I shook myself. Clearly the heat was having a strange effect on my brain.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, trying not to sound too disappointed at the news of Jonathan’s absence. Even though I was. Awfully disappointed.
Why couldn’t he be here? What was more important than my arriving in New York for the first time?
‘He’s very sorry not to be here to meet you himself, but he’s asked me to take you to his appointment and he’ll take you home? We’ll get a cab downtown? Are these all your bags?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s all,’ I said, letting her take my wheelie case, while I clutched my handbag to my side. I followed her through the concourse and out into the cab rank, where the hot, airless air hit me like a wall.
‘Gosh!’ I said, unable to stop myself. ‘It’s so hot!’
‘I know!’ said Lori, with such passion that it didn’t turn into a question. ‘This is a cool day, though? It’s been much hotter than this?’
‘Really?’ I said faintly, and sank gratefully into the air-conditioned cab she magicked out of nowhere. For the first time ever, I understood Jonathan’s obsession with cars that had powerful air-conditioning as well as seat position memory functions.
We sped through the outskirts of the city, and soon the skyline of tall buildings and bridges started to rise out of the low-level buildings. I couldn’t stop staring. Everything was so familiar, from television and films, and yet – there it was! Real!
I’d had a very similar experience when Gabi and I had visited the Coronation Street set in Manchester.
‘Kind of amazing, isn’t it?’ said Lori proudly, as the cab driver lurched impatiently from one lane to another. Fortunately, the car was so enormous that I didn’t even feel the swerve.
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’ll find it very big at first? But you’ll soon get used to it?’ Her mobile phone rang. ‘Would you excuse me?’ she said politely.
We carried on into Manhattan, with me getting progressively more excited and fluttery at the thought of seeing Jonathan, and Lori getting more and more calls on her mobile, which she dealt with in a courteous undertone. I kept hearing the words ‘Mr Riley’ and ‘schedule’ and ‘impossible’.
At last, we pulled up outside an impressive mansion block, with a long green canopy and a doorman who held the door for us as we went in.
‘If you’d like to wait here, Mr Riley will be finished in a few minutes?’ murmured Lori in suitably hushed tones as we entered the lobby. ‘I’ll go and get you a coffee, and something to eat, if you’d like?’
I was quite happy to sit and refresh myself in the discreet splendour. The lobby of these apartments was more lavishly appointed than most London hotel bars: oak panelling, brass light fittings, vast green plants. It also had bone-chilling air-conditioning which was raising all the hairs on the back of my arms in a most gratifying manner.
‘I’d love a cup of coffee,’ I murmured back. ‘And a muffin or something, if you think I’ve got time. And if you think they wouldn’t mind me eating in here,’ I added, partly as a joke. Just partly, though.
‘Whatever you want?’ murmured Lori deferentially, and it dawned on me that the reason she was treating me like some kind of visiting royalty was because I was Jonathan’s guest.
It was easy to forget just how important Jonathan was in this company. I blinked. So it rather behoved me to behave accordingly. Which meant less like a dumbstruck tourist, and more like a friendly but equally successful businesswoman.
‘That would be kind,’ I said with a smile. ‘Thank you.’
Lori backed out of my presence, went up to the concierge to murmur a few more words to him, and I was left sitting on the huge velvet sofa, appreciating the fine art and the immense explosion of fresh flowers in the fireplace.
The fireplace was roughly the size and depth of a small car, and carved out of big chunks of marble. It looked as if it could have been shipped wholesale from Windsor Castle, complete with secret priest-hole in the back.
While I was pondering how much an apartment in this block must cost, I heard footsteps on the parquet hall behind me, and a few low-spoken words of conversation. I knew it was Jonathan, winding up his business with some clients, and a shiver of anticipation ran over my skin. Not wanting to turn round and gawp, my ears twitched all the same, and I picked up the words, ‘board meeting . . . personal references . . . pets . . .’.
Then there was some manly well-wishing and arm-slapping, the doorman was thanked in an undertone, and after a few tantalising seconds, the smell of Creed came closer, bent over, and placed a soft kiss on the nape of my neck.
