‘Where are we going?’ I asked – like I cared.
‘Well, I am meant to be out with friends at the moment,’ he said. ‘Birthday party, actually.’
My heart sank again at the thought of an evening with Piglet and her friends. I didn’t want to see anyone right now, much less the sort of people who made having dental work seem a preferable choice. ‘Oh.’
‘But maybe you’d prefer to get wasted somewhere quieter?’ Nicky sounded almost sympathetic. Some part of my brain noticed he’d been discreet enough not to ask me for details of why I was in this state. Yet.
‘Yes,’ I said, tipping the champagne flute unsteadily to my lips. ‘Somewhere quieter.’
It occurred to me that it was a bit of a coincidence that Nicky just happened to be in Paris this weekend, and I was about to mention it to him when his phone rang. He had the grace to look apologetic as he answered, and almost immediately had to hold it away from his ear to protect himself from the shrieky onslaught.
‘No! No! Piglet . . . No, I’m not.’
My brain, now tipping slightly sideways, discerned that it was Imogen Whatsit-Whatsit.
‘Bloody hell! Will you . . . I’m not! No! . . . Well, get a cab and put it on my . . . Will you calm down? . . . No, I didn’t intend to stand you up from the . . .’
I could hear her screeching from where I was sitting.
Nicky rolled his eyes at me. ‘No, darling, I’ve had to go to an emergency meeting . . . With Melissa, yes.’ He held the phone away from his ear again and even I could hear the fury. ‘Stop it . . . No, stop it. It’s not like that . . . No, I don’t think she’ll want to talk to you. I don’t care if you need to talk to her . . . Darling, if you want to leave the party with Piers, please do . . . I . . . Piglet, there is no need for . . .’
Without even thinking about it, I took the phone off Nicky, turned it off and gave it back to him.
‘Sorry,’ I slurred politely, as he stared at me in amused awe. ‘I don’t have time to deal with people like that. I need to devote all my energy to feeling miserable. I’ve had a terrible evening.’
I shut my eyes, felt dizzy, saw Jonathan’s face, and opened them again, tearily.
‘Let me take you home,’ said Nicky gently.
Nicky was not the sort of knight in shining armour I’d have hoped for, but then nothing this evening was turning out how I’d expected.
I was too tired and too stunned and too generally freaked out to do anything other than smile, and when I did, the self-mockery left his face, and he felt like someone I’d known for ages.
After that, time seemed to compress and blur. I don’t remember going into Nicky’s apartment, although I vaguely remember some kind of even-more-elaborate-than-normal elevator, and I do have a very vivid mental picture of taking my shoes off and sinking into a deep leather sofa.
When my head spun with helicopters, I closed my eyes to stop them. When I opened them again, after I don’t know how long, Nicky was leaning over me, very close, and I could see the double layer of lashes that made his dark eyes seem so fascinating. They were so deep brown it was impossible to see where the pupils began and ended. His smell seemed familiar too; underneath the expensive cologne and lingering nightclub air was a pungent, exciting boy odour I remembered from school dances. Nothing special, or regal: just boy. And he was angling his head towards me in the way boys did then, when they wanted to make their intentions clear. Or was he checking to see I was still breathing?
Whatever it was, it filled me with a horribly inappropriate longing. Partly for Nicky, whose smooth, tanned throat I could now almost reach out and touch with a fingertip if I wanted, and partly for the chance to run away from the reality of my own hopeless world into this Alice in Wonderland fantasy-land of princes, and polo, and Bentleys with champagne in the back and discreet drivers in the front.
But then Jonathan’s face floated up in my mind’s eye again, and the awful jagged pain in my chest returned too.
‘You’re not asleep, then,’ Nicky whispered, and now I could almost taste that smell on the breath that brushed against my face.
I’m not sure what I said in response. Seriously, I wish I could remember. But the next thing I knew, I was struggling to open my eyes, and it was Saturday morning.
15
When I woke up the next morning, I kept my eyes closed for as long as possible. There seemed to be a fine layer of superglue sealing them shut, but, in any case, opening my eyes would mean acknowledging that now I had to work out what to do. Plus, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to see what kind of an unholy state I was in.
