What the Lady Wants

  I nibbled a home-made shortbread biscuit. ‘He’s way off that scale. Way off. He makes Orlando look like Roger Trumpet. I mean,’ I corrected myself in light of recent transformations, ‘the old Roger.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘Worse than you could imagine,’ I said. ‘But the grandfather’s a complete sweetie. He even noticed my new shoes. The ones you said made me look like Minnie Mouse. And he has the most gorgeous old-fashioned way of talking to you – I mean, I can quite see the older-man charm thing now . . .’

  Nelson fixed me with his Paddington Bear Hard Stare. ‘You’re not seriously going to take this on, are you?’

  I hesitated over a second biscuit. ‘I don’t know. I’d like to be able to help Granny out. And I can see how it could be quite interesting in some respects, because frankly someone needs to tell him you just can’t talk to women like that these days, and then there’s the whole castle business . . .’

  He widened his eyes as if I’d temporarily taken leave of my senses.

  ‘Oh, listen, it makes no odds whether I would or wouldn’t, since Jonathan will never agree to it,’ I said, pouring hot water into the teapot, feeling some relief that this thorny decision was effectively out of my hands. ‘So at least I can give Granny a cast-iron reason that she can hardly argue about.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to go down that road?’ Nelson went back to his maths with apparent unconcern, but the even way he said it immediately alerted me to a hidden spike of sensibleness.

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  He looked up. ‘Just that it’s not like you to let other people make decisions for you. Especially not control freaks like Mr Riley.’

  ‘Jonathan and I are going to get married,’ I reminded him. ‘And he’s not a control freak. It’s a decision for us.’ I stuffed another biscuit in my mouth and checked my watch. ‘Is it too late to ring him, do you think? I need to ask what the weather’s like so I know what to pack. We’re doing the Tuileries and some light shopping this weekend, and I need to take his secretary out for coffee to win her over to liking me.’

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ said Nelson, picking a Post-it note off the floor. ‘I meant to say – Remington called while you were out and said . . .’ he scrutinised his writing, ‘the weather’s lousy, there’s a party neither of you will want to go to, and he knows you’re probably dying to see your new nephew, so he doesn’t mind spending the weekend at your parents’. He’ll meet you at Waterloo at five on Friday and then something about a five-star hotel I didn’t write down.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I said, pouring him a mug of tea. ‘Very amusing. What did he really say?’

  ‘That’s what he really said. Is he on some kind of medication?’

  ‘He’s really making an effort with my family,’ I informed Nelson. ‘He spent nearly an hour with my father last weekend. I even heard Daddy laughing at one point. Jonathan’s a lovely man,’ I said, pleased to shove Nicolas’s smug suntanned face out of my head, and replace it with Jonathan’s all-American good looks.

  Nelson squinted up at me. ‘Or a very clever one.’

  ‘Both,’ I said happily. ‘He’s getting married to me.’

  Even after a full working week, an hour’s delay in the Tunnel, and a horrible on-board meal, Jonathan still looked immaculate as he got off the Eurostar on Friday evening. His cashmere overcoat hung perfectly over his left arm, his jaw was very lightly stubbled – even the doors slid open for him, rather than stick, as they had done every time I’d tried to make the same graceful arrival at the Gare du Nord, leaving me stabbing at the buttons while ignoring the sea of tetchy French businessmen behind.

  I also loved the way his face lit up when he saw me on the platform, as it did now. Jonathan’s natural resting expression was rather stern, which had been a bit off-putting at first. It was only as I’d got to know him better that I realised it hid quite a shy man beneath. And now I saw the frown swept away by a broad smile that made his grey eyes shine with delight.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, putting his BlackBerry away, and scooping me into his arms for a tight hug.

  We didn’t do kissing on railway platforms. Neither of us was into big public displays and, besides, I was quite happy to keep Jonathan’s romantic abilities to myself, thank you very much.

  ‘I have a lovely French evening planned for you,’ I told him, as we made our way to the car park. ‘To make up for being here and not in Paris. We’re going to go for a drink at the French House in Soho, then I’ve booked a table for dinner at L’Escargot.’

