Little Lady Agency and The Prince

  I just prayed it would happen before I could think of a way to get Piglet talked round about those photos of Nicky.

  I chose an evening when I was heading home for christening negotiations to break the news of my move to Nelson.

  ‘I’ll be back on Sunday evening,’ I said, dumping my bag in the hall. Normally, I’d have gone over to give him a hug goodbye. Not now.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ he said, not looking up from the chopping board where he was reducing a pepper to a zillion tiny pieces. ‘And give my love to her royal highness-to-be.’

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to say the words I’d been dreading. At least now I could say them and make a sharp exit. ‘Nelson, I’ve been thinking. It’s time I moved out and got a place of my own.’

  The heavy knife clunked on the chopping board. ‘Ow! Shit!’ He sucked his injured finger and swung round to face me. ‘Why do you want to move out?’

  ‘Well . . . you know.’ I shrugged. ‘I think I need a little time on my own. Maybe we both do.’

  Argh. Agony.

  ‘Oh. Oh, right.’ Nelson looked hurt. ‘Um, well, if that’s what you want.’

  Of course it’s not what I want, I longed to yell. I want to live here with you! For ever!

  But I didn’t. I just hauled on my Brave Little Soldier face. ‘Well, you know, the London house market isn’t going down, and I need to get on the housing ladder at some point, or else you’ll have a lodger for the rest of your life!’

  ‘Is this because you’re in the money now?’ Nelson asked, trying to look cheerful. He was a rotten actor, though, and his unhappiness showed through. ‘My lowly flat’s no longer good enough for you, now you’re used to staff and helicopters?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I exclaimed. ‘You know I’d happily stay here for ever with you! But if you . . .’ I couldn’t. It was just too demeaning.

  Nelson gazed at me expectantly, still sucking his bleeding finger.

  God, how I wished he felt the same as I did, all tingling at the rightness of each other. But he didn’t.

  ‘It’s time I got a place of my own,’ I finished.

  ‘And you’re sure?’ Nelson’s gaze was searching. ‘You really don’t have to, you know.’

  I paused, digesting all the things we suddenly didn’t feel able to say. ‘I think I do.’

  ‘I see. Well, good for you.’ He picked up his knife and an onion and began chopping again. ‘You should get a move on, if you’re going home. You know there are roadworks on the M4? We can talk about . . . moving out and stuff after.’ The words seemed to stick in his throat.

  I nodded, suddenly overcome with emotion.

  Nelson put down his knife, turned round, and held his arms open.

  I ran into them.

  He didn’t kiss me passionately or admit he adored me in a clipped Brief Encounter confession, but instead wrapped his arms tightly around me, tangling his fingers in my hair so my nose pressed into his shoulder. I wondered if he could feel my hot breath through his blue shirt, or the tears leaking from my eyes.

  We hugged each other for about five minutes, not speaking or wanting to break it off, and when I finally pulled away, Nelson wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘Onions,’ he explained. ‘They’re a real bugger.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and waited a second in case he said anything else.

  But he didn’t, so I shouldered my bag and left.

  Over the next few weeks, I found three good, honest things about moving out.

  One, I rescued Braveheart from my parents, and brought him home to live with me in the office/flat. It was good to have his smelly white self around, even if he did remind me of Jonathan. His fruity snoring kept me company on the long evenings when I’d normally have been squabbling happily with Nelson about who was the definitive Dr Who, and his constant need for walks counteracted my comfort eating. As a bonus, he was a splendid ice-breaker for nervous clients, who couldn’t discuss their love lives straight out, but could chat happily about dogs.

  Two, Nelson had to ring me up and ask me if I wanted to come over for dinner, which I always did. And Gabi had been right: now I wasn’t living there, seeing each other was something we actively looked forward to, and he always looked as if he’d just changed into a fresh shirt.

  Three, I found, to my surprise, that though my spare room was tiny, though I had to go round to Gabi’s for a bath, though the novelty of being able to get to work in under ten seconds wore off, I actually liked living on my own. I’d been in such a whirlwind of events over the past few years that I’d forgotten how good I was at being on my own. It made me realise I could change fuses and cope with middle-of-the-night panics – not just for my clients, but for myself. Most of all, those long walks round Green Park with Braveheart, watching the leaves turn gold, then brown, then finally fall into rustling piles, gave me time to think. And the more I thought, the more I knew who my real prince was.