Instead, I lay there, letting the invisible miners clog-dancing in my head get on with their evil business and tried to think of three positive things.
Honestly, never in my life has it been so hard.
The first one I came up with, after five minutes of thinking slowly, was that at least I knew where I was.
The second was that if you’re going to get embarrassingly wasted, you might as well do it in style, on vintage champagne, with a prince, however tenuous his grip on a proper princehood might be.
Unfortunately, thinking only triggered another torrent of savage clog-dancing as the previous evening began to trickle back, and I would have rolled my head under a pillow if the mere thought of moving my head hadn’t filled me with nausea.
I tentatively ran my hands down my body, and discovered, to my surprise, that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
That was a good thing. A very good thing.
Three, I told myself, at least I hadn’t revealed the full horror of my cottage-cheesey thighs to a client.
With a huge effort I opened my eyes.
I was alone on a bed the size of a small room. It was in a massive bedroom, dominated by a majestic white-marble fireplace, and two long windows with cream curtains, through which rays of lemony sunlight streamed. Beneath my own horrible morning-after stench, I could make out the pale scent of rosewater on the crisp linen sheets, and another cloud of fragrance coming from a crystal vase of lilies on a pedestal stand.
Even through my hangover, I noted it wasn’t exactly the bedroom I’d imagined Nicky would have.
I levered myself up to sitting with some effort, and steadied myself as my head spun in a most unpleasant manner.
Come on, Melissa, I told myself sternly. Get a grip. Start with washing your face.
I groped my way out of bed, clinging for balance onto various mahogany furnishings that I’d have admired had I not been so queasy, and found the en-suite bathroom. Again, it was Vogue Homes elegant, although the main thing I noticed was that alongside the Jo Malone oils and potions was a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Bath. I’d always used it, ever since Granny told me it was better for your skin than anything else.
While the bath was running and the comforting smell soothed my nerves a little, I studied myself in the mirror over the cool square basin.
I looked a wreck. In fact, more specifically, I looked like a Hollywood starlet gone bad, left out in the rain and put away wet. My mascara was smeared dirtily round my eyes, which were red with crying, my carefully roller-set hair had gone into mad curls, and just to add insult to injury there was a massive white spot on the side of my nose.
For some reason, the thought of Nicky staring at the spot all night bothered me more than anything else.
Automatically, I reached for the flannel and cleansing lotion and began cleaning up my face. Then I sank into the hot bath, until the grime and misery seemed to float off my skin, then I washed my hair, over and over again, to get all the memories of last night out of it.
By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, pink and glowing in a fluffy robe, I knew that at least I now looked more like myself, even if I wasn’t completely all there inside.
My eye fell on a pile of clothes, laid on the chair by the bed. Had they been there when I left? I frowned, but picked up the crisp white blouse (so Parisian) and black skirt. Underneath that was a pretty cotto
n shirt dress, and a fine cashmere cardigan, all more or less my size.
I stared at them. Where had they come from? They weren’t mine. But there was no way I could put last night’s clothes on. Fortunately, I had a spare pair of pants in my handbag, as usual; beyond that, I’d have to go round to Jonathan’s flat to get fresh clothes.
Jonathan’s flat, I thought. You never really thought of it as yours, did you?
We can sort this out, I told myself, picking up the blouse. You just need time to think it through.
In the light of day, the apartment was about ten times bigger than I’d thought last night, with high moulded ceilings and gold light fittings, and a rather intimidating silence.
I tiptoed through to the kitchen, where there was still no sign of Nicky. Instead, someone had laid out breakfast: a silver pot of coffee, croissants, jam and English marmalade, and bone china to eat it off. The china had little crests on it, and the knives were so heavy they had to be solid silver.
As I was pouring myself a cup of black coffee with a shaky hand, a Filipina maid glided in from one door. ‘You have everything you need?’ she asked. ‘You got the clothes?’
