It didn’t take long to block out some engagements to cover most of the summer. Ideally, I wanted to make them events where I had the connection, so I could retain some semblance of control – over Nicky, and over any coverage in the press. I could take him to Mummy’s first night at the art gallery, for instance, and then there was an old schoolfriend Kitty, now in PR, who was organising a charity Sports Day. Nelson was bound to know someone at Cowes Week, Granny had seats at Wimbledon, where he could be seen to admire the ladies’ final without actively admiring the ladies, and I could drag him off to the Goodwood Revival meeting in Daddy’s old Aston, to show how much he cared about history and tradition.
Add in the contacts I had on various society gossip columns, and friends’ younger sisters who worked the door list on various nightclubs . . .
I twitched my mouth, wondering if that would be enough to convince Alexander’s contacts that Nicky was a reformed character. I could force him to watch some instructional DVDs: Sabrina, Gone with the Wind, High Society. He was smart enough to know the role he had to play. Some proper clothes would help too. I made a note to take him off to a new but very traditional tailor I’d found on Savile Row for some English suits. What else?
I opened another old issue of Tatler, saw a drunk and shiny-faced Nicky headlocking twin Latvian ballerinas at a party, while he himself was dressed as a French maid, and hurriedly closed the magazine.
As Alexander had admitted, Nicky’s reputation was a serious business problem; he needed someone to take over the supervision full-time when my contract expired. A solid, old-fashioned girl from a good family who’d put her foot down. Nicky didn’t just need an image makeover for the papers; he needed one for prospective girlfriends.
While I was prepared to cut a few corners for the celebrity press, I couldn’t inflict an unreconstructed Nicky on some unsuspecting nice girl. No, if I was going to do this, I had to make a real effort to tackle his transformation from the inside out.
‘Ways to make N a real prince’ I wrote at the top of a new page.
Must be able to have dinner with a girl without trying to sleaze all over her.
Must dress like a gentleman and not an extra from Footballers’ Wives.
Develop interesting hobby or skill that demonstrates hidden sensitivity.
Must put people at ease, not make them want to punch him.
Should not spend more on grooming than date.
Should listen in conversation and not just barge ahead with his own show-off anecdotes.
Must know when to turn off mobile phone.
Find something worthwhile to do with his life.
Must stop dipping women in fountains and learn some respect for them.
Must acquire decent car?
I got the feeling it was a list that might well expand, but it was enough to be going on with for the time being. It certainly focused my mind nicely for the weeks ahead.
Feeling much better about everything, I finished off my fruitcake, and I was about to wash up the plate and sneak back to bed when I heard a distant wail. A few moments later, the kitchen door opened and a ghostly figure in white silk slid in.
‘Don’t look at me, Melissa,’ commanded my mother. ‘I don’t have my face on.’
I looked up. Her hands were spread over her face, leaving only her eyes visible. They were the same pale blue as Granny’s.
‘That baby’s got lungs like Allegra,’ she went on, opening the fridge while keeping half her face covered. ‘I completely understand now why my own dear mamma got herself and Daddy booked on a cruise every time I went into hospital with one of you.’
‘Mummy,’ I said, ‘what’s the story with Granny and Prince Alexander?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked shiftily, lowering her hands. I hadn’t seen my mother without make-up for years. She looked like a slightly older, un-coloured-in version of herself. With freckles.
‘Do they go way back? He seems awfully fond of her.’
‘They had a romance when your grandmother was singing in a nightclub in London after the war,’ she said. ‘Don’t look at my crow’s feet, Melissa. He was very keen on her, but his snobby old witch of a mother wouldn’t let him marry someone who, you know . . .’ She pursed her lips, creating a fascinating maze of lines.
‘Couldn’t help him get the castle back?’ I suggested.
‘Ye-e-e-es,’ said Mummy. ‘Something like that. Anyway, Alexander was one of Granny’s friends in London for years. He used to throw lovely parties where everyone had to come as a film star, just so she could dress up as Rita Hayworth.’ She frowned. ‘That was quite embarrassing when Rita Hayworth came too. No one would believe it was her.’