‘Hello,’ Jonathan whispered in my ear, his breath warm on my skin. ‘How very nice to see you.’
Every hair on my body pricked up and tingled, but I made myself turn round very slowly in the manner of Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair.
When I did, it was worth it. Jonathan was looking heart-stoppingly businesslike in a sharp navy-blue linen suit, with a creamy shirt and a liquid-gold tie. His hair was perfectly groomed, and he showed no signs at all of the raging heat outside.
He looked a little tense, but then he was at work, after all.
‘Let me see you,’ he said, taking my hand and making me stand up. ‘You’re telling me you’ve just got off a seven-hour flight? I don’t believe you. You look wonderful!’
‘Thank you.’ I glowed. ‘Just something I found in my handbag.’
He leaned forward and kissed my cheek, lingering long enough to smell my scent and for me to smell his cologne. I knew he wasn’t going to pull me into a dramatic embrace in front of the concierge, and for some reason that sort of discreet kiss was even more exciting.
Jonathan could be really very Rhett Butler when he wanted to. It was positively knee-buckling.
‘In fact you look even more beautiful than I remember,’ he said, right into my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath. ‘And,’ he added, in a husky undertone, ‘I’ve been remembering . . . quite often.’
I wanted to be equally mature and restrained, but I couldn’t. ‘I’ve missed you,’ I said impulsively, unable to hold it in any longer. ‘It’s felt like ages.’
‘And I’ve missed you,’ he said, and put his hands on either side of my face, pulling me close and kissing me passionately.
Lori coughed behind us and we jumped.
Well, I jumped. Jonathan just turned round and took the coffee from her with a quick thanks, then handed it to me. She smiled, nodded slightly to him, then opened her mouth uncertainly, only speaking when he raised his eyebrows in encouragement.
‘Will you be going back to the office this afternoon, Mr Riley?’ she enquired. ‘Because I can have those papers sent over to you this evening if you want to look at them before tomorrow’s board meeting? And I have the references for the Grosvenor apartment?’
‘Right,’ said Jonathan, shooting out his cuffs to adjust them as he thought aloud. ‘OK, cancel everything for the rest of the day, and have whatever you think most urgent sent over to me tonight. I’ll take a look at it. And, Lori, thank you for collecting Miss Romney-Jones from Kennedy. I appreciate your time.’
‘Yes, thanks very much,’ I added. ‘I’d never have found my way here by myself!’
Lori smiled until she dimpled up, nodded shyly, and then excused herself.
‘You want a cup for that?’ asked Jonathan, when she’d gone, nodding at my Starbucks cup.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said.
‘Go on, I know you like a proper cup for your coffee.’
‘No, honestly, don’t worry about it,’ I said, confused. Where was he going to get me a cup from?
‘Listen,’ he said, his face perfectly serious, ‘why don’t we nip upstairs and borrow a cup and saucer from the apartment I’ve just viewed?’
I stared at him, then laughed. ‘Oh, don’t be silly! You can’t do that!’
‘Would that be very unprofessional of me?’ Jonathan gazed at me,
all innocence.
Was he winding me up? ‘Well, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Of course it would!’
‘Melissa,’ he said solemnly, ‘I don’t like to follow the rules all the time. Come on, I’ve still got the keys.’
And he set off for the lift.
I trotted after him in a state of some confusion, my heels clicking loudly on the black and white floor. I was surprised that the concierge didn’t try to stop him as he called the lift.
‘Listen, Jonathan, I really don’t want to—’
‘Shh!’ he said, putting a finger on his lips.
‘But I don’t want you to—’
‘Shh!’
He waited until the wrought-iron gates shut behind us, then leaned forward and gave me a long kiss. It was such a long kiss, and his hands moved with such delicious confidence over my tingling body, that I barely noticed when we reached the tenth floor.
Jonathan, though, had better timing, and stepped briskly out of the lift the minute it stopped moving.
‘Now, which one was it?’ he mused to himself, looking at the keys.