I nearly jumped out of my skin. ‘Um, yes!’ I said, spilling my coffee. ‘Yes, yes, thank you.’
‘Prince Nicolas has been called out,’ she said discreetly. ‘He leaves his apologies, and has asked me to make sure you were comfortable.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said. That didn’t sound like something Nicky would say. My brain still felt coated in treacle. ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
She shook her head.
‘Right.’ I looked at her. I wasn’t the sort of person to say, ‘That will be all,’ but I wasn’t sure how to make her leave me to my headache. To be honest, she gave the impression that I wasn’t the first woman she’d seen stumble out of Nicky’s bedroom.
‘Um, lovely coffee, by the way!’
She smiled in surprise. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and slid out of the kitchen again.
I sank onto a chair and massaged my temples. What was I supposed to do now? Where did I start working out what I wanted?
Handbag, I thought firmly.
My phone still had enough battery left to check my voicemail messages, of which there were five.
The first was from Jonathan. I could hardly bear to listen to it, but I forced myself.
He sounded choked. ‘Melissa, it’s Jonathan. Look, we’ve both said some hard words tonight.’ Pause, for him to stick his right hand into his hair. ‘You’re right – we need some time to think about where we go from here. I don’t want to rush you. So let’s talk in a week. I’m so sorry. Really, I am. You’re so special. I’ve never . . .’ Then his voice cracked, and he hung up.
I had to sit very still for a moment after that.
Then I gathered myself to listen to the next one. It was Nelson. ‘Hi, Mel. I’m, er, I’ve just noticed that there’s a rather good offer on some wine that we’re studying at Wine Class at the Sainsbury’s in Calais, and I thought I might, er, pop over to pick up a case or two this weekend. Roger’s not around, off with Zara somewhere . . . Anyway, I was wondering, if things aren’t any better with Remington, you might want a lift back? Let me know.’
Nelson’s kind, worried voice made me fill up again, but I bit my lip, and dialled his mobile number. He picked up immediately, almost as if he’d been waiting for it to ring.
‘Mel?’
‘Hello, Nelson,’ I said, gulping back tears. ‘I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a lift, if that’s OK.’
‘Oh. Oh, splendid.’
‘Where are you now?’ I asked.
‘Um, on the outskirts of Paris.’
My heart filled up with warmth. ‘You’re here? What if I’d said I didn’t need a lift?’
‘Then I’d have gone home with a car full of wine. Look, I’m more than happy to rescue you, but I didn’t want you thinking that I assumed you’d need it. You’re always saying how annoying it is when Remington treats you like a child, so . . .’ He paused. ‘Only this time, you know, I thought you might need the cavalry to arrive in good time.’
‘Oh, Nelson,’ I blubbed. ‘I really, really want to come home!’
‘Fine with me,’ said Nelson. ‘You know, these motel things are incredibly good-value, but they do smell of long-distance truckers. Just tell me where you are and I’ll stick it in my sat nav.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Actually, I’m not sure where I am.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, I know where I am, I’m in Nicky’s apartment,’ I gabbled. ‘But I’m just not sure whereabouts in Paris it is. Let me just see if I can find someone to tell me . . .’ I hurried into the big reception room in search of the maid, and was immediately pole-axed by the view from the long window.
It was the Place des Vosges – the famously posh square just round the corner from Jonathan’s flat. The one he told me it was harder to buy in than the most exclusive New York co-op.
Meanwhile, Nelson was going about as spare as I’d expected he would. ‘Bloody hell, Melissa! I thought when you didn’t call me back last night that you were with Jonathan, sorting things out! What was Remington thinking, letting you go off with that cretin? If you’d told me you were with P. Nicky I wouldn’t have bothered checking into the hotel last night, I’d have come straight there . . .’
‘What do you mean you’d have come straight here?’ I demanded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been here all night?’
‘Well . . . more or less,’ admitted Nelson. ‘I couldn’t sit at home when you sounded so out of your mind with worry, so I just got in the car and caught the night crossing in the Channel tunnel. It’s really very efficient, and much cheaper at night. Anyway,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘I was coming over for the champagne.’
