Little Lady Agency and The Prince

  Aghast, I slapped my hand over my cleavage and leaned as far away as I could without falling off my stool, as Granny and Alexander glided across the bar like a pair of swans.

  She was looking supremely gracious in the sort of understated shift only the seriously stylish or very tall can carry off, with a set of diamonds that definitely weren’t paste. He was looking impeccable in a navy suit that set off his silver-grey hair and dark eyes. Together, they radiated a warm glow of confidence that made everyone else in the room look desperately overdressed. I noticed too that he had one hand just resting on the small of Granny’s back to guide her into the room – a tiny, old-fashioned gesture that was simultaneously protective and proud.

  I knew it well, since Jonathan did it to me.

  When Granny saw me, she lifted a hand in greeting while Alexander turned to murmur something to the waiter who’d materialised out of nowhere.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said apologetically to the champagne man. ‘My date has arrived.’

  He boggled at me.

  ‘Thanks for the champagne,’ I added, sliding off the stool as fast as I could. ‘Terribly sweet of you.’

  Across the room, a party of Russians were being unceremoniously turfed out of their prime spot so Granny could arrange herself on an easy chair, which she did with an air of delight, as if the table had been free all the time. She beckoned me over and I inched my way through the crowds, feeling quite nervous and unsophisticated again.

  ‘Darling!’ said Granny, half-rising to give me a kiss. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous! I bet you can hardly recognise little Melissa, can you, Alex? Hasn’t she grown up into a beautiful woman?’

  Alexander turned to me and, to the fluttering of my heart, made a very tiny bow of his head, then took my hand, and raised it to his lips.

  To be honest, huge cliché or not, I could have swooned right then and there, even if he didn’t look like Clark Gable. Which he did.

  My father might have been a Premier League Silver Fox, but Alexander was World Cup standard. An international charmer with the sort of old-school manners that flirted with self-parody but only in such a way as to make him even more attractive. His grey hair was swept back off his high forehead, and his brown eyes hinted at how dark and pirate-y he must have been in his youth. Yes, he had some wrinkles, but they were wrinkles of distinction. Wrinkles that laughed at Botox or facelifts. Wrinkles that said, yes, I have wrinkles but look at my handmade shoes! Alexander was clearly one of those rare men, like Paul Newman, who just kept becoming more attractive the older he got.

  Not that I could see Alexander bothering with salad dressing. Caviar spoons, maybe.

  ‘Of course I remember Melissa,’ he said, as a kindly twinkle came into his hooded eyes. ‘You’ve always had your grandmother’s lovely smile. And now I see you have your grandmother’s wonderful style too.’ The twinkle turned into a little-private-joke sort of intimacy. ‘I hope there have been no more . . . driving incidents?’

  ‘Gosh, no,’ I said, gasping. ‘I’m perfectly safe behind the wheel these days. Terribly reliable. You know, I’m still so sorry about . . .’

  ‘Oh, these things happen,’ he said, as if one wrote off sports cars every day of the week. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a lady who drives with a bit of elan, Melissa,’ he added gallantly. ‘It’s rather exciting.’ He looked over my head and caught Granny’s eye. ‘Your grandmother, for instance, was a terror behind the wheel.’

  ‘Not just behind the wheel, either,’ Granny murmured with an innocent look.

  ‘Her navigation isn’t up to much,’ I agreed. ‘She can only do directions via shops and people’s houses.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Alexander. ‘These days, I find it much easier to let my driver worry about that sort of thing.’ He nodded at Granny, who gave him a twinkly smile. ‘Much nicer to sit in the back and admire the view.’

  ‘Oh, she’s an awful back-seat driver, though!’ I said. ‘She’s always—’

  Was Alexander suppressing a snort?

  ‘Melissa is by far my most charming grandchild,’ Granny interjected, taking a glass, ‘and has the sort of innocence that quite restores my faith in humanity. Anyway, cheers!’ She lifted her glass. ‘To old friends!’

  I raised my flute and looked around the room to see if the fourth member of our party was anywhere in sight. Granny and Alexander were already chinking their glasses and muttering some Greek cheers-type phrase at each other.

