What the Lady Wants

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes. At the polo. She seemed . . . quite nice.’

  Obviously, Granny had brushed off the small matter of Nicky and the bomb scare, because she babbled on, ‘Yes! Anyway, I didn’t disclose details, even though she was desperate for information. I was vague, you know. And I must say Alex was very good too – he didn’t even crack a smile.’ She paused to sigh happily. ‘He’s so discreet. Anyway, what she did say was that Nicky was looking positively smitten, and when you went off to make a phone call, he told her you were the most charming woman he’d ever met!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes! I think Georgie was a bit miffed, because she’s been lining her granddaughter Bitsy up for years . . . Anyway, she made a few barbed comments about the family charm, which I’m afraid were aimed at me, but in the end she couldn’t help being rather complimentary about you too. Said you made a very handsome couple and that you had the sort of forehead that could carry off a tiara. Which I think was her ham-fisted attempt at fishing for gossip about whether the two of you were romantically linked, as they say!’

  ‘We aren’t,’ I said. ‘But he has dumped his horrible girlfriend. Imogen Leys.’

  ‘Has he? Alex will be pleased. He only met her once, but she asked him if there were any family tiaras she could wear for their wedding, or should she get her dad to buy one? Honestly, from what I hear the girl practically had a list . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, reassessing just how horrendous that dumping conversation must have been for Nicky.

  ‘So how was Paris this weekend?’ she asked airily. ‘Jonathan all right?’

  I flinched. I hated lying to Granny. ‘Oh, you know . . .’

  There was a long silence on the line. ‘Anything you’re not telling me, darling?’

  I bit my lip. There was no point. She’d find out; Nicky would tell Alexander, and he would tell Granny.

  ‘We had a big row,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve asked for some time to think about moving to Paris. And everything else.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Granny. ‘You poor angel! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Well, not fine. But I’m managing. Jonathan . . .’ I pressed my lips together to stop the ache in my heart spreading to my throat. ‘Jonathan wanted to sell off the agency to Daddy. And I just knew things weren’t right. I was trying to be happy, not being happy. I know that doesn’t sound . . .’

  ‘No, no!’ I could almost see Granny holding up a long finger. ‘You don’t have to give me any reason, darling! If you don’t think it was going to work out, for whatever reason, that’s all you have to say. I must admit,’ she went on, a little naughtily, ‘I did wonder . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, a little bird told me that you might have stayed the night in a certain person’s apartment at the weekend . . .’

  I turned bright red. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘The little bird might have needed a forwarding address for some laundry. Don’t worry,’ she added, still in that same naughty voice, ‘I won’t tell a soul!’

  ‘It’s not what it looks like!’ I insisted hotly. ‘Nicky offered me somewhere to stay – I was in a total state. He was very gallant, if you must know.’

  ‘So I should think. In any case, I’m saying nothing.’

  That would be a first, I thought, seeing the baroque fantasies already spinning their way around Granny’s brain. ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Nicky,’ I protested. ‘Honestly. Please don’t start thinking that. It isn’t why Jonathan and I split up.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Granny.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Mummy about it yet,’ I said, ‘so please don’t say anything until I know what I’m doing.’

  Granny paused, and sounded more like herself. ‘I understand, darling,’ she said. ‘My lips are sealed.’

  And I knew she meant that, at least.

  At the end of the day, when I’d done all the chores I could find, I steeled myself to listen to the messages from home.

  Mummy’s was first.

  ‘Hello, darling. I want to have a little chat with you about a drinks thing I’m trying to arrange? I thought it might be a good time for Jonathan to meet the vicar, and some of Daddy’s constituency people. I know they’re a bit hard work, but that’s the beauty of Jonathan – he always has something to say. And your father’s very keen to talk to him too. Says he needs his opinion on something . . .’ There was a bark of deranged laughter. ‘Can you believe that? Do call me back, darling.’

  Then Daddy.