  ‘Parfait, chérie,’ said Jonathan, then he rattled off a load of French I didn’t understand, but it sounded fabulous.

  I must confess, I spent the first part of the evening just staring happily at Jonathan, holding his hand and listening to his accounts of the new properties he’d taken on in Paris. I loved hearing him talk. He had an incredibly sexy accent, and he’d been doing extra refresher French lessons, so his French was impressively good too. There’s really nothing sexier than listening to a man speak a foreign language, don’t you think?

  ‘So, what have you been up to?’ asked Jonathan, as the waiter took our pudding plates away. He stretched his hand over the table and entwined my fingers in his. ‘I’m sorry I’ve missed your calls. Solange puts my personal messages on different colour Post-it notes – there are always too many blue ones I haven’t been able to take.’

  ‘I’m on the blue Post-its?’ I said, just to check.

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh, well, in a way it’s nicer to be able to tell you my news in person,’ I replied. My brain was already racing, searching for the right way to broach the whole Prince Nicky topic. It was rather a big idea to present, and I needed to get the whole thing described and dismissed quickly, before it triggered Jonathan’s gentle nagging about my taking on dreadful clients, and how much better my time and expertise could be spent.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Jonathan. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘Granny’s asked a favour of me . . .’

  ‘Has she?’ said Jonathan cheerfully, signalling for coffee. ‘She’s a national treasure, your grandmother. My mother keeps asking me how she should address her at the wedding. Whether she should curtsey or not. Can you drop her a line and let her know?’ He winked. ‘I think she’d like it if everyone else had to curtsey except her. Can you fix that? She loves all that English aristo stuff.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Oh, thank you.’ I made room on the table for my espresso. ‘It’s funny you should say that . . .’

  I explained Alexander’s proposition very quickly, without taking breaths, and when I’d finished I sat back, waiting for Jonathan to say no.

  I knew he’d say no in a very nice way, which was fine. I could repeat it verbatim to Granny.

  ‘I see,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘That’s quite some favour.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, unwrapping my chocolate coffee bean. ‘I told her it wouldn’t really fit in with the plans we’re making and –’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.

  ‘– that it wasn’t at all appropriate for an engaged woman to be cavorting around with a man like that.’ I looked up. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I don’t see why you shouldn’t do it,’ said Jonathan.

  At this point, my jaw may have dropped open. Or Jonathan may have just put his finger under my chin and closed my mouth as an affectionate gesture.

  ‘Why not?’ he repeated. ‘I bet the fee would make it worth your while.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I stammered. ‘But I thought you said . . .’

  ‘It’s a one-off, right?’ said Jonathan. ‘Like a last hurrah for Honey?’ His face softened. ‘You have to admit, it’s kind of romantic – restoring a royal family to their rightful palace. Imagine knowing you’d made that happen. Maybe this friend of your granny’s can get you made a dame or something.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully. Jonathan had a weird American view of Eu
ropean royalty that I didn’t think would last for long if he actually met Nicolas. ‘But it’s not like he’s a real prince . . .’

  Jonathan looked confused. ‘I don’t follow. A prince is a prince, surely?’

  ‘Well, yes and no.’ I struggled to think of the best way to put it. ‘There’s a sort of sliding scale of how seriously royal princes are taken in England, depending on how much they do, and whether they’re a prince of somewhere that actually recognises their, um, princeness. For instance, Prince William’s got a job in the army and stacks of royal duties like opening schools and visiting hospitals, plus he behaves himself. Nicky’s rich, but he has no throne, no job, and he’s really only a prince in the sense that it gets him to the front of queues in nightclubs. That impresses some people, but not me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jonathan. ‘So where does this guy’s family fit in the sliding scale?’