‘Oh, yes, the champagne,’ I said. Anyone would think Nelson had just made that up as an excuse. ‘Listen, I’ve found the address.’ I read it off the top of some headed paper on a writing table.
‘So where is the pretend prince?’ he asked.
‘Out. He had a bit of an argument last night too,’ I said wryly. ‘You couldn’t bring some Nurofen with you?’
‘No problem. I’ll bring some Dettol too, if you want. I hope he didn’t take advantage of your distress? Mel? You didn’t let him get you drunk? Oh, no. Oh, no. He did. Oh, no.’
‘I’m more than capable of getting drunk on my own.’ I rubbed my head. ‘Look, I’ll explain when I see you.’
Nelson sighed. ‘Right. I’m coming to get you. Be ready.’
‘I’m more than ready,’ I said and hung up.
Quiet descended over the apartment again. I sat down at the writing desk, and gazed into the elegant square below, where a few bon-chic-bon-genre Parisiennes were walking their tiny dogs and their Barbour-jacketed children. I’d often strolled round the old arcade of shops and galleries that ran underneath the aristocratic apartments, wondering who could live above them. Now I knew.
The sun shifted and drew my attention to the cluster of silver-framed photos on the desk. I picked up the nearest for a closer look.
It had been taken in some Mediterranean resort: sitting on a rock, with an azure sea glittering in the background, was a pretty brunette woman wearing huge Jackie Onassis sunglasses, holding a little boy on her lap. Next to her was a rangy man with serious sideburns. I assumed this family shot was Oriane, Nicky and the vanishing racing driver. It was impossible to see whether the man and the woman were happy or sad because of the huge shades masking their eyes, and the 1970s ‘photograph expression’ making them pout.
Nicky, on the other hand, had a smile that almost split his suntanned face, revealing cute gappy teeth that had obviously been corrected shortly afterwards.
Another photo was of Alexander, looking like Blake Carrington in Gucci trunks, carrying a tousle-haired Nicky on his shoulders as they splashed through the shallow waves. They were both having a whale of a time, and laughing their heads off.
&nb
sp; How sweet, I thought. Nicky’s got matching trunks!
‘Sweet, isn’t it?’ said a voice right behind me, and I jumped again.
‘Didn’t I tell you not to creep up on women?’ I demanded. ‘It’s very bad form. Haven’t you heard of mace sprays?’
He put his finger on his chin and pulled his suave face, which now, with repeated exposure, reminded me more of Austin Powers than James Bond. I was beginning to suspect that much of Nicky’s behaviour was as put-on as his cologne. ‘I have my own secret weapon, Miss Moneypenny.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work on me.’
‘You won’t let me get it out.’
I put the frame down and rubbed my still-thumping head. Nicky looked perfectly fresh in his habitual red shirt, tan loafers and jeans combo, which didn’t seem as Eurotrash in Paris as it did in London.
‘So, how are you feeling this morning?’ he asked. ‘I think I can hazard a guess.’
‘A bit fragile, thanks.’ I wandered towards the black grand piano, suddenly self-conscious about exactly what I might have drunkenly confessed last night. The piano was strewn with more photo frames, some of which contained photos of people I thought I recognised. Alexander and Grace Kelly at a party. Alexander pulling a Christmas cracker with . . . Elizabeth Taylor? Either Alexander and his family rubbed shoulders with genuine Euro-celebrities or everyone looked like minor royalty in the seventies.
That woman, though, I did recognise. Granny, about my age, with her hair whirled in a chic updo, wearing the red satin cocktail dress I’d worn to a ball at the Dorchester. With Jonathan. I turned the frame away as fear punched me square in the chest.
‘This isn’t quite what I imagined your flat would be like,’ I said.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What were you expecting? Black silk sheets? But no, it’s not my apartment.’ Nicky poured me some more coffee from the fresh pot that had materi-alised on the table. ‘It’s my grandfather’s place. I’ve got a little pied-à-terre in St Germain. I wouldn’t normally bring girls back here. But you’re not normal girls.’