  ‘Melissa, it’s your father. I’m trying to get hold of Jonathan – I need to . . . discuss something with him, but he’s not answering his phone. Been trying all weekend.’ I could hear weird sucking noises in the background. Was that a fault on the line? Then Daddy said, ‘By God, you finished that quickly, you greedy little bugger. A second bottle? Is it? Is it? Is it a second bottle for Bertie? Good chap! Anyway, don’t know what Jonathan’s playing at, but it’s imperative I speak to him in the next twenty-four hours. Get onto it, will you?’

  Then Emery.

  ‘Hi, Mel, it’s Em. Listen, I need to talk to you about the naming ceremony. Daddy’s totally on my case about dates, because he wants to get some magazine to pay for the food in return for photo access or something, so I need you to come and help me. And I was wondering if Jonathan would like to be godfather? I haven’t discussed it with anyone yet, but I thought it might be an idea for Bertie to have at least one sensible man in his life. Daddy’s turning him into a clone – he’s changed the Baby Mozart CD in the cot for his Winston Churchill speeches one. Actually, Nanny Ag’s driving me a bit mad too.’ She sounded like she was calling from under the stairs or in the shed or something – her voice was nearly a whisper but it had a purposeful note to it, which I took to be the New Emery breaking through. ‘I’m supposed to be expressing milk. But I’m hiding in the stables. Oh, shit!’ The phone dropped to the floor and a muffled exchange took place. I recognised the fearsome tone of Nanny Ag above Emery’s softer whingeing.

  I deleted the messages, put the phone down on the desk, and listened to the sounds of London going home for the day until the light started to fade.

  17

  I will say this for Nicky: he certainly did his best to take my mind off my constant, miserable, round-and-round agonising about Jonathan. Not only did he call me the next day, ‘just for a quick chat’, but he insisted on taking me out for dinner, despite my pleas that I’d be rotten company.

  ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve got yourself dressed up,’ he insisted, with worldly experience. ‘Girls always do.’

  Annoyingly, he was right.

  From the moment I hauled the strings tight on my black satin Honey corset – why not? – I felt a defiant sexiness return along with my wasp waist. As I got dressed, I saw a gratifyingly glamorous woman start to emerge in the mirror, and by the time I’d slipped into a wrap-dress, and pinned on my long blonde wig, it was as if I’d put armour around my heart, and I could tackle anything. Honey was a winner, even if I wasn’t.

  And, I told myself, fastening my diamanté earrings, it was all part of Nicky’s old-fashioned-gentleman boot camp, so it was my duty to go – both as Honey to pass on my hard-earned knowledge, and as Melissa to keep up my promise to Granny.

  I finished off my going-out face with a glossy slick of crimson lipstick, and smacked my lips together.

  Honey smiled at me from the mirror.

  Nicky texted me to say he’d booked a table at the Wolseley on Piccadilly, and was already there when I arrived, gazing around the high-ceilinged room, presumably using the mirrors to see if he recognised any of the swishy-haired clientele, or, more to the point, their husbands. I noticed he’d got one of the best tables in the central bullring area – something I’d never managed to do, even using my best wheedling skills.

  When he saw me, a broad smile broke across his face.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, as he rose to kiss m
y cheek. ‘You get five points to start with, for being early.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Is it like a driving test, where you have a list you can tick when I get things right?’

  ‘No,’ I said, meeting his teasing dark eyes with a cool gaze. ‘I’ve got a list I cross when you get things wrong.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ he said seriously. ‘And you know how much I like getting things wrong. I must try harder. You look ravishing, by the way. Blue is a marvellous colour on you. Any reason why you’re here as a blonde tonight?’

  My cool gaze wavered as I touched my hair self-consciously. ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not hiding behind it?’ he went on, lifting an eyebrow.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said quickly. ‘I just thought that since the Wolseley is a people-spotting kind of place, you might be spotted by someone you knew, and since I’ve already been to a couple of events with you as a blonde, it just seemed . . . logical. And it is a business meeting, to discuss your dining skills, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Nicky. ‘It can’t be me taking a friend out to dinner to cheer her up after her undeserved weekend from hell?’