  Speaking of princes, I saw Nicky for dinner soon after I moved out of Nelson’s, although my work there was officially done. I felt bad that I hadn’t dealt with his blackmail problems; for once I just hadn’t had the emotional energy to spare on someone else.

  ‘We’ve got a few weeks,’ he said, nervously ordering a second bottle of champagne. ‘Imogen’s still in Bali doing that reality television show. She’s such a cow that people aren’t voting her out, but I just know she’ll go to the papers as soon as she’s back.’

  I patted his hand, something I felt I could do now, with no fear of misinterpretation. ‘Don’t worry, Nicky. I’ll think of something.’

  Then he got a text message, and it was Leonie, which answered my next question before I even asked it.

  It was during one of our regular treks around Green Park that I finally found the courage to ring Jonathan. Braveheart had shot off in pursuit of a squirrel, managing to wrap his lead round a tree and a litter bin in the process – and I found myself thinking, ‘I must tell Jonathan how native Braveheart’s gone.’

  Then, before the thought could slink away, I pulled out my phone and called him. It was what a friend would do, after all.

  I stood silent for a minute as it rang at his end, the cold October air nipping through my gloves and hat. When he answered, I felt a pang of nostalgia at that familiar, gorgeous New York accent, but then thought of hot chocolate in a china cup, so my voice would sound as cheery as possible.

  ‘Hello, Jonathan!’ I said. ‘I’m ringing to tell you Braveheart’s manners are no better in London than they were in New York! And,’ I added, more normally, ‘to see how you are.’

  ‘Melissa! Great to hear from you!’

  There was a moment’s uncertain pause, then we both said, ‘So! How are you?’ followed by a pause, then, ‘No, how are you?’

  I told him about the cruise, and about Alexander’s upcoming reinstatement ceremony or whatever it was called. He told me some places we could have gone to eat in Monte Carlo had we ever got off the yacht.

  He told me he’d left Dean & Daniels and was setting up his office – with the redoubtable Solange – to start in the New Year. I told him it would be a massive success, and I’d point everyone I knew in his direction.

  ‘You’ll be fine with Solange at the helm!’ I said, more jokily than I felt. ‘She puts my office managing to shame!’

  ‘She’s efficient, but she doesn’t have your . . . people skills,’ said Jonathan, rather wistfully. Then he brightened up. I couldn’t see his face to tell if the brightness reached his grey eyes. ‘You must let me know next time you’re in Paris – I’ve found some really great little neighbourhood bistros you’d love. I totally get what you mean about hunting down back-street gems. Hey, why not come over for a day’s Christmas shopping? Bring Gabi, if you want,’ he added over-casually.

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ I said. ‘But I can’t keep up with her shopping. I might just come on my own, if that’s OK? It’d give us a chance to get more than two words in ov
er lunch, if nothing else.’

  There was a pause, in which we both thought things, but didn’t say them. It wasn’t a bad pause, though.

  ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘So will I.’ We chatted a little more, about nothing much, but by the time I hung up, I’d begun to think that maybe that road to Special Friendship wasn’t as littered with potholes and speedhumps as I’d thought.

  Emery and William delayed the christening once more, over a name stand-off this time, and then finally, under serious pressure from Mummy, who realised she could tie the whole thing in with their village Christmas party and just have one major tidy-up of the house, Emery caved in and confirmed the date for the end of November.

  Since Bertie’s christening/naming ceremony was planned for Sunday lunchtime, I decided to leave it until Friday afternoon before I headed home. Any earlier and they’d have me doing everything from fixing the leaky roof to worming the dogs; any later and I’d only have to deal with the chaos created by letting them get on with it.

  I packed Braveheart into the Smart with my own overnight bag and set off in good time. The weather was cold but very crisp and quite Christmassy.

  When I rapped at the door, William opened it.

  ‘Hi, Melinda,’ he said, kissing my cheek, and aiming kicks at the pack of dogs surrounding Braveheart in a sea of friendly barking.

