‘Tsk. I could have done it,’ said Gabi. ‘Just give me the wig.’
My head shot up as if it were on a string. ‘No, you could not. No!’ I said, raising a warning finger. ‘No, Gabi. Before you even think it. It’s not on.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Allegra. ‘If it’s OK for you to do it, what’s the difference? It’s just like a franchise.’
I gave both of them a very firm stare, the sort I used on clients who resisted my attempts to chuck out their ‘favourite’ Thatcher-era boxer shorts. ‘It was OK when I did it. But now? I no longer do it. So no one does. The subject is closed,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s talk about cleaners.’
7
Naturally, with Nelson’s advice about planning ahead ringing in my ears, I’d been rigorous in my to-do lists, up to and including having my big toes waxed, but – of course – I hadn’t planned for the jam on the M4 which left me exactly ninety seconds to get from the taxi drop-off to the check-in desk for my flight from Heathrow.
I sprinted through the terminal as best I could in my chic upgrade-me-please mules, and tried not to notice everyone staring at me. I absolutely didn’t want to be one of those dreadful arguers you see on Airline, who turn up late, then claw wildly at their faces and shriek at the check-in staff that they can still see the plane on the tarmac, but neither did I want to miss my flight.
Panting, I slapped my ticket down on the desk, and smiled as charmingly as I could.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m on the twelve fifteen plane to New York.’
The check-in girl took my ticket silently and jabbed at her computer.
I waited, breathing slowly to get my heart rate back to normal. ‘Oh, what great nails you’ve got!’ I observed. ‘How do you keep your manicure from chipping when you’re typing all day?’
She looked up, and a faint ‘Don’t bother’ smile crossed her face. ‘I’m very sorry, madam, but the flight’s overbooked. We don’t have a seat for you on this particular flight, but I can—’
‘Sorry?’ I stared at her. ‘But that’s impossible. I booked my ticket ages ago.’
She pointed her chip-free nail up at the clock, and spoke very slowly, as if I were completely stupid. ‘Yes, madam, but you’re checking in very late. And it’s industry policy to overbook flights, but on this occasion everyone has turned up. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait and see if anyone takes a voluntary bumping.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling foolish. ‘But I really do have to go on this one. My boyfriend will be waiting for me at the other end, and . . .’ I stopped, realising how lame this sounded. Behind me was a drained mother with two children and a baby in a pushchair, and two students. The baby was grizzling, and the students were having a frantic argument in a language I didn’t know, but it seemed to involve their visas which they were shoving in each other’s faces.
I turned back to the check-in girl. ‘They’re overbooked too, aren’t they?’
She nodded.
‘And they’re ahead of me in the voluntary bumping line?’
She nodded again. ‘But if we have to bump you, you’ll get compensation, madam.’
I sighed and tried not to think of the romantic welcome Jonathan probably had waiting for me. No compensation would make up for missing that. ‘I’ll take a seat.’
Now, in my position, I knew Gabi would have pulled every string she could think of – from my business, to my father, to Jonathan’s frequent flyer miles – but I hated doing that sort of thing. I never sounded convincing, even when it was true.
I wandered off to get myself a coffee and a newspaper, and when I came back, the check-in girl was negotiating furiously with the students. It sounded as if they had to get back to wherever it was they were going, or else they’d be evicted or their mother would be offered as a living sacrifice to the powers of the dark side, or something.
I hovered, not wanting to butt in, and suddenly felt a large hand smack me on the bottom.
‘Melissa!’ boomed a voice behind me.
I spun round.
Looming up behind me like a pinstriped drainpipe was Harry Paxton, a business acquaintance of my father’s for whom I’d done some Christmas shopping last year. I’d been recommended on account of my extreme discretion apparently (doubtless by my father), which was just as well, since he seemed to have a suspicious number of ‘god-daughters’ on his list.
Still, he was quite jolly and had tipped me lavishly – even if it was by ‘putting a couple of quid behind the counter at Rigby & Peller’.
‘Hello, Harry,’ I said, extending my hand for him to shake.
He went for a kiss. ‘Melissa,’ he mumbled into my knuckles. ‘And what brings you to Heathrow? Business or pleasure?’
