What the Lady Wants

  I stared at the phone for a long moment, then went into the kitchen in search of some comforting Pringles to tide me over until the shepherd’s pie was ready.

  About an hour or so later, during which time I’d reread my Eating Guide to Paris and made a list of places Jonathan could take me to at the weekend, I heard the sound of raised voices and feet on the stairs.

  Well, one raised voice, to be exact. Gabi’s.

  ‘. . . was thinking about having a horse and carriage, because that’s really eco-friendly and romantic, isn’t it, but when I mentioned it to Aaron, he said his little brother would want to drive the carriage, but there’s no way I’m letting Sol anywhere near a carriage because he’s got nine points on his licence already, and you can’t even trust him with a shopping trolley, so do you know if those things come with their own drivers? I don’t mind budgeting for that, but I’d want them to be in the same colours as the rest of the wedding party, and . . .’

  The front door burst open, and Nelson came in, looking dazed, followed by Gabi, bearing two pink carrier bags and an armful of magazines.

  ‘. . . I’m thinking something unusual like sand because everyone goes for apricot or burgundy – hi, Mel! – but if you’re going to be an usher, you’d have to wear sand and it would wash you out with your colouring, don’t you think? What do you reckon, Mel? Can you see Nelson in sand?’

  ‘Can’t I just wear my morning suit?’ asked Nelson weakly, heading straight for the bottle of wine on the table.

  Gabi rolled her eyes at me. ‘Like, yeah! If you want to be really, really predictable. What about shi’take? That’s in my reserve colour scheme.’

  ‘We’re going to have morning suits,’ I said tactfully. ‘When Jonathan and I get married. It makes it all much easier for you – they do suit everyone.’

  ‘No offence, Mel,’ said Gabi, pausing to unload her magazines next to me, ‘but you and Jonathan are going to have a very different wedding to myself and Aaron.’

  ‘It may even end up being in a different century to you and Aaron at this rate,’ observed Nelson.

  I glared at him and he raised his eyebrows innocently. ‘I’m just saying. Can I get anyone a drink? I see you’ve already started, Melissa.’

  ‘I had to,’ I said. ‘It’s been quite an odd day.’

  ‘Ooh, yes, please,’ said Gabi, settling herself on the other end of the sofa and tossing me Vogue Bride.

  I held out my empty glass and opened up the magazine. Vogue Bride had the best ‘price on request’ dresses. I could just see Jonathan, tall and distinguished in his morning suit, me in a simple bell-shaped gown, light streaming onto our upturned faces through the stained-glass windows of some smart London church . . .

  ‘Now, this is a Bordeaux,’ explained Nelson, as he poured. ‘You can tell that because of the shape of the bottle. Can you see? It’s got shoulders. Not a slopey shape. That’s Burgundy.’

  ‘Fascinating. Fill her up,’ said Gabi.

  ‘You should be looking out for blackcurrant and leather,’ Nelson went on. ‘A classic Cabernet Sauvignon. What are you getting, Mel?’

  ‘Um, a sort of grape-y taste?’ I said, to humour him.

  ‘I wish Hello! did a wedding magazine,’ mused Gabi. ‘OK! Bride. How perfect would that be? I mean, not so much for the actual weddings, but so you could let your family and friends see how bad it looks when they don’t dress up enough and have to stand next to people who have made an effort . . .’

  ‘Aniseed balls!’ exclaimed Nelson. ‘That’s incredible! I’m getting aniseed balls!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ sniggered Gabi. ‘Maybe you should cut down on the drinking?’

  ‘Ho ho,’ replied Nelson.

  ‘What?’ I furrowed my brow. I never got Gabi’s jokes.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Nelson.

  I put the magazine down. ‘Gabi, have you heard of someone called Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg?’

  ‘Prince Nicky? I have, yes,’ she said.

  ‘You’re doing royalty now?’ said Nelson, giving up on the wine lesson. ‘Has he got a crest you can put above your coffee machine?’

  I ignored him. ‘How do you know him?’ I asked Gabi curiously.

  ‘Oh, Aaron took me to Nobu for my birthday and he was there with his mates. He’s got a very naughty smile.’ She shook herself. ‘Anyway, yes. He’s one of those “Ooh, look at me, I’m awful!” types.’