  ‘Um, cheers, but shouldn’t we wait for Nicolas?’ I suggested politely.

  Alexander shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if it rather went without saying. ‘He will be late. And I wanted to enjoy the pleasure of a quiet drink with you two ladies before the circus arrived. Can you blame me for wanting a few minutes of you to myself? We have so much to catch up on.’

  I giggled and looked over at Granny. She was smiling like the cat who’d got the cream, the cow, and the farmhand.

  We spent the next hour or so having the sort of elegant, grown-up conversation I used to daydream about when I was at school: Alexander asked intelligent questions about my experiences of Paris, where his family spent half their time, apparently, and what I thought of London compared to New York, and gave every indication of actually listening to my replies, while our glasses were topped up as if by magic. We skirted a little around the topic of my agency, sticking mainly to the makeover side of things, and it seemed that Granny had filled him in – how much, though, I couldn’t quite work out.

  ‘You know, if I eat any more of these I’ll ruin my appetite for dinner,’ I said ruefully, scooping up another small handful of honey-roasted cashews.

  ‘I like a lady with an appetite,’ said Alexander, causing Granny to smile sphinx-ishly. Suddenly, a waiter appeared at his side and murmured something in his ear. Alexander frowned and murmured something back, and the man disappeared.

  Granny checked her tiny gold watch. ‘Alex, darling, I know you’re being polite, but I simply don’t think we can wait any longer for Nicolas.’ She gave him a private look. ‘In fact, I don’t think we should. He needs to learn that you simply can’t keep people waiting.’

  I popped a cashew in my mouth and was surprised to see a grim expression spread over Alexander’s handsome face.

  Oh no. Had there been some drama already?

  ‘He’s already here, Dilys,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘He’s been here for a good thirty minutes.’

  ‘Really?’ I almost laughed with relief. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s sitting round the corner? Oh, gosh, I’ve done that myself, so many times . . .’

  ‘He’s in the pool.’ Alexander clenched even harder.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Granny. ‘How tiresome of him! He knew we had a dinner reservation.’

  ‘In the roof-top pool?’ I repeated. ‘Is he a keen swimmer?’

  As if in answer to my question, a young man with the most outrageously room-stopping aura I’ve ever seen appeared with a man I took to be the manager. I wouldn’t say the manager was manhandling him, but there did seem to be a certain tension between the two. Maybe because Nicolas was wearing a fluffy white bathrobe.

  Whatever it was, everyone’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Evening all,’ said Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg, with a wink in my direction. ‘Nice tits.’

  Instinctively, I clapped a hand to my cleavage, not wanting to meet the flirtatious gaze he was directing up and down between my face and my chest. Even my neck was blushing.

  ‘Nicolas!’ hissed Alexander, his voice turning all clipped, like Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music. The man was a total film star. ‘Can you explain yourself?’

  Nicolas paused, and pressed his lips together as if in thought. He dripped onto the floor. I must admit that I was staring at his tanned feet because I didn’t dare look any higher – whether from fear of encouraging him, or from fear of being hypnotised like a rabbit by his huge brown eyes, I didn’t like to say.

  Then, as I gave in to curiosity and
, looked up, he ran his hand through his wet hair, and shook his head. ‘Not really. Fancied a dip. Hopped in. With a couple of friends.’ He sounded a little drunk already.

  ‘We do not allow swimming in outdoor clothes,’ said the manager, with an impressive note of regret in his voice. ‘So we were forced to remove the prince from the pool.’

  ‘I am lost for words,’ said Alexander. ‘I am aghast.’

  ‘I know!’ said Nicolas. ‘I took my bloody shoes off.’

  Alexander shot Nicolas a look which would have reduced even Allegra to tears, but it seemed to have little or no effect.

  ‘I take it you won’t be joining us for dinner?’ enquired Granny icily.

  Nicolas shrugged. ‘No, that should be OK. I’m having some more clothes sent round.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ said Granny, sounding anything but.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ demanded Alexander. He made a tiny gesture with his head towards me, and looked even more furious. ‘I can’t believe you could be so boorish as to keep our guests waiting . . .’

