings in Jonathan’s New York townhouse, for the surprise birthday plans I’d made for him, for the well-mannered ginger children we’d never have, and for the fact that you could love someone who loved you, but still not be able to make things work.
Nelson, meanwhile, just stroked my hair, until I hiccuped to a blotchy-faced halt.
‘Come on, Mel,’ he murmured soothingly, helping me to my feet. ‘Let’s go home.’
If I was heartbroken at calling off my engagement, I knew it would be nothing compared to the disappointment my parents would feel – something akin to that of a small child who’s been told that Santa’s been dropped for the Christmas gig. My father had only started treating me like an adult since Jonathan came on the scene, and my mother was besotted with him.
But I had to tell them, and, more to the point, I had something to get off my chest with Daddy.
True to form, Mummy spotted that I wasn’t wearing my ring the moment I walked through the drawing-room door.
‘Are you having your diamond cleaned, darling?’ she asked delicately.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve given it back. I’m afraid I’ve broken off my engagement.’
‘Oh dear!’ Mummy sank into the nearest chair, nearly spiking herself on the knitting needles sticking up out of it. Attached to them was what looked like a life-size knitted barn owl, but with fins. ‘Why?’
‘Because of what you said. Jonathan and I . . . we just weren’t being ourselves.’ I sank into a chair myself, but not before checking it for knitted wildlife. ‘I don’t think I could have made him truly happy and it would have broken my heart to make him unhappy.’
‘I’m so sorry, darling. Would you like a quick stiffener?’ she asked, concerned. ‘I could do with one.’ Before I could reply, she reached into an ornamental flower stand, withdrew the crystal whisky decanter and a couple of glasses and poured us both a generous drink. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said, as she dropped in some ice, concealed in a tissue box. ‘Nanny’s got us all on rations, your father included.’
‘Good God,’ I said, and sipped the Scotch. I needed something to buck me up to challenge Daddy, especially if he was in a foul mood. If there was one thing I was determined to do, it was to give him a piece of my mind before I left. Make him feel guilty. Make him realise that he couldn’t treat me like that. If I didn’t say anything now, I’d never be able to face myself again.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked. ‘It’s very quiet.’
‘He’s in his study, reading P.G. Wodehouse to poor Bertie. Emery’s hiding from Nanny, I think, and your grandmother left for Nice this morning in a helicopter.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apparently, that helipad your father’s always showing off about is for decorative purposes only. Still, Alexander was terribly sweet about it.’
‘Did it damage his chopper?’ I asked, wondering what Nicky would have to say about that.
Mummy coughed on her Scotch. ‘In a manner of speaking. Anyway, are you sure about Jonathan? It’s not just pre-wedding jitters?’ she asked hopefully.
I shook my head. ‘No. Sorry.’
She leaned over and patted my knee. ‘Well, it’s a brave thing to do. I had to do it once or twice myself and it’s frightful. I’m sure you’ve got good reasons.’
‘Yes, I have,’ I said, assuming Daddy had told her about the franchise investment. ‘I was furious. I felt like I’d been horse-traded!’
Mummy’s brow creased as far as her Botox would let her, which was an almost imperceptible wrinkle. ‘Steady on, darling, Granny didn’t mean to . . .’
‘What’s Granny got to do with it?’
‘You split up with Jonathan because you’re seeing Nicolas now, aren’t you?’
‘What?’ I stared at her. ‘No! Of course not! Didn’t you know? Jonathan and Daddy were planning to sell my agency across the country like—’
‘Like Office Angels but with stockings and a bit of sauce. It’s the best idea I’ve had in years!’
I spun round, and there was Daddy in the doorway, Bertie strapped to his chest. Both were pink around the nose and a bit drooly.
I ground my teeth. I’d hoped for a bit of a run-up before tackling Daddy, but here he was, like a terrifying three-fence and water-jump combination, all from a standing start.
What made it even more disconcerting was that he was wearing an ingratiating smile. He obviously hadn’t heard the first bit of our conversation.
‘I was wondering when you might pitch up. Let me guess,’ he went on, jovially, ‘you’ve popped over to play hardball about your marital stake in the company, eh? Don’t blame Jonathan for letting you do the negotiating – after all, it is my little lady who owns the Little Lady Agency, isn’t it? And what a business-like Little Lady she’s become! But I must warn you, it’s better to leave the numbers to the chaps. You stick to those clever wardrobe tips, popsy.’
‘Martin . . .’ hissed Mummy, making ‘No, no!’ gestures.
I stared at him, as fury coursed through my veins. It was precisely this blend of condescension and bullying that had led me to set up the agency in the first place. ‘If you must know, Jonathan and I have called off our engagement. And this deal he and you were cooking up – without bothering to consult me – was a major factor. I can absolutely believe it of you, but for him to go behind my back like that was the final straw.’
I didn’t think now was the time to add that there were other equally valid contributory factors. All the fury and unhappiness that had been swilling around me for the past few days erupted like molten lava and I wasn’t about to let details get in the way.