  ‘Righto,’ I said. ‘He sounds like a bit of a handful.’

  Gabi winked. ‘That too, from what I’ve heard.’

  I stared at her blankly. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She means he’s a big fish. In a small pool,’ said Nelson, with a straight face.

  ‘What?’ I demanded, looking hotly from Nelson to Gabi.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ she snorted, and reached for another magazine. ‘What do you think about “London through the Ages” as a theme?’

  But Nelson refused to change the subject so easily. ‘Mel,’ he groaned. ‘Tell me you’re not planning on taking on someone like that.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I told them what Granny had told me, at which point Nelson’s groans became focused into definite barks of disapproval.

  ‘Don’t!’ he kept saying. ‘Seriously! Don’t! Seriously! Don’t!’

  Gabi, however, was providing a more balanced counterpoint. ‘That’s so cool!’ she crowed. ‘You have to do it! Just think of the gossip! And the clothes!’

  ‘But these people are complete cretins,’ roared Nelson. ‘She’ll go mad within seconds!’

  ‘Mel can handle herself,’ retorted Gabi.

  ‘I’m not disputing that,’ said Nelson with a quick glance at me. ‘I’m just saying, is it safe to let a woman with absolutely no awareness of innuendo and a terminal case of rose-tinted spectacles loose with a . . . a . . . woman-eating man-boy like this Nicky?’

  ‘I’ll soon have him in hand,’ I said. ‘And he’s hardly going to eat me, Nelson.’

  Gabi dissolved into hysterics and Nelson’s mouth twitched, diminishing the effect of his Stern Big Brother Level 4 glare. This happened a lot. I pretended not to notice.

  ‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘I need to do it. Peter’s selling my office. Gabi, it’s on with Dean & Daniels – can you find out how much it’s going to be? He says I can have first refusal, which is really very sweet of him, but I’ve only got a month to get my offer in, and I’ll need the money from this job to make the deposit.’

  ‘You’re going to buy the office?’ asked Nelson. ‘Even though you’re meant to be moving to Paris with Remington Steele?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gabi. ‘Doesn’t he want you out there at his beck and call permanently once you’re Mrs Riley-Romney-Jones?’

  The pair of them staring at me was quite disconcerting.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I could afford it yet,’ I protested, ‘but aren’t you always going on about London property being an investment?’ I looked at Nelson as a thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘Unless that was just hinting that you wanted me to move out?’ I added, with a little pang. Maybe he’d meant it about finding someone new to move in.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Nelson. ‘Do you want me to explain mortgages to you again?’

  ‘Even though she’s engaged to an estate agent?’ retorted Gabi, sarcastically.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I want it to be a surprise for Jonathan.’

  ‘No problem.’ Nelson frowned as Gabi’s expression changed. ‘Gabi? What’s the matter? Can you smell gas?’

  Gas leaks were a favourite paranoia of Nelson’s. That and passive carbon monoxide poisoning caused by faulty gas fires. He watched a lot of House of Horrors-type workmen-exposé programmes.

  ‘No, it’s not gas.’ Gabi’s face was screwed up in a mask of concentration. ‘It’s . . . Are you wearing new aftershave, Nelson?’

  ‘No!’ he snorted. ‘I don’t wear aftershave! Just—’

  ‘– soap and water is perfectly good for any normal bloke,’
I finished for him. ‘We know. You’ve said.’

  ‘Then what is that smell?’ she demanded. ‘Melissa, can you smell it?’

  I inhaled deeply. Beneath the residual salty smell of Nelson’s sailing kit, and my scented candles, there was a definite musky, citrussy smell coming from somewhere. It reminded me of the fifth-form discos at St Cathal’s, when the local boys’ school would be bussed in, in their own micro-climate of Lynx and hormones. But it couldn’t be that. ‘Oh, yeah . . . Um, I don’t know. Nelson?’

  The three of us sat there, sniffing hard and frowning.

  Then there was a buzz at the door.

  ‘You get it,’ said Nelson, levering himself up. ‘I’ll check the pie.’

  I buzzed whoever it was in, then went over to the door. When I opened it I reeled backwards as an intense gust of the same scent hit me, in the manner of someone opening a hatch on the Titanic and getting a faceful of the Atlantic.