  I forgave him for getting my name wrong. He looked totally jet-lagged – although that might just have been the effects of stumbling into a Romney-Jones family event he’d been doing his best to avoid for months.

  ‘How are things going?’ I asked, as we walked down the hall, the dogs’ claws skittering on the tiles.

  ‘Er, to be honest? I have no idea,’ said William. ‘They shout even when they’re not arguing.’

  As we approached the drawing room, the gentle roar of muted debate seemed to bear out what he’d said. But just as William’s hand touched the doorknob, a black-clad blur swooped down on him.

  ‘Daddy! It’s your turn for feed and nap! Chop, chop! Mustn’t keep Baby waiting!’ barked Nanny Ag, tapping her enormous watch.

  William looked stunned and allowed himself to be propelled up the stairs. When they were halfway up she turned back to me and said, ‘You’re looking very puffy, Melissa! Are you regular?’

  I spluttered.

  ‘Roughage, that’s what you need. I’ll be back to deal with you later,’ she warned, wagging her finger, then resumed shoving William upstairs. ‘Now, what have you done with Mummy? I can’t find her anywhere,’ I heard her say to him as they went.

  God almighty, Emery was right. I had to do something about that woman.

  I pushed open the drawing-room door and found Mummy, Daddy, Granny, and Allegra sitting round a tray of coffee and biscuits, arguing fiercely about which of us had weighed the most when we were born. Daddy was smoking a large cigar to annoy my mother, who was knitting furiously. There was no sign of Emery.

  ‘Ah, it’s the woman with the Teflon ring finger!’ bellowed Daddy when he saw me. ‘I hear you’re not engaged to that prince, either, now.’

  ‘Martin!’ snapped Mummy. ‘Shut up. It’s so good of you to come over, darling,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘You’re so terribly busy at the moment, what with one thing or another. I know Emery’s awfully grateful for your help so far.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ demanded Allegra. ‘We haven’t seen her for days. Anyone would think she was trying to avoid poor Nanny.’

  I boggled. If Allegra knew what sort of embarrassing pictures Nanny Ag had of her on her pony, Buttons, she’d soon change her tune. ‘Is everything else ready?’ I asked. ‘I spoke to the caterers yesterday and they seem ready to go. No . . . extra guests?’

  Mummy sighed theatrically. ‘Nothing’s ready. Nothing! The dogs got into the linen press and ruined all the sheets, so we’ve had to wash everything before your uncles arrive tomorrow, and your father had a ton of Cheddar delivered about an hour ago, and poor Mrs Lloyd is having to cut it all up for the reception. Emery’s gone AWOL and now your grandmother tells me her fiancé will be arriving tomorrow and I have no idea what the protocol is about introducing a soon-to-be but not-quite head of state.’ She glared at Granny. ‘It makes him sound like he’s auditioning for something.’

  ‘Which he is, really,’ added Daddy. ‘Surely they’re only having him back as king on appro? Until he’s learned his ceremonial dances?’

  Granny waved her hand airily, all the better to sparkle her diamond ring at him.

  I decided to go to the kitchen and help Mrs Lloyd with her cheese hedgehogs.

  For the rest of the evening, I whirled round sorting stuff out: getting bedrooms ready for various family members, checking exactly who was coming, calling in favours from various ex-cleaners in the village to get the house looking halfway decent, and tracking down Emery. There were still things I didn’t know about this christening – like exactly what was going to happen at it.

  I eventually ran her to ground in the pantry, evidently raiding it for supplies. William had gone off in disgrace with the dogs, having demolished the entire pie Mrs Lloyd had made for supper, and Emery was looking as if she’d have happily broken her usual vow of inactivity and gone with him.

  ‘Right,’ I said, cornering her. ‘Have you spoken to the vicar about fees and such like?’

  ‘We’re not having a vicar,’ she said. ‘Daddy and I had a fearful row. He wanted it to be in the chapel, for the snob value, but the vicar said it hadn’t been consecrated ground since before the Civil War and he refused to do it.’

  ‘Good for him,’ I said. The so-called chapel was practically falling down, and had had chickens in it for the last ten years. ‘So who is doing the ceremony?’