  Friend, eh? A little tingly frisson passed between us across the table. ‘I think it would be more straightforward to chalk it up to business,’ I said. ‘That way you can write me off against tax.’

  Even though that was a totally Leonie-ish comment, it came out more flirtatious than I’d meant. Or maybe I had meant it. Nicky seemed to tap into something very Honey in me. Still, it took my mind off Melissa and her troubles for a welcome hour or two.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Nicky. ‘Fine with me. I like the fact that we have a little secret already. And only I know what lies beneath.’ He winked.

  I winked back, then made my face cross. ‘No, no, no,’ I said sternly. ‘Do not make references to anything lying beneath anything at all. In fact, steer clear of the whole lying image altogether.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nicky. He reached into his manbag and pulled out a notebook and pen.

  ‘And lose the manbag,’ I added. ‘It’s so awfully Euro-trash.’

  ‘How am I meant to carry anything?’ he asked, uncapping his Montblanc by biting the top off.

  ‘Jacket pockets. Or a briefcase.’

  He lifted a warning finger. ‘Now, there are limits, Melissa. What are you meant to do with a briefcase in a nightclub? I’d look highly suspicious.’ He jotted down, Do not refer to lying down. ‘I mean, I don’t mind looking slightly suspicious, that’s quite hot.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘You think Rex Harrison ever looked slightly suspicious? The whole point of not being overtly sexy over dinner is that if there is some . . . attraction between you and your dinner companion, she’ll be all the more fascinated by your apparent restraint. If you’re really well behaved, you might even find she starts with the flirty comments, in the hope of penetrating your gentlemanly manner, and stripping away the politeness to get to the passionate man beneath.’

  ‘I see,’ said Nicky. ‘So you’re allowed to talk about penetrating and stripping but I’m not?’

  I blushed. ‘Um, that’s just an illustration.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now what am I allowed to talk about? Tell me while you’re ordering.’

  I studied the menu and tried to find something I could eat that wouldn’t lead to me licking my fingers or slurping or doing anything that might end up looking like Nigella Lawson. ‘You can talk about books you’ve read, or places you’ve been, or people you know. But no salacious gossip,’ I added. ‘Just in case it turns out they’re related. I’m terrible at that. And you know loads more people than me so . . . Just don’t.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Don’t so much as breathe a word about religion, politics, Big Brother, your exes, her exes, or what kind of diet she’s on. Write that down.’

  ‘Oh, Melissa, you’re so strict,’ he sighed. ‘And so wise. It’s what every man dreams of – a woman who’ll tell him what to do, but wear corsets while she does it. Do all your clients end up falling in love with you?’

  ‘No,’ I pinged back saucily. ‘Just my fia—’ A sudden pang hit me, so hard I felt tears spring to my eyes. No, I told myself, you have to get over this.

  ‘Just Jonathan,’ I said bravely. ‘And I’m not sure he really knows where Honey stops and Mel starts. That’s why I’m wearing the wig – partly. It’s complicated.’

  Nicky looked stricken, and grabbed my hand. The bantering disappeared from his manner. ‘God, I’m sorry, that was so stupid of me. I didn’t mean to be so crass. I’m such a cretin.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here!’ I said, trying to be light.

  ‘I was having such a good time I forgot I was learning,’ he said simply. ‘You’re very easy to relax with.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl who was so easy to talk to.’

  ‘That’s because most of the girls you meet aren’t exactly conversationalists,’ I replied, studying the menu. ‘But then I suppose you’re not dating them for their views on current affairs, are you?’

  He held my gaze in an unsettlingly direct way. ‘Is that where I’m going wrong?’

  Then the waiter appeared and saved me from having to come up with a smart answer.

  We talked and ate and drank and talked, and though the flirtatious Nicky rose to the surface once or twice he seemed to open up throughout the evening, letting slip more of the serious, thoughtful side he’d showed me in Paris. I was surprised – in a good way – by how frank he was about his childhood in various schools, like me, and the travelling and the nannies and the feeling of never having quite enough attention.