‘Oh, I’m flying to New York. Or, rather, I was, until I was bumped off the plane.’ I pulled a face. ‘It’s rather inconvenient, but I suppose I’ll just have to get a good book and make the best of it.’
‘Can’t have that!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘What nonsense! Come with me.’
He bustled off in the direction of the first-class check-in, and walloped the counter hard until a stewardess appeared.
‘Now, see here,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked myself into first class, but my assistant has been bumped out of economy by some minion of yours. Should have booked herself in with me, silly girl. False economy, what? Know for next time. Now we need to deal with a fair bit of business before we land at JFK, so I’d be obliged if you could take a look at your screen or what have you, and see if you can’t pop her into first with me.’
‘Of course, Sir Harry,’ mumbled the stewardess, clicking rapidly.
Blimey. I’d forgotten he was a Sir.
‘There you go!’ said Harry. ‘Give the nice lady your passport. That all you’re travelling with?’
‘Um, yes!’
He beamed. ‘Very small clothes, eh? Excellent!’
‘Well, no, just clever packing,’ I murmured, handing over my passport. I saw her expression flicker when she checked the back. Having an Hon Granny on my contact details as well as Daddy’s official MP thing often raised a few eyebrows.
‘Jolly good,’ boomed Harry jovially. ‘Now, how about a quick snorter while we wait for the cattle to load? Rather good lounge here, actually.’
I cast a guilty glance back to the economy desk, where the mother was practically banging her head against the desk, while her children stuffed crayons up each other’s noses.
I turned back with a big smile. ‘I’ll see you there in two shakes! I just have to . . . make a quick call.’
He patted my bottom again. ‘Don’t be too long. I need to have a little chat with you about Margery. Her knuckles again. Driving me mad. Need some tips on house-breaking her, what?’ And he tapped his nose.
Great. I’d had chapter and verse about Harry’s wife’s myriad irksome habits before now, but it was a small price to pay for a seat I could fit my whole bottom in. At least I could improve her Christmas present outlook while I was there.
And maybe there was something else I could do to help.
When I was sure Harry was out of sight, I walked quickly back to check-in, and muttered discreetly to the stewardess that I recognised the woman with the baby from a BBC consumer affairs show and that I was sure I’d seen her filming secretly in the loos. Something about an exposé?
I suppose it must have worked, because ten minutes later she was pushing her suddenly angelic kids into the first-class lounge, followed by two very surprised students.
First class was a very new experience for me. The seats were so far apart that Harry had to lean right over to talk to me. And talk to me he did, right through the safety demonstration, right through the explanation of the films on offer, and right up until the stewardesses came round with the first lot of drinks. Then he broke off to order his first Scotch.
From long years of cocktail parties at home, and then office parties at work, I was used to making conversation with men like Harry – not that it involved m
uch actual conversation on my part. Nodding, humming and twitching my eyebrows was about the limit. Still, men were always telling me what a good listener I was.
We’d run through various of his anecdotes about his time as chairman of the local Neighbourhood Watch committee and his ‘zero tolerance’ stance on cyclists on pavements, when he leaned over even further, and said, ‘Do you fly a lot, then, Melissa?’
‘Oh, yes. Holidays and so on.’ I nodded.
‘Are you a member of the, ah, Mile High Club?’
I racked my brains. Was that something to do with Air Miles? Gabi was obsessed with how many she got on her credit cards, and claimed Tesco’s had paid for several upgrades in her flying career.
A light went on in my head. Maybe if I was a member, I wouldn’t get kicked out of first when they realised I only had an economy ticket.
‘Yes,’ I said, nodding harder. ‘Yes, I am. Have been for ages.’
‘Good!’ Sir Harry grinned so hard his eyes almost disappeared. ‘Excellent! Well,’ he went on, dropping his voice discreetly, ‘I’m just off to the little boys’ room now . . .’ And he winked slowly, on account of the whisky, I supposed. ‘I’ll see you in a moment.’
‘Wonderful!’ I said, and as soon as he’d gone, I motioned to the stewardess for a glass of champagne and the headphones, and settled down to watch the latest Harry Potter film on my personal video screen.