  Nicolas rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, come on. Roof-top swimming pool – has to be done.’

  ‘It does not “have to be done”,’ snapped Alexander. ‘Why would it have to be done?’

  ‘It’s a phrase.’

  Nicolas turned to me, as if to say, ‘Huh! Old people! What do they know?’ but I gave him the freeze. If he thought I was the kind of girl who was happy to be dipped in a chocolate fountain or tossed fully-clothed into a swimming pool, he was very wrong indeed.

  Super-hot or not, he was a good ten years too old to be excited about that sort of thing himself.

  ‘Does she speak?’ he enquired of his grandfather, nodding at me. ‘Or is she just here for decoration?’

  Up to that point, I’d been somewhat tongue-tied, not because Nicolas was technically royal, but because he was astonishingly attractive. It pained me to admit it of a man so deeply in love with himself, but Nicolas had a real head-turning magnetism. Even in a bathrobe, with his black hair wet and slicked back, and five o’clock shadow tracing along his jaw, he looked as if he were en route to some A-list ‘come in your bathrobe’ party.

  However, equally obviously, he was also an arrogant, sexist, spoiled idiot, and for me that overrode everything else, just like bad breath can ruin a fabulous outfit.

  Even as I thought that, a little voice in my head was telling me not to be such a prig and to look at his fabulous swimmer’s shoulders.

  ‘Yes, she does speak,’ I said quickly, before Granny or Alexander could speak for me.

  ‘And what does she say?’ he drawled.

  ‘She says, you’re dripping onto my handbag.’

  He stared at me, and I stared back. If he’d been nice, I’d probably have been overcome with shyness, but being this uncouth didn’t make him any different from the scores of surly blokes I dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Nelson and Jonathan had raised my expectations, as far as manners went. Even Roger might smell weird but he was never rude.

  Anyway, poor Alexander was now clearly mortified as well as angry. And it was a new Lulu Guinness evening bag that I’d brought out especially for the occasion.

  ‘I do have that effect on girls,’ he drawled, raking his hair back.

  ‘And what’s that?’ I said.

  He winked at me. ‘Damp patches.’

  Granny took a sharp, disapproving breath.

  I gave her a puzzled ‘What?’ look.

  ‘I know how to deal with drips,’ I said politely, moving my bag away from him. ‘They’re quite easy to brush off.’

  ‘Book a room, wait there for your clothes and join us as soon as you can once you’re decent,’ said Alexander in a low, dangerous tone.

  ‘Oh, yah, I booked a room already,’ Nicolas said, and turned his chocolate-brown eyes towards me again. ‘Room 202. Two-oh-two.’ The long lashes brushed his cheek as he winked slowly. ‘Shall I write it down on a napkin?’

  ‘If you think you need help remembering it,’ I said.

  ‘Go!’ thundered Alexander, so forcefully that several heads turned and didn’t turn back again.

  There was a tense pause, then Nicolas shrugged, helped himself to my glass of champagne and swaggered off.

  I watched him go, unable to take my eyes off his bathrobe. He didn’t shuffle, or slouch, as most of my English clients did. He sauntered.

  What an idiot, I reminded myself.

  Granny, Alexander and I repaired to the luxurious dining room of Petrus next door, where Alexander wasted no time in ordering some wine for the three of us.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, once our glasses were filled and the menus handed out. ‘He knew exactly what time we were meeting.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ murmured Granny.

  I glanced at her under the guise of studying the starters. She seemed more annoyed about Nicky’s behaviour than she ever had been about Allegra’s carryings-on. And Allegra had been expelled from six different schools, married a man who was already technically married to someone else, and nearly been arrested for international fraud.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, trying to sound blasé. ‘It was lovely to have some time to chat on our own.’

  Alexander inclined his head graciously. ‘You’re too sweet, Melissa. I can only apologise on his behalf.’

  Granny tutted to herself. ‘Well, while we’re still on our own, as you can see, Alexander really needs some outside help,’ she said. ‘And, as I’ve told him, I don’t know anyone who could do a better job of knocking some sense into Nicky than you.’ She took a large sip of wine. ‘Any sense at all would be a good start.’