‘Did they actually have a grand passion, then?’ I went on, trying to work out dates in my head. ‘Was it a Love That Could Never Be?’
‘Oh, yes. But there were lots of men who were in love with Granny, darling. Even when she was married to your grandfather. Alexander married some Hungarian trout, but he carried a torch for Granny for years. I think she always fancied the idea of being a princess.’
‘She was certainly no lady, despite her title.’
Mummy squeaked with horror and covered her face. I looked up to see Daddy in his Harrods pyjamas, clutching a silent, pink-faced baby, its eyes darting around as it tried to take in its surroundings.
‘I had to,’ he said quickly. ‘How else was I going to get any sleep? Stop staring at the baby, Melissa, and make me some toast.’
‘My God,’ said Mummy. ‘There really is a first time for everything.’
Naturally, it gave me great pleasure to kill several birds with one stone by making Nelson’s sailing charity dinner the new improved Nicky’s first outing. Not only would it take a whole table off Nelson’s hands, making the charity ladies happy, but Gabi and Nelson might help me keep Nicky in line, should he decide to abandon our agreement to go along with things for the designated time, and play up.
Obviously, the first person I asked was Jonathan. He looked so divine in his black tie, and his quickstep would make Nelson eat his words about the sexual orientation of men who could dance. Not only that, but it would make it really clear to Nicky that I was out of bounds.
‘I’d love to come, sweetheart,’ he said ruefully when I outlined my plan, ‘but I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a potential new client first thing Thursday, and I want to be fresh.’
‘You couldn’t get an early train back?’ I suggested hopefully. ‘Please, Jonathan? It’d be like old times – me in my wig, at a dinner, in a swanky London hotel?’ I dropped my voice. ‘I could get out that old black corset you haven’t seen for a while . . . ?’
‘Unfair! Stop making me feel so nostalgic. I can’t, Melissa. And it would probably stop you giving him the full Honey treatment, in any case, don’t you think? Get Nelson to take pictures. Or will I be seeing them in the paper, huh?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, rather sadly.
Nelson didn’t have anyone lined up, which fitted in perfectly with my blind date campaign. He looked very dashing in black tie, and would be illuminated from within by his twin passions of high-pitched organisation, and the joy of sailing.
‘So, have you got a date for the big night?’ I asked casually, over breakfast on Monday.
Nelson stared at me like I was stupid. ‘Yes. You.’
I flapped my hand. ‘Don’t be silly. You can’t take me, I’ll be taking Nicky.’
‘Oh.’ Nelson attacked his scrambled eggs with some vigour. ‘Well, no, then. Maybe it’s better that I don’t have one – I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to spare. Wouldn’t want to be rude and abandon my date, you know.’
‘What? And lose a ticket sale? Why don’t you let me find you one? What about Jossy?’
‘Not Jossy,’ said Nelson, a bit too quickly.
I suppose that rather answered any lingering questions I had about him seeing her again.
Nelson and I locked eyes. I smiled encouragingly.
&nb
sp; He cracked first.
‘Oh, God, if you must,’ he sighed. ‘Pass me the milk.’
‘I must,’ I insisted. ‘Don’t you understand how in demand normal unmarried men of your age are? Even ones with your irritating amateur policing habits.’
‘When you put it like that . . .’ said Nelson. ‘And if someone with your dreadful parking skills can get a bloke, I don’t see why I should spend my evenings all alone, forced to watch whatever I want on television, eating Pringles un-nagged, and using as much hot water as I like in my bath.’
‘I’ll get onto it,’ I said. ‘It’s my duty.’
‘If you say so. But, please, Mel – no low-carb nutcases,’ he said, pointing his fork. ‘No one whose dad pays her rent and definitely no one who’s given their car a pet name.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised, as the social Rolodex in my brain started whirring.
I phoned Nicky to tell him about the dinner, and after three attempts got hold of him – at half two in the afternoon I finally tricked him into answering my call by withholding my own phone number.