  I took a deep breath. To be honest, I wasn’t all that strong on the pecking order of defunct monarchies. ‘Well, if Britain, Spain and the Netherlands are Premier League, then the Hollenbergs are somewhere around the bottom of the fourth division,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t think they even had an army. I mean, yes, they’re distantly related to all the right people, but there used to be hundreds of little monarchies in Europe, just to give Queen Victoria’s billions of children something to do. But since Communism and World War Two and the EU and everything, there are stacks of redundant princes knocking around Chelsea, and most of them couldn’t even point out where they used to rule on a map. Unless it’s got a nice beach.’

  ‘And this guy’s one of those?’

  ‘I suppose so. But his grandfather’s terribly serious about his duties, and if I help Alexander get the castle back, Nicky will have something to do – he’ll have a role in promoting the principality, using the castle to get tourists in and film crews. Having something to do might be the making of him.’

  Jonathan gave me a knowing look. ‘Sounds like you’re already itching to make him over.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if it’s that easy,’ I said. ‘I’m not entirely sure Nicky wants something to do.’

  He topped up our water glasses. ‘Listen, go for it. It’ll be the favour to end all favours for your family, for one thing. You sign the deal, fill your address book with upscale contacts, then move to Paris with me. You say the family lives in Paris half the time, right? Well, he’s bound to have some good connections there. You can put the money into a new business for the two of us, and we can start over together.’ The smile intensified and he leaned across the table slightly. ‘As life partners and business partners.’

  My brain was still engaged with the Nicky problem, and I wasn’t expecting this abrupt change of direction. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  Jonathan beamed, like a child unveiling his special project work. ‘You’re always saying how I can’t tell you that you work too hard when you’re running your own business, right? And that Dean & Daniels don’t pay me enough for the hours I work for them? Well, I’ve been giving the matter some thought while I’ve been in Paris, and I reckon now’s the time for us to hand in our notices, and set up on our own.’

  ‘You mean . . . start up a business together?’ My brain raced to keep up. Had we actually finished discussing Nicky? Or was Jonathan just moving on to what he wanted to discuss?

  ‘You got it!’ said Jonathan with a little snap and point of his fingers – a nervous tic I thought I’d just about beaten. ‘You know how much I love that amazing touch you have with houses. I mean, you were in the new flat for what? A weekend? And you’ve made it look like a home from home already. Now, what if you were to do that as part of a service for new home-buyers? I find the properties, you help them move in. And all those smart details you’re so good at – finding the right staff, or working out where the schools are, the nice pâtisseries – people want to know that sort of thing.’

  ‘But I don’t know Paris,’ I reminded him. ‘Not like I know London. Jonathan, just to go back to Nicky for a—’

  ‘You’d get to know it so quickly,’ he breezed on. ‘It’s smaller than London. And we’d be targeting ex-pats, Americans, English families – they want someone they can trust. Someone who speaks their language. Someone who really reminds them of home, you know?’

  ‘My French is très mauvais,’ I protested. ‘And, honestly, I don’t know if—’

  ‘Solange will find you a tutor,’ said Jonathan. ‘In fact, she might even coach you herself. She’s offered to give me extra conversation lessons after work.’ He looked approving. ‘Really, she’s the most organised woman I’ve ever met – apart from you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said. I wasn’t as organised as Jonathan thought. I just made lots of lists. Still, it was flattering that he thought I was. ‘But, darling, let’s not get too far ahead here. Are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t mind my taking this job on? I’d have to spend a fair bit of time with Nicolas. I might even get photographed with him, you know. I mean,’ I added delicately, ‘you know how bothered you were when everyone thought I was Godric’s girlfriend in New York.’

  ‘Bothered’ was putting it mildly. I’d never seen super-cool, super-grown-up Jonathan get so agitated as when I was shepherding Godric around, even though I’d known Ric the film star since he was Godric the gloomy adolescent.