‘All my life you’ve put me down, and belittled me, and now I’ve built up something to be proud of, you think you can just buy your way into it!’ I raged. ‘Well, you can’t! And if you think I’d marry someone who’d connive with you to, to, disempower me . . .’
‘But I did it for you, you stupid woman!’ yelled Daddy. ‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t on your own, up to your neck in it with some silver-tongued estate agent!’ He actually managed to look wounded. ‘I wanted to protect you!’
I boggled. ‘Don’t give me that! Since when have you ever done anything for anyone but yourself? Marriage isn’t something normal people need to be protected from, in any case. And for your information, Jonathan was well aware of what you were up to. He was out to use you about as much as you were trying to use me!’
Daddy looked positively stunned, and covered Bertie’s ears. I supposed I was shouting now.
Not that I?
??d finished either. ‘Most girls have fathers who care about them, and love them unconditionally, but you’ve just treated us like idiots from the day we—’
He held up his hand, and, thinking he wanted to apologise, I stopped short.
Instead he narrowed his eyes. ‘What did you just say?’
That threw me. ‘Which bit? You letting me down? Or going behind my back?’
‘No, no, the bit about Jonathan exploiting my investment.’
‘Martin, you pig!’ snapped my mother. ‘Apologise to Melissa right now!’
I held my shuddering breath while Daddy rearranged his features into something approximating remorse. To be fair, he did look fairly rueful. But that may have been the vision of having to redo his tax accounts.
‘Melissa, darling, of course I’m very sorry that you’re so upset and it’s terribly sad about the engagement . . .’ He pulled a sympathetic face, but then his real nature broke back through. ‘But in what way was that sneaky bastard ripping me off?’
My voice was shaking. So were my hands. And my knees, come to that. ‘How can that matter to you more than my feelings, you . . . you monster?’
Daddy heaved a patronising sigh. ‘Melissa, my darling girl, it’s business. You really shouldn’t mix the two if you’re going to get so emotionally involved.’
I bored my most hate-filled glare through his forehead. ‘I am nearly thirty years old. I am not your little girl any more. And if you didn’t have my nephew strapped to your chest,’ I snarled, ‘I swear to God I would throw my drink over you.’
I stormed across the room, in tears, and Daddy stepped aside to let me out, widening his eyes at my mother. As I passed, without stopping to think, I grabbed hold of his newly candy-flossed hair and yanked.
As I thought, a large section of it came away in my hands, like a clump of mangy urban fox.
To my great delight, Bertie unleashed the most almighty wail, right under Daddy’s nose, and showed no signs of stopping.
If I were still living Jonathan’s film-star life, I would have leaped straight into my car and driven away in a cloud of triumphant dust. Actually, if I’d been living Nicky’s equally unreal existence, I’d have got into the Bentley and told Ray to take me back to London, but since I’d had a large Scotch, I was trapped at home until my blood alcohol level went down, and forced to take refuge in the rambling upper storeys.
You told him, at least, I thought. You’re not carrying it around inside you. And that’s a step forward.
Out of long-forgotten habit, I headed towards the attic, where Emery and I had spent much our of childhood playing darts and hiding from people. It came as no great shock when I found her up there, reading Heat magazine and eating a chocolate orange.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just me,’ I said, as she scrabbled to hide the evidence.
‘You look ghastly,’ she observed now, with a directness I’d come to expect from Allegra, not her. Childbirth’s surprising effect on Emery’s personality had meant it wasn’t so much like gaining a nephew as gaining a whole new sister, as well. The filmy veil of ethereality had been drawn away to reveal quite an acid drop.
‘Budge up and give me some chocolate,’ I sniffed.
‘Crisis?’ she asked.
‘You could say that,’ I replied and filled her in.
‘You know, in an odd way, I do think Daddy was doing it for you,’ she mused. ‘He doesn’t ever show it, obviously, but he’s always banging on to me and Allegra about how you’re the only one who’s ever managed to make any money, standing on your own two feet.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘As opposed to us lying on our backs and thinking of alimony, I guess.’
If that was meant to be witty, it went over my head. ‘What?’
Emery swung her long hair at me. ‘Look, he was probably just trying to sneak in an extra prenup for you. Safeguard your business by getting his own foot in the door. I know it’s warped, but he’s like that, isn’t he?’
‘Safeguard it? From Jonathan?’ I felt like crying again.
‘Oh, what do I know,’ said Emery, falling back onto more familiar tactics of vaguery. ‘Why don’t I take your mind off it by telling you how bloody awful my life is?’
I helped myself to some chocolate and sank against an old Chesterfield sofa as Em began a long, long whinge about ex-wives, Daddy’s hogging of Bertie, Allegra’s continued attempts to stress Mummy into freaky knitting and winding up with motherhood in general.
‘Nanny Ag is driving me utterly bonkers, Mel. And Daddy refuses to get rid of her, because he enjoys tormenting her more than any other human being he’s worked with, according to him.’
‘Where is she now?’ I asked, grateful for a different topic.