Half an hour passed very pleasantly, and I’d moisturised twice with the complimentary Jo Malone face cream, when I realised the seat next to me was still empty. Where had Sir Harry got to? I looked round the cabin in case he’d table-hopped to someone more interesting but there was no sign of him.
Oh dear. I hoped something hadn’t befallen him in the loo, like a sudden deep vein thrombosis. I’d read they could be nasty.
‘More champagne?’ The stewardess leaned over with another mini bottle, and I seized my chance.
‘Um, I’m rather concerned about my, er, colleague?’ I felt myself turning pink with the effort of fibbing and being discreet simultaneously. ‘He’s been, er, gone from his seat for quite a while now, and . . .’
‘Don’t mention it.’ The stewardess smiled. ‘I’ll make sure he’s OK.’
‘Would you? That would be so kind,’ I said gratefully, and settled back into my comfy seat.
I watched her walk down the aisle towards the lavatory, knock once – I couldn’t hear, since I had my state-of-the-art headphones back on – then recoil backwards from the door in shock. For a horrible moment I wondered if poor Sir Harry had died in there, but he came bustling out almost immediately, adjusting his clothes, nearly pushing past the poor woman as he stumbled back down the aisle.
Turbulence, I assumed. Or constipation. It happened a lot to men his age, if their confided medical histories were to be believed.
He glared at me when he sat down, but I smiled sunnily, and removed one ear of my headphones. ‘I ordered you some cold water,’ I said. ‘You should try to rehydrate if you’re drinking at altitude, according to my facialist! It would be such a shame to have a vile headache when you land, wouldn’t it?’
He muttered something I missed as I was replacing my headphone, and when I turned back to tell him about the hypnotherapist I’d just remembered about in Parson’s Green who could cure his wife’s knuckle-cracking, I was startled to see that he’d donned one of those blackout eye-masks that practically covered the whole face. It was like discovering an Elizabethan executioner in the next seat.
Still, it meant that I could enjoy the first-class luxuries undisturbed by conversation, and I spent the remaining five hours toying pleasantly with a number of romantic reunion scenarios, most of which seemed to take place in black and white, and all featured Jonathan and me dancing, gazing into each other’s eyes.
I’d often daydreamed about my first trip to New York with Jonathan, pretty much since our first meeting. I was usually bundled up in some adorable fur-lined hood, clutching heaps of beribboned Christmas presents while a fine dusting of snow fell around us and groups of rosy-cheeked youngsters sang carols on street corners. And a yellow taxi came to pick us up and sweep us off to the ice rink for hot chocolate and enormous cupcakes.
As Nelson liked to point out, most of my fantasies have a significant food element.
Jonathan had warned me that New York was ‘kind of extreme’ when it came to weather, in summer as well as winter, but I’d put that down to his usual ‘America is so much bigger/louder/faster’ spiel. So I wasn’t actually prepared for my clothes, my hair and my luggage to start sticking to me with humidity while waiting in the hour-long immigration queue.
Obviously, I knew it wasn’t always Christmas in New York, in much the same way that London wasn’t populated with chimney sweeps and cheery flower-sellers, but I did think it was all meant to be air-conditioned. To the point of hypothermia, according to Emery, who’d broken her usual vow of vagueness to ring me from Chicago with packing advice.
‘Take nothing at all,’ she’d insisted with uncharacteristic certainty. ‘Nothing!’
I rolled my eyes at the phone. ‘Well, what am I going to wear?’
‘Wait till you get there to decide. Go shopping. See what mood you’re in. But take something squashy in your hand luggage, in case it’s hot.’
Emery, I should point out, was one of those annoyingly waif-like girls who could float around bra-less in Ghost rags and look ethereal, rather than an escapee from Les Misérables.
‘Mmm. The weird thing is,’ she went on, ‘I find New York is just like those Scottish castles we used to go to on holiday. It’s kind of spooky, actually. It can be really hot outside, like . . . tropical . . . and yet inside, everything’s freezing. I don’t know how they do it. It must be the stone floors, don’t you think? Bizarre.’