  ‘Dilys,’ began Alexander, with a swift look over the table at me, ‘you know, perhaps it’s a little unfair to Melissa to—’

  Granny held up a hand. ‘Not at all. Melissa’s dealt with much more awful types than Nicky, haven’t you, darling? That dreadful actor boy in New York, for instance – tell Alexander about him.’

  ‘Well,’ I began, turning pink, ‘Godric wasn’t so awful – he was just a fish out of water, and I helped him to—’

  ‘He was an embarrassment,’ interrupted Granny. ‘Have you heard of him, Alex, darling? Ric Spencer? English actor, was in that film with the big plane crash? Anyway, he was upsetting people, sulking in interviews, no idea how to behave whatsoever. And Melissa stepped in and smoothed off his edges, and now he’s meant to be the next Hugh Grant, isn’t he? Did you tell me he’s in the running for James Bond?’

  I blushed. ‘Yes, well, that was meant to be confidential . . .’

  Alexander sighed deeply and spread his snowy-white napkin on his lap. ‘Dilys, I don’t doubt Melissa’s . . . capabilities for a second. I just wonder if it’s fair to land her with such a Herculean task.’ He smiled sadly at me.

  ‘Just what exactly is this Herculean task?’ I asked sweetly. ‘If you would explain what it is, I’ll be able to tell you whether I’m up to it or not.’

  Alexander and Granny looked at each other.

  ‘He’s your grandson, Alex,’ said Granny encouragingly. ‘Better explain before he gets back, don’t you think?’

  Alexander hesitated, then looked me square in the eye.

  I tried not to melt.

  ‘My father was the last reigning prince-governor of a small province on the Montenegran coast,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t large, but we had a beautiful, ancient castle, and a marina and a wonderful forest where we kept truffle hounds . . . Anyway, there was a revolution in the nineteen thirties, long before your time, of course . . .’

  ‘And ours, darling,’ Granny reminded him.

  Alexander allowed himself a little smile. ‘And ours. In any case, we were forced to abandon our family home in a great hurry, and move to France, but I have dreamed of returning ever since. And now, I am so pleased to say, there’s a chance that we can.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘Just like a film!’

  ‘Ah.’ He raised a finger. ‘There
are conditions. The country is not rich, and we must maintain the castle ourselves, which is not a problem. It would be an honour to do so. And we must allow people to look around some of it, and allow the BBC to film some drama there once a year, or somesuch. My lawyers are looking into that. But the main difficulty is that the government is very traditional. They want a family, a respectable family that they can show off to tourists.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a gorgeously European manner.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, beginning to understand.

  ‘My daughter, Oriane, is not . . .’ He turned to Granny. ‘What is the best way to put this, Dilys?’

  ‘Oriane reminds me very much of your mother,’ said Granny, looking at me meaningfully. ‘I think they have the same taste in spas. And detox centres. And kinesiologists.’

  ‘She is not the same after the last divorce,’ agreed Alexander.

  ‘And Nicky’s father?’

  ‘We do not speak of him,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Racing driver,’ murmured Granny under her breath.

  ‘It has been made very clear to me that unless Nicky shows he can calm his behaviour, take on some responsibility, the deal cannot go ahead. And my family will lose this last chance. I must confess, yes, I would like to see him settled down, and thinking of a family, instead of just his own pleasure. But not with someone who’ll make the situation . . .’ he paused, ‘worse.’ Alexander looked up me, concerned. ‘I’m afraid he won’t meet the right girl, the way he is now. Would you want to marry him, Melissa?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I stammered, not sure what the polite response was.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ Alexander shook his head. ‘And that makes all of us so unhappy. Ours is not an illustrious family, but it is an old one, and our name has never, ever, been dragged through the tacky papers this way. We do not want Nicolas to end up with a trapeze artist, in and out of the divorce courts, children everywhere.’

  ‘But, if he wants to—’ I began.

  ‘Nicolas does exactly what he wants,’ said Granny tartly. ‘That’s the point. Which is fine when you’re a merchant banker from Epsom. But he wants all the fun of being a prince, and none of the responsibility that goes with it.’