‘I cannot help you, I’m afraid,’ he shouted by way of greeting, in a thick Greek accent I knew wasn’t his real one. ‘You’ll have to speak to my representatives in London!’
‘Nicolas, it’s Melissa,’ I said stiffly. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
I only asked that because I could distinctly hear some kind of Barry White-ish music in the background and the sound of running water. Or splashing of some kind. I wasn’t very comfortable about conducting a business discussion with a client in the bath.
At once he reverted to his usual Knightsbridge drawl. ‘No, darling, you’re not. I’m just having breakfast, actually –’
At half two?
‘– with an old friend.’
At this point, a voice worryingly close to the telephone said, ‘Sod off, Nicky! I’m not old!’
‘Hang on, Melissa,’ said Nicky, then everything went a bit muffled, as if the phone was being pressed against excessive chest hair. ‘How old are you, Charlotte?’
‘Scarlet. I’m seventeen.’
Then there was the sound of splashing. It sounded a bit like someone getting out of a bath in a huff.
I blushed at the unwanted mental images.
‘And who’s Melissa?’ this old friend of Nicky’s shrieked, her voice getting further away.
More splashing.
My blushes turned to acute embarrassment, but tinged with creeping annoyance.
‘Is this a bad time?’ I enquired icily.
‘No, no, everything’s under control. What was it you wanted? . . . Don’t throw that! Scarlet, don’t be a silly girl. Don’t throw the Krug in the bath! She’s my PR executive! Do you want me to spank you?’
Splashing and giggling.
I bit my lip, mortified to feel like a voyeur in my own office on the one hand, and absolutely livid with Nicky that he was making me feel like that on the other. And to make things even more awkward, I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to yell.
‘We’re going to a charity dinner in aid of sailing for inner-city kids,’ I said very quickly. ‘Dinner, a raffle, a charity auction, a few short speeches, maybe some dancing. Next Wednesday night. I’ve got a table of ten, and some of my friends are coming, so if you’d like to invite two of your friends to make up the table, that would be fine. I’ll put the invite and the details in the post to you, but keep that night free, please?’
I didn’t tell him I’d billed the entire table to Alexander. I reckoned that counted towards Nicky’s charitable donation. My justification was that I’d need the combined force of Gabi and Nelson to control him if he decided to make an exhibition of himself before I’d learned how best to manage things; so they were really a necessary business outlay.
‘And this is going to benefit me how?’ he enquired. ‘Because you’re not really selling it to me as a top night out, I have to tell you.’
I bit my tongue on a caustic reply. ‘You’re going to be seen making a generous donation to a worthy cause, there’ll be plenty of photographers there who’ll see you talking nicely to the charity organisers, all of whom are very well connected, you can say something about how your grandfather’s yacht taught you all sorts of useful life lessons, and if you really can’t bear it, you can leave by eleven o’clock.’
‘Pretty girls?’
‘Lots,’ I said, crossing my fingers at the fib.
Nicky yawned. ‘Well, if it ticks a box for the old fella, and gets this whole bullshit a step nearer finished, then I suppose I’d better turn up.’
‘Do that,’ I said.
A terrible splashing, combined with a sudden gasp from Nicky suggested that my allotted time had come to an end.
‘Oh, my God, you bad girl!’ he groaned lasciviously and I hung up before he could explain that he wasn’t talking to me.
It took two cups of coffee and several biscuits before I completely regained my composure.
When I told Gabi I’d got her and Aaron a couple of tickets to have dinner on the same table as a prince, she went into a wardrobe overdrive that put Nelson’s meticulous preparations in the shade.
‘What are you wearing?’ she demanded in her third phone call of Monday afternoon.
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I admitted, shoving the phone under my ear so I could carry on typing my email.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Honestly. I haven’t.’ I didn’t add that when I’d tried on my fall-back black-tie dress at the weekend, I’d found it rather more close-fitting than normal, on account of the croissants and that weird ten pounds of Happy Flab you always get when you meet the love of your life.
‘I read somewhere that you have to wear gloves.’