  Emery’s eyes skated back and forth between jars of jam. ‘Well, that’s it. Daddy still wanted to have it in the chapel, because he’d told the magazine people it would be, and they’re paying a huge amount to cover it, what with Granny marrying Alexander and Nicky being a godfather, so we had to improvise. I wanted it in the woods,’ she complained. ‘But Daddy wasn’t having that either. Something to do with mantraps?’

  ‘So what is happening?’ I demanded impatiently.

  ‘It’s going to be in the chapel, with a registrar. Who may or may not seem to be a vicar. Don’t look at me!’ she protested. ‘I did my best! Daddy’s had some set-building people Allegra knows in there, turning it into some kind of mini St Paul’s! Didn’t you see the vans round by the stables?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t say I did.’

  ‘Looks rather good, actually,’ Emery added, helping herself to a Tunnock’s teacake. ‘Daddy’s ordered a shedload of booze, and virtually everyone we know is coming. Will and I snuck off down to the pub with Allegra the other night, and invited some locals so, you know, if there’s anyone else you want to invite . . . Actually, shouldn’t we have a few extra sandwiches laid on, in case they stop for tea?’

  I covered my face with my hands and tried to sound calm. ‘Shouldn’t you have told me this before now?’

  Emery turned her most sympathetic gaze on me. ‘But you’ve been so busy! I didn’t think you needed more stress.’

  ‘Emery!’ I began, but then another Dalek voice barked, ‘Emery! Mummy!’

  We froze, stared at each other, and Emery made a bolt for the door.

  I hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

  I went back to my room, shut the door firmly, and calmed myself down by making a list.

  Arrange extra sandwiches

  Deal with Nanny Ag

  Deal with Nicky’s blackmail issue

  I bit my pen and felt guilty. I’d been saved so far by Imogen’s unexpectedly long run in that celebrity pirate show, but I still hadn’t thought about what I could do, aside from talking reasonably to her – which was sheer wishful thinking. Nicky would be arriving tomorrow, expecting me to come up with some magic solution, just as I had done with everything else.
>
  I threw myself back on the pillows, utterly weary of being Deal-with-everyone-else’s-problems Mel.

  As I stared at the same crack in the ceiling that had been spreading ominously towards the window since I was a child, the organisational part of my brain pointed out that I could maybe soothe my conscience a little bit by making sure Leonie would be there for Nicky. If it was a free-for-all, who’d notice an extra body?

  I rolled over and rang her.

  ‘Hi, Melons!’ she said cheerfully. ‘I was just doing my accounts.’

  ‘Please don’t call me Melons,’ I said automatically. ‘You’re not really doing accounts on Friday night, are you?’

  ‘Yes?’ said Leonie. ‘Isn’t that when you do yours?’

  ‘Um, not usually. Are you doing much this weekend, apart from that?’

  ‘Just my pole-dancing aerobics class on Sunday morning.’

  I choked a little. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, you know, it’s a class I go to. Just thought it made sense to acquire a new skill as well as keep fit, and it’s always something I could turn to if needs be. Very lucrative, in time/recompense terms.’

  The mental image of a spangly Leonie pole-dancing while briskly negotiating her fee with pissed-up businessmen somehow made total sense.

  ‘How sensible!’ I managed. ‘Um, well, it’s very short notice, but we’re having some people over for my nephew’s christening on Sunday – Nicky’s going to be a godfather – and you’d—’

  ‘Love to,’ she interrupted. ‘What time?’

  After a few minutes’ chit-chat, I put down the phone and crossed ‘Nicky’ off my to-do list. Business acumen and pole-dancing in the comfort and privacy of your own home: Leonie got more perfect for Nicky by the minute.

  Various Romney-Jones relations had started arriving on Saturday morning, so as to lay first dibs on the rooms with twenty-first-century mattresses. That was the trouble about having the ancestral pile, however falling down and leaky it was: the rest of the family assumed you had hotel-grade accommodation. Mummy’s immense jam stock, coupled with Daddy’s freebie cheese mountain meant that poor Mrs Lloyd, who’d been making mini scones since daybreak, wasn’t short of supplies as the crowd of ravenous Romney-Joneses built up in the drawing room.