  Jonathan paused for a moment, then dropped a sugar lump into his coffee and stirred it briskly. ‘That was different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘We weren’t engaged then. I don’t think you’re going to run off with this Nicolas, even if he is a prince.’ He looked up, his grey eyes very serious. There was a brief flash of anxiety in them that I found utterly heart-melting. ‘I mean . . . are you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I spluttered. ‘I mean, yes, I’m sure some women would find him attractive but . . .’ I was about to say ‘I find him repellent’, but Nelson’s ‘Ding!’ lie detector went off in my head. Instead, I amended it to, ‘It’s going to be very hard work making him look like a gentleman, put it like that. It might not be as simple as shouting at him and making him stop texting other people over dinner. And what with Granny knowing Alexander . . .’ I spread my hands. ‘I’m already kind of involved. But I won’t do it at all if you think it’ll cause a second’s upset between you and me.’

  Jonathan arched an eyebrow, and I wondered if I’d misread him. ‘Maybe I also want to prove to myself that I can let you go a little, and know you’ll come back.’

  ‘Jonathan!’ I exclaimed. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘OK, OK. One thing, though,’ he added. ‘Wear the wig.’

  ‘The wig?’ Now this was the U-turn to end all U-turns.

  ‘Yes,’ he said seriously. ‘So I know that the woman with this guy is Honey, not my Melissa. It means you’re doing a job, not getting dragged in for real. Then, when the job’s done, and you’ve picked up your fee, we’ll throw the wig into the Channel. Is that a deal?’

  I hesitated, and met his steady, searching gaze, trying to ignore the goosebumps that still prickled deliciously on my arms when Jonathan looked at me like that.

  It was quite a lot to take in.

  He was what I’d always wanted, I told myself. A real soulmate – someone who loved me, and more than that, someone who respected my independence.

  But he’s just assuming you’ll pack in your agency! I argued with myself.

  ‘You mean, close my agency?’ I asked, to clarify.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Jonathan looked miffed. ‘Be real, Mel. You’re not going to be able to run it from Paris, when you’re living there permanently, are you?’

  I must have looked a little stunned, because he added, ‘I’m not asking you to give up your work, I’m just asking you to work in Paris, with me. Together. Isn’t that what we both want? It’s what I want. I thought you would too.’

  Jonathan gave me a hurt-puppy-dog look that was so far removed from his usual amused detachment that I felt a great rush of remorse sweep away my doubts. br />
  I could still buy the flat, though. That would be like a little wedding present – our own London lovenest.

  ‘Of course it is,’ I said, reaching over the table to take his hands in mine. ‘Of course it’s what I want.’

  In the morning, after breakfast in bed in our Mayfair hotel room, we set off for the country. I must admit, even though I’m not one of those teeny-weeny-bootie-obsessed women, during the week I had popped into Baby Gap and Petit Bateau to pick up a few little clothes for the as-yet-unnamed Baby McDonald, and was quite looking forward to seeing the little chap, now he’d had time to calm down a bit.

  In fact, as we scooted down the country lanes, sun roof open, the Supremes blasting forth and Jonathan’s hand on my knee, I really did feel an unusual sensation spreading through me: for just about the first time ever, I was looking forward to going home.

  Obviously, that lasted until we pulled up outside Romney Hall.

  I could hear Emery’s baby crying even as we were walking across the drive to the front door. It was a ferocious wail, so insistent that it was hard to credit it could have emerged from a child of Emery, and it sent shivers down my spine.

  Jonathan put his arm round my shoulders and squeezed me.

  ‘Feeling broody, huh?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just scared that I have no idea how to get him to stop making that noise. Emery clearly can’t.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be as quiet as a mouse the moment you get your hands on him,’ Jonathan reassured me. ‘He’s a guy, isn’t he? I haven’t seen you fail yet . . .’ He tightened his grip and leaned in to plant a sneaky kiss on the curve of my neck. ‘And strictly between you and me, when I saw you with that baby in your arms last weekend, well . . .’ He nuzzled his nose behind my ear. ‘It made me quite broody.’

  The chilly shivers turned into rather pleasant ones, and I wouldn’t have minded exploring the idea of a broody Jonathan a little further if an upper window hadn’t been flung open and my mother’s head hadn’t emerged from the choking ivy surrounding the casement.

  ‘Darling!’ she shrieked. ‘Thank God you’re here! You have to come up here at once! Allegra’s locked me in!’