I had to admit that I was getting an idea of what he might have in mind, and although I was shocked to the core at the out-of-character naughtiness of it – well, perhaps that was what was so exciting.
He pretended to try various keys in the forbidding oak door until one fitted. ‘Ah, here we go,’ he said, and lifted a foxy eyebrow in invitation. ‘Can I invite you in for a . . . cup of coffee?’
‘OK,’ I said, lifting an eyebrow flirtatiously. ‘But you’d better find me a saucer too.’
‘Something saucy?’ he enquired.
‘No, a saucer.’
‘I’m sure I can rustle up something,’ he said, and pushed the door open for me to go on in. I slithered past him, so he could see just how slinky my silk dress was, then I stopped in my tracks.
When I say this was an apartment, I mean it was an apartment in the sense of a state apartment. Everywhere I looked was either oak-panelled, gold-plated or draped with fabrics.
‘Crikey,’ I breathed. ‘Is the owner still here?’ I stepped into the hallway, which had ornate brass light fittings, converted, I guessed, from the originals. The smell of myrrh and cloves and beeswax polish floated through the whole apartment.
‘No,’ said Jonathan, suddenly sounding quite brisk.
I wandered slowly through to the sitting room, which was massive – bigger than Nelson’s whole flat, I reckoned. Long windows, hung with deep red velvet curtains, looked out onto parkland, and an old glass chandelier hung from the high ceiling, sending slanting diamonds of refracted light all over the crimson walls. The room was dominated by three huge leather sofas, and some striking modern paintings, with a long oak table running the length of one wall, on which sat a wide glass bowl, containing about three hundred pounds’ worth of expensive dried rose petals, flanked by a couple of massive fig-scented candles. I could smell them from the door.
The overall effect was stylish, modern, but at the same time curiously empty. There were no bookshelves, or photographs, or anything personal at all. The sofas were grand, but didn’t invite you to get comfy on them. They didn’t even invite you to take your socks off. And the view was there to be seen, just as much as you were meant to admire the paintings – I knew I should know who they were by, but I didn’t.
Suddenly, I didn’t want to wander any further. I wasn’t sure I still felt slithery or flirty either. But I swallowed and tried to summon my best seductive smoulder.
‘So,’ I said, leaning up against the wall saucily. ‘That’s the sitting room. Are you going to show me the bedroom now?’
He was staring into space, and seemed to shake himself back to life when I spoke. ‘Yeah, yeah. A cup, right?’
And he walked through a doorway into the kitchen.
Red-hot humiliation swept over my face. Argh.
After a moment’s frozen embarrassment, I followed him, hastily rearranging my dress. Whatever sauciness he’d had in mind seemed to have evaporated too. Maybe he was reminded of problems on the deal – maybe it had been a tougher meeting than he was making out.
The kitchen, by contrast, was like the interior of the Starship Enterprise: everything was stainless steel and looked professional quality. There were no visible handles on anything and I could see our reflections in everything from the walk-in fridge to the matching dishwashers.
‘Wow!’ I said, trying to sound normal. ‘Nelson would love this! Is the vendor a chef?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan, opening a cupboard. ‘The vendor is a woman whose idea of home cooking was to put Thai fusion take-out on her own plate instead of getting a maid to do it.’
Oh. I frowned.
He handed me a bone china cup and saucer with a fine band of silver around the edges.
‘Thank you,’ I said, carefully decanting the contents of my takeaway cup. It wasn’t like Jonathan to be so dismissive of his clients.
‘Want a side plate for the muffin?’ he enquired, offering me a matching tiny cake plate. ‘Never been used. Part of an eighteen-place dinner service too. Look.’ And he swung open the cupboard door to reveal more china than I’d seen in one place outside Peter Jones’s homeware department. ‘Never been through the dishwasher.’
I took the plate, trying not to let my surprise show. ‘How do you know all this?’
Jonathan’s mouth made a flat line. ‘It’s my old apartment.’
I blinked in shock. ‘Sorry?’