  ‘Hiya, Mel,’ grunted Roger Trumpet, shuffling past me into the flat. ‘Oh, hi, Gabi.’

  You might imagine my mingled shock and delight at the thought that Roger had finally embraced aftershave. I also noticed, stunned, that a thorough shave had revealed a previously unnoticed cleft on his chin.

  He looked . . . almost handsome.

  ‘Roger!’ Gabi exclaimed with a slight cough. ‘Jesus! What are you wearing?’

  ‘Jeans?’ replied Roger, puzzled. ‘Why? Are they wrong?’

  ‘No, they’re lovely!’ I said, taking in the new white shirt too, and oh my God, were they suede trainers? ‘Lovely! But I think she means . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ Roger gave a shy smile. I’d rarely seen him smile, and the effect was quite charming. ‘You mean my new fragrance?’

  ‘Fragrance?’ gasped Gabi. ‘Is that what you’re calling it?’

  ‘Roger, you look great!’ I said, not wanting to sound too amazed for fear of offending him. Roger was easily offended.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Gabi, who was less diplomatic. ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Or . . . a boyfriend?’ I added quickly, just in case.

  ‘Actually, I have met a lady, yes, since you ask,’ said Roger.

  Nelson, Gabi and I nearly dropped everything we were holding.

  Nelson recovered first. ‘Well done, Rog,’ he said. ‘Do we know her?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Roger, mooching towards the sofa, where he carefully removed his new Merrells and flung himself down in more familiar fashion. Through my surprise, I noted that he was wearing socks without a single hole in them. For the first time in the fifteen years I’d known him.

  ‘Why?’ asked Gabi. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve bought yourself a Thai bride.’

  ‘Gabi!’ I protested.

  ‘It’s not unknown,’ she said.

  ‘Her name’s Zara and she’s a model-waitress,’ he said. ‘I met her . . . quite recently.’ Roger’s small mouth clamped tightly, I noticed, on the further details.

  ‘You’re dating a model-waitress,’ repeated Gabi. She looked at me. ‘Mel, are you about to turn into a giant crab? Because this is a very surreal dream, right?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Roger, but I noticed the trace of a soppy smile beneath his affronted expression. ‘I knew you lot would take the piss, that’s why I haven’t told you till now.’

  ‘How long’s this been going on for?’ I asked, delighted. ‘You dark horse!’

  ‘Oh, a few weeks,’ shrugged Roger. ‘Can you do my nails, Mel? Zara says they’re too long and scratchy.’

  Gabi looked horrified, and she held out her glass. ‘Nelson, can I have a refill, please? And tell us how your date with Flossy or whatever she’s called went.’

  ‘Jossy,’ I said.

  ‘Seriously? Your school register must have sounded like something out of Beatrix Potter.’

  ‘It went very well,’ said Nelson. ‘She’s a very interesting woman, although I’m not sure all the food on the menu was totally organic, which I mentioned to the manager and—’

  ‘Are you seeing her again?’ interjected Gabi. We both gazed up at him with expectant expressions.

  He smiled nervously. ‘Um, I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, Nelson!’ I swatted him. ‘You’ve got such ridiculously high standards.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘I just know what I like.’

  ‘Let me tell you now,’ I said, ‘perfect women don’t exist.’

  Roger sighed in a revoltingly self-satisfied manner. ‘Don’t be so sure.’

  ‘See?’ said Nelson, and he winked at me. ‘Living proof that it’s worth saving yourself for the best.’

  ‘Bet that’s not what Zara’s saying,’ grumbled Gabi as she topped up our glasses.

  5

  The following evening, I arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, where the Blue Bar was, a good few minutes early, to give myself time for a last-minute outfit rethink, should I turn out to be under- or overdressed. It hadn’t been easy, working out what note to strike for dinner with two princes and my grandmother. I think Nelson was taking the mickey when he suggested white gloves and a bunny-girl tail.

  In the end, I’d opted for a plain black wrap-dress with a vintage paste brooch anchoring my cleavage at a modest height. Well, as modest as a cleavage like mine ever is. I love wrap-dresses, but I can never relax properly unless I know the hatches are safely battened, since my curves, I’m sorry to say, take some containing. I’d had to haul on my least attractive Pants of Steel to make sure there were no untoward bulges. But with my tortoiseshell glasses and my hair pinned into a loose bun, I reckoned I cut quite a stern but chic figure, and the beauty of this outfit was that I could sauce it up in a twinkle of the eye, simply by putting my contacts in and lowering the brooch about two centimetres.