‘That might not be a bad idea,’ I said, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach. Solange had helpfully emailed me the ‘emergency diet’ all the girls in the office used on such occasions. It seemed to involve a lot of eau. ‘I can’t vouch for where Nicolas has been. Or how clean his hands are.’
Gabi made a funny noise. ‘You’re not helping, Mel! Short or long?’
‘Gabi, it’s a dinner. There will be lots of sailing types there, including Roger and Nelson, and Nicolas will probably skedaddle thirty seconds after the coffee’s been served,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m not making a huge effort, because I don’t want him thinking I’m tarting myself up on his account.’
‘Well, I will be,’ she said. ‘Aaron, or not.’
And then there was the matter of Nelson’s date.
I had a million single girlfriends, but alas, Nelson’s selection criteria were more mysterious and exacting than MI5’s: it wasn’t just a case of setting him up with the prettiest ones. Before the Jossy date, I’d arranged for him to go for dinner with the most gorgeous girl I’d known at secretarial college – Harriet had legs so long that she had to sit at the end of the row – but Nelson had politely driven her home by half ten, and when pressed as to why the date had ended so soon, would only say, ‘She thought the America’s Cup was a pub in South Kensington.’
However, I’d given the matter some thought, and had found him what I reckoned would be the perfect match. Leonie Hargreaves was a friend of mine from the second of my three schools. When I’d known her, she hadn’t been particularly pretty or brilliant, but she had a knack of calming down troublesome ponies by blowing into their ears, and I reckoned Nelson would appreciate that sort of thing. She was also very sensible about money, and had been treasurer of virtually every society going – again, something I felt Nelson would appreciate more than a spectacular cleavage.
Though I hadn’t seen her in years, we’d had a brief email chat after Christmas – work, family, catching up on other St Cathalians’ news, etc, etc – and I’d ascertained at the time that she’d been single for a while, and was on the lookout for a new chap. Fortunately for everyone, she was free on Wednesday night, which I took to be a Sign. She also informed me that she’d just passed some ve
ry complicated tax exam, which I took to be an even better one.
Nicolas deigned to inform me by text message that his own invited guests would be ‘Chunder and Piglet’ – or, as I was to put on the envelope, Selwyn Carter-Keighley, Esq, and the Honourable Imogen Leys.
‘I made some calls and checked them out on the internet at work,’ I confessed to Jonathan during our nightly phone call. ‘Selwyn seems to spend all his time being arrested for streaking at sports events, and Imogen is the heiress to some sort of ointment fortune. I think she and Nicky are an item. I have no idea what we’re going to talk about. I might have to make a list of ideas and hide it in my handbag.’
‘You’re taking Gabi,’ said Jonathan reassuringly. ‘There won’t be any shortage of conversation.’
I wound the phone cord around my fingers. I was sitting in the dark, the better to hear Jonathan’s voice in my ear. He had a very sexy voice. I missed hearing him whisper in my ear when we were curled up in bed together.
‘What are you wearing?’ he asked.
Ooh. I’d read about this in a glossy mag recently: How Saucy Phone Calls can Spice Up a Long-distance Relationship.
‘My black silk pyjamas,’ I purred. ‘The ones you gave me for Valentine’s Day. And I’ve just washed my hair, so it’s all fresh and clean, the way you like it . . .’
‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘What are you wearing to the dinner?’
‘Oh, um, I haven’t decided,’ I stammered.
That was my main fear with Jonathan: saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. He was difficult enough to read when I could see him, let alone when all I had to go on was his tone.
‘Although obviously I’m keen to hear about your pyjamas too,’ he added, about two seconds too late.
I sighed. ‘Gabi and I are going shopping tomorrow, so I’ll probably get something then.’
‘Nothing too spectacular,’ he said in what I thought was a jokey warning tone. ‘I don’t want this guy getting the wrong idea and putting the moves on you. Dropping you in a fountain or something.’
‘Neither do I!’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s for Nelson’s charity. I promise you it’s less than likely to get out of hand in any way, shape or form.’