  Although the restaurant was big and filled with chatter and the clatter of fashionable dining, it felt as if it was just him and me, in a very small room. Miles and miles away from that first dinner we’d had, in Petrus.

  ‘So,’ he said, stirring two sugars into his espresso. ‘I suppose my grandfather’s given you instructions about finding me a more appropriate girlfriend? I know he had a special loathing for Piglet. And pretty much everyone else I’ve been out with.’

  ‘Not specifically,’ I said. ‘Although he seems quite adamant one should be with someone one loves and respects. I assume he would include you in that.’

  ‘The implication being what? That I don’t respect girls like Imogen?’

  ‘Guess so,’ I said. ‘Call me a hairy-armpit feminist, but men who don’t respect women – they’re pretty unattractive. And women who date men who don’t respect women are pretty stupid. That’s just asking to be taken advantage of. You need to stand up for yourself.’

  Nicky nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Personally,’ I went on, with feeling. ‘I don’t go in for pretending to be ditzy. It’s just a waste of time. I miss enough as it is – I don’t need to make people think I’m more dense. And grown women pretending to be schoolgirls is just . . . ugh.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, it has its charms,’ he began, then, to my surprise, he dropped the insouciance altogether. ‘But you’re right. It’s good to be able to sit here, talking to someone properly. About . . . real things. Piglet would have played with a salad, drunk two bottles of the most expensive white wine on the list on principle, then dragged me out to a club by now.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’d have been leaving for the second club about now.’

  ‘And I haven’t even got on to my second coffee,’ I said.

  Nicky sighed and pushed his cup away. ‘I wish I met more girls like you, Melissa. Girls who aren’t all about the money, or about being in magazines.’ He looked up at me from under his dark lashes and smiled. He had eyes like a baby calf. A very sexy baby calf. ‘I just don’t seem to meet them unless my grandfather sets me up with them. And how wrong is that?’

  I struggled to maintain my grown-up composure.

  ‘That’s why I’m trying to keep you out of nightclubs,’ I reminded him. ‘You m
eet a nicer type of girl at charity sailing dinners.’

  He tipped his glass towards me in a little salute of recognition. ‘And what do you think?’ he asked. ‘What do you think is important?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person to be asking,’ I said wryly.

  ‘Ah, but I think you are. I think you know perfectly well what’s important in a relationship. You’ve just told me, for a start. I hope you’re going to tell Jonathan what you’ve just told me.’

  I blinked, taken aback by his insight.

  ‘Well?’ he repeated, tilting his head so his thick hair flopped to one side. The tealights on the table made deep chestnut highlights gleam in his fringe. ‘What’s important in a relationship?’

  More frissons crackled across the table. This time, though, I knew it was because we were being really honest, not because we were playing flirtatious games.

  ‘Well,’ I began, sidestepping the whole Jonathan thing. ‘I think you need respect for the other person, as an adult – you need to see them as an individual, with strengths and weaknesses, and quirks and flaws. That’s what attraction’s about, really, not how blue their eyes are, or how cute their figure is. That’s what lasts fifty years. It’s that something you can’t quite put your finger on. You need to feel comfortable enough to be yourself, but not so comfortable that you stop bothering.’

  ‘Should I write this down?’

  ‘Try remembering it. Doesn’t look good, taking a check list on a date.’

  ‘So,’ said Nicky, holding my gaze and counting on his fingers. ‘You think I should be looking out for a sensible English girl, with her feet on the ground, and plenty to talk about. Someone who has her own money and isn’t interested in mine, who eats her meal instead of playing with it, who has enough self-confidence to dress like a real woman, can make me laugh, and who has hidden talents.’

  ‘Did I mention hidden talents?’ I asked. My tummy was quivering with the combined effort of holding it in, and noting that I hadn’t mentioned anything about an English girl, or polishing off meals, or dressing like a real woman either.