  Not that I intended to sauce it up, you understand – there’s something wrong about attempting anything like that in front of your own grandmother – but just because I was meeting this dreadful Nicolas as Melissa, rather than armour-plated Honey, didn’t mean I couldn’t make a decent impression.

  The Blue Bar was one of those fashionable places where everyone’s head swivels when you come in, in case you’re Someone, then swivels back when they’ve established you’re Not. The small room was packed, and I couldn’t spot Granny anywhere. Cigar smoke and gossip hung heavy in the air as I inched my way between the hair extensions and Prada bags, checking discreetly to see if Prince Alexander was already here. There were at least four possibles in my immediate line of sight – far too tanned, groomed and well-dressed to be English.

  A skinny woman with furiously plucked eyebrows gave my Diane von Furstenberg knock-off dress a very obvious once-over, and I felt the first flickers of ‘What am I doing here?’ start to attack my stomach. No, I reminded myself firmly, you’ve got just as much right to be here as she has. Her dress might be more Bond Street than yours, but you’re having dinner with two princes.

  Even though I was suddenly very conscious of my VPL, I stared right back, focusing my eyes a foot to the left of her head, and smiled at the light fitting. Unnerved, after a second or two, she turned round to see who I was looking at, and, feeling a bit better, I got an elbow-hold on the crowded bar and leaned as far forward as I could to order a drink.

  Almost immediately the barman seemed to gravitate towards me. It was the weirdest thing: I just had to wish really hard to get served while leaning forward, and somehow I do. Nelson and Gabi always make me order for them when we go to the pub.

  ‘A bottle of sparkling mineral water, please,’ I said, for something to sip while I waited. The chap to my right moved away and I slipped onto the bar stool.

  ‘Would you do me a favour and help me finish this bottle of champagne?’ drawled the middle-aged man pressed up against my left arm.

  I tried not to scan his face too obviously for signs of possible prince-ness. Last time Alexander and I met, ten years ago, he’d been terribly reasonable about Granny’s car, and I’d been
overwhelmed with mortification and whiplash. He probably wouldn’t recognise me either, since I’d lost the braces and the strange haircut that Allegra had inflicted on me that summer.

  ‘Er, thank you,’ I stalled. The tie looked Hermès, for a start. ‘How kind of you. I’m Melissa.’

  ‘Hello, Melissa.’ As if by magic a champagne flute had arrived, and he filled it and pushed it over to me.

  I didn’t like to say, ‘Are you Alexander?’ straight out. He was already smiling in a manner that suggested we knew each other pretty well.

  ‘So . . .’ I said, searching desperately for something to say that wouldn’t incriminate me one way or another. ‘Are you staying here?’

  Was that a shadow of a wink? ‘Perhaps. It depends on the company.’

  Argh. What did that mean? Was it a business trip he was on? I didn’t think princes worked for anyone.

  ‘Are you?’ he went on.

  ‘No,’ I faltered. ‘I, er, live just down the road.’

  ‘How convenient.’ He smiled, in a very intimate fashion, and I could feel myself being pushed nearer him by the crush of customers queueing behind. I resisted as best I could, but there was a very persistent banker shoving his way to the bar behind me.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name . . .’ I began, but my voice was swallowed up by the barman shaking a cocktail very loudly in front of me.

  ‘Have you been in the roof-top pool?’ the man went on, as I began to panic. ‘The roof goes right back and you can swim beneath the stars – it’s quite an experience.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, with a little laugh. ‘Silly me! I forgot my swimsuit!’

  ‘No need for that, necessarily . . .’

  And that definitely was a wink.

  Just as my mouth was opening and shutting in speechless surprise, I noticed the heads turning back and forth to the door, and I realised Granny had walked in – with a tall, elegant man who could only be Prince Alexander.

  A strong gust of Givenchy Gentleman mixed with cigars hoved in from my left. It was hoving in very close. ‘What a pretty brooch. Does it come off?’

  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.