‘It’s where Cindy and I used to live. She’s been living here while I’ve been in London. I know, I know,’ he added, raising his hands, ‘she was meant to sell it as soon as the divorce went through but the market’s been slow. And now the . . .’ Jonathan didn’t often swear. He swallowed. ‘Cindy’s put it on the market with Kyrle & Pope and wants me to broker the sale.’
A heavy weight plunged in my stomach, like a duck being shot and falling vertically to earth. I put the cup and saucer down as if they were red-hot.
Cindy.
The mere mention of Cindy made me feel nervous. And underdressed. And under-achieving, and, for some reason, cross. She’d behaved appallingly to Jonathan, and yet he’d put up with her shenanigans for years – so he must have really, really loved her. I’d never met Cindy, and he virtually never talked about her, but the few fragments I’d picked up were enough to paint a pretty disturbing picture: how she set fire to things at parties ‘to get the atmosphere going’, how she put her own secretary on the Atkins Diet, that sort of thing.
I’d only ever seen one photograph of Cindy, which I’d found hidden in a drawer at Jonathan’s house – by accident while I was looking for a bottle-opener, I might add. It was taken at some very smart function; he was in a dinner jacket, looking tense, and she was wearing a long, straight, severe dress in crimson silk that emphasised her long, straight, severe figure. Also her long, straight, severe face, which could, as Gabi would have said, have done with a few pies. Her hair, fortunately, was neither long, nor straight, but wisped around her head like a candy-floss crash helmet. It wasn’t fooling me, though – I knew, left to its own devices, it too would be long and straight.
My inner TV detective told me at once that she was the sort of cow who smiled sympathetically while she was sacking you, and boasted about ‘playing hardball with the guys’ while claiming her haircuts as business expenses.
Well, I didn’t know that, to be fair. But who’s fair about their boyfriend’s ex?
Actually, the one major definite fact I knew about Cindy summed her up for me: she and Jonathan split up when she found out she was pregnant with his brother Brendan’s baby. With whom she was now living.
You see? Not a nice woman.
Jonathan and I had had one shortish heart-to-heart about her, after we started dating properly. It was triggered by the arrival of a birth card, announcing the Gift of a Son to Brendan Riley and Cindy Riley. Kind of lucky that etiquette spared her blushes there, I’d say.
‘She was
n’t always a ball-breaker,’ he’d insisted, after I’d expressed some surprise over the protocol of announcing the birth of your ex-husband’s new nephew. ‘Until she went into advertising, she used to read her horoscope every morning.’
‘And what sign was she?’
‘Aries,’ he’d replied glumly. ‘The ram.’
‘Oh, a fire sign!’ I’d said inappropriately.
Jonathan had just looked at me, with weariness written all over his face, and said nothing.
I hadn’t liked to ask, but at that point he’d volunteered a quick rundown of their married life: they’d met at a formal dance when his New England boys’ school had hosted her New England girls’ school – that much I could sympathise with – and she’d won his heart by arguing with him all the way through a foxtrot. They’d then dated through university (Princeton for him, Brown for her), and married on graduation while she was still Lucinda, with the reception at the New York Yacht Club, and the honeymoon in Antigua.
What with Jonathan being a career realtor, and Cindy working her way swiftly up the ladder at her advertising agency, they’d had a series of nice apartments, and I knew their final marital home had been pretty smart, but it was only now I was standing in front of a twenty-thousand-pound kitchen range that I was starting to see the extent of what they’d had between them.
I gulped.
And the fact that she wanted him to sell it demonstrated, to me, anyway, just what a cow she was.
‘I guess she wants to make sure I get the best price,’ he added. ‘She knows I don’t broker sales any more. But she told the company that only I could deal with it, or else she’d take it elsewhere. And’ – he waved a hand around – ‘as you can guess, there’s a pretty big commission on this.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said weakly.
Jonathan’s mouth set into a lipless line again. ‘Obviously it’s in my interests to get as much as I can for it. But, mostly, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing her that I care. If she’s trying to make me feel bad about the divorce, it’s not working. It’s just an apartment to me. It’s not like it has sentimental value.’
Little Lady, Big Apple Page 11