I stared at my own reflection in the mirror over Nelson’s phone table. How were we related?
‘You don’t think it’s the air-con, maybe?’ I suggested.
‘You know me, Melissa, I don’t talk about politics,’ said Emery firmly.
Now, of course, I wished I hadn’t taken Emery’s advice because I’d packed the bare minimum of clothes, and then sucked all the air out with Gabi’s special vacuum packer. In practical terms, the only outfit I could slip into without exploding my whole carry-on was a slinky silk jersey dress that I’d only packed in my handbag at the last minute because you could screw it into a little ball without fear of creasing.
The fact that such slinky minimalism required several complicated Pants of Steel elements went without saying, but with the humidity rapidly reaching tomato hothouse levels, pretty soon I wouldn’t have much choice. I refused to meet Jonathan with sweat stains and a shiny nose. It was hardly Jackie Kennedy Onassis. But then neither was shuffling forwards slowly in a queue while my hair slowly slumped.
Oddly, Sir Harry had vanished off the plane the second it landed, before I could even thank him properly for wangling me such a lovely flight, so I was left to find my own way out as best I could. Once they’d taken my fingerprints and I’d squinted into the security camera, I scuttled into the nearest loo for emergency renovations.
A year of turning myself in and out of Honey Blennerhesket at short notice meant I was pretty good at tarting myself up under pressure: a splash of cold water on my wrists, mouthwash, fresh mascara, and some red lipstick, and I looked almost human. Once I’d wriggled into my slinky dress, I really did look as if I’d travelled over first class. For the final effect, I slipped on my shades, and strode out into the corridor, a whole new woman.
The security guard outside did a double-take.
I flashed him a broad smile as I wheeled my case past. Yes, I did look good. Jonathan was going to be very impressed by my soignée arrival.
He didn’t smile back.
I sped up, suddenly overwhelmed by excitement at the thought of being so close to seeing Jonathan again. I wondered what he’d be wearing? His new Savile Row suit? Mmm.
‘Miss?’
I ignored it.
‘Miss?’ repeated the voice.
A new hot flush hit me. Had they found out I’d travelled first class on a discount internet ticket? I walked on. It felt much cooler out here. Presumably they had better air-conditioning once they’d established you weren’t an illegal immigrant.
At the arrivals gate, whole families were blocking up the doors, in massive rugby-scrum group hugs, waving raffia donkeys and pushing vast taped-up cardboard boxes full of God knows what.
I scanned the crowd for Jonathan’s red hair.
He wasn’t there.
My heart sank.
‘Miss!’ said two new voices.
I looked round. A family of Italians were standing there, giggling at me.
‘What?’ I asked.
A small boy pointed at my skirt. ‘I can see your panties!’ He giggled and put his hand over his mouth.
‘Nice ass!’ added his father.
His mother back-handed him, without even looking.
I slid my hand behind me and touched my own clammy flesh. The improved air-con was in fact courtesy of my dress, which was tucked into my pants. Which were riding up my er . . .
Stammering my thanks, I pulled down the stupid slinky dress, and tried to regain my composure, pretending to look for Jonathan, while my whole body turned hot and cold at the thought of what I’d nearly done.
There must have been hundreds of people out there, waiting for passengers! I felt sick, and not just with the heat.
I hovered at the door, not wanting to walk past him, in case he was hidden behind someone else. Honestly, he could wave or something, I thought. I mean, there’s reserved and there’s plain unhelpful.
Just as my mood was sinking from disappointment into despair, a small woman with jet-black hair and a neat twinset approached us.
‘Ms Romney-Jones?’ she said, putting out a tiny little hand to shake. ‘I’m Lori? From Mr Riley’s office? I’ve been sent to collect you?’
‘Melissa, please!’ I said.
‘Mr Riley apologises but he’s been called out on some urgent business?’ said Lori, smiling. ‘May I compliment you on your outfit, by the way? You look just like a film star!’ Her face dimpled when she smiled. It gave her a very pretty Russian doll look. If I split her between her neat skirt and neat cotton cardigan, there were probably nine other tiny Loris inside, I thought.
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 10