‘It’s her half-day. Probably in town getting her broomstick restrung.’ Emery stuffed the spine of the chocolate orange in her mouth before I could nab it myself. ‘You know she confiscated my iPod this morning? Said the radio waves would upset the baby. I need it,’ she added, more to herself than me. ‘I need those dolphin songs.’
‘Well, let’s go and get it.’ I heaved myself to my feet and brushed the dust off my skirt. ‘Come on,’ I said, looking back at the depressingly large fresh area I’d cleaned on the sofa. ‘No time like the present.’
‘What’s got into you?’ demanded Emery.
I set my jaw. ‘The worm is turning.’
We weren’t allowed in Nanny Ag’s room as children. Even though it had been a spare guest room for the past fifteen years, as Emery and I approached, our shoulders automatically went timorous and we both started to tiptoe.
‘Do you think . . . ?’ she whispered, turning to me.
The adrenalin was still in my system from earlier, however. Nanny Ag didn’t scare me, especially when she wasn’t there. ‘For God’s sake,’ I snapped, and swung the door open.
The pink and white room was supernaturally neat, with brushes lined up at meticulous intervals on the dressing table, and only one book by the bed: Potty Training in One Week by Gina Ford. Even her slippers were lined up next to the fireplace, next to her sensible shoes (shoe trees included). It was the sort of neat you see in the photos of serial killers’ homes.
‘Where do you think it is?’ Emery whispered.
‘Probably hidden somewhere,’ I said, and began opening the dressing-table drawers. ‘Where’s the last place anyone would look? In her knicker drawer.’
‘Mel,’ Emery began, ‘are you sure you should be . . .’
‘Yes,’ I hissed. ‘She has no right to confiscate your iPod. You’re a married mother of one! And this is your house!’
I couldn’t see it amongst the neatly folded Sloggi armpit-high pants and industrial girdlage. But as I rummaged through Nanny Ag’s identical M & S blouses, my hand closed on something box-like. Triumphantly, I drew it out.
It was a box file. ‘Here you go,’ I said, passing it to her. ‘Have a look in here – you’ll probably find Allegra’s underwater Walkman and your old Smash Hits sticker album.’
Emery opened it and her jaw dropped. ‘Mel!’ she said.
I was busy folding everything back in the right place. ‘What?’
‘It’s not my iPod.’
I looked over to the bed, where Emery was flipping through a notebook with undisguised horror.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘It’s . . . us!’ She thrust the book at me. ‘Everything we’ve done! How much Daddy drinks in an evening! Where Mummy’s hidden her Vicodin! The real reasons Allegra was expelled!’ She put the book down and picked up another. ‘It’s . . . oh, my God! Kitty Blake! I went to school with her! I had no idea she— Blimey! So that’s why she only ever talked to her pony.’
‘What?’ I scrambled across the bed to look.
The box file was packed full of old photographs of Happy Meal birthday parties at McDonald’s and unflattering fancy-dress outfits, printed-out emails, computer disks, tapes marked ‘Baby monitor – Gingold/Patterson Affairs 3–7’ . . . Stacks of what could only
be described as evidence.
‘The sneaky cow must have been collecting this stuff for years!’ I gasped. ‘And I know some of these people too!’
Emery raised her eyes in horror. ‘We probably recommended her to them.’
I scrabbled through the assembled notebooks. ‘But I don’t see how she could have had time to work for all these people . . .’ Good Lord – that was Godric Ponsonby and his sister Aelthred! And that, if I wasn’t mistaken, was Bobsy Parkin, complete with a faceful of braces that made her look like a human cheese grater.
Bobsy had never mentioned Nanny Ag to me, and most of the girls I was at school with kept in touch with their nannies for years. I frowned. How was that possible?
I searched through the box and soon found out why: letter after letter revealed that Nanny Ag had been operating a network of nanny informers, from one end of the country to the other.
Gracious. I had no idea Bobsy’s father had a love child in South Africa. She certainly kept that quiet.
‘Mel, look at this,’ breathed Emery, waving a sheaf of papers at me. ‘She’s been taking notes on us! “Emery has passive-aggressive issues”, indeed. I’ll give her passive—’
She broke off as the front door closed, and Daddy yelled, ‘It was only a small one! And the bloody sun’s well over the yardarm, you fascist old boot!’
We froze, surrounded by the evidence.
‘She’s back!’ gasped Emery. ‘What do we do?’
I thought quickly. ‘Put everything back. She’s not going anywhere. We need to think about this.’
Hastily, we repacked and stowed the letters and photos with trembling fingers. My last-minute present-wrapping skills certainly came in handy now.
‘Mummy? Where is Mummy?’ bellowed Nanny Ag, clumping up the stairs towards us. ‘You are late for bed and stories!’
‘You’re late, you bitch,’ muttered Emery, as we slid out of the room as silently as we could. ‘Bertie doesn’t give a toss.’
Unfortunately, we’d misjudged Nanny Ag’s SAS-like ability to get up stairs faster than you’d expect from someone of her size, and we bumped into her just outside her room.