Little Lady, Big Apple

by Hester Browne

  Gabi squeezed me. ‘Well, if you’re anything like you were first thing today, then you should be flying back for weekends. Jeez.’ She held me at arm’s length. ‘Talk about stroppy. It was like Gordon Ramsay rocking up to bollock us.’

  ‘Was it? Sorry. But, you know . . .’ I didn’t want to admit how much better I felt, after just a few hours in the office. In my own office. Being me. Not Jonathan’s girlfriend, or Cindy’s replacement, or even Braveheart’s wrangler.

  ‘I know,’ said Gabi. ‘But listen, don’t let Jonathan make you give up what you love doing best. And don’t let anyone make you think you’re not blonde enough or skinny enough or over-achieving enough. Because you’re perfect as you are.’

  I hadn’t said any of that. So how on earth did she know that was what I was thinking?

  Gabi’s face softened. ‘You know, I do want things to work out for you and Jonathan. Really I do. You’ve been there for me so many times in the past – you’d tell me if something serious was up, wouldn’t you?’

  I nodded slowly. But it wasn’t anything serious. Nothing I couldn’t sort out. Nothing I wanted to . . . make real by telling Gabi.

  We looked at each other for a long moment, and then she rubbed her hands together expectantly.

  ‘So, have you got a picture of this Godric, then?’ she asked. ‘If you’re hanging out with film stars I need to know what they look like.’

  I turned on the office computer to find Godric’s official website. The desktop picture had been changed to a miserable Nordic icescape, with the words, ‘Death is not the end’, swirling back and forth in sinister cycles.

  ‘Allegra,’ Gabi explained unnecessarily. ‘I’ll change it back.’

  ‘Would you?’ I said faintly.

  I found RicSpencer.com, complete with his new headshots, that conveyed all the emotional range of a punch-up without actually revealing the full, unpleasant picture. While Gabi was swooning over them, I realised, to my shock, that it was almost time for me to leave for Daddy’s meeting.

  ‘Mel, he’s gorgeous!’ she said. ‘Why did you never introduce me?’

  ‘Because I haven’t seen him since I was seventeen. And even then I’m not sure I’d have introduced you. He threw up in my car, you know.’

  ‘You are the jammiest person I know,’ she said lustfully. ‘He is a fox.’

  ‘A sloth, more like. Anyway, stop it. You’ve got your own fox to be considering.’

  ‘My fox who never writes, who never phones, not even a carrier pigeon,’ replied Gabi mournfully. Then, in more robust tones, she added, ‘A girl has to keep her options open.’

  I shoved some Rescue Remedy into my handbag. One crisis at a time. I didn’t feel up to tackling the Nelson/Gabi issue just yet. ‘Why don’t you email Godric your ideas?’ I suggested. ‘Saves me time, and you can have a nice little correspondence.’

  And, I thought privately, it’ll start weaning him and Paige off my influence. Jonathan can hardly be cross if the advice has apparently come from Gabi and Allegra, the Bad Boy experts.

  ‘Can I?’ she asked, eyes lighting up.

  ‘Yes, but let me see your email first, OK?’ I insisted. ‘Now I don’t expect Allegra to apologise to me, but I want that apology to Mrs Kendall out of her, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Gabi. ‘Where are you off to in such a smart skirt, anyway?’

  ‘To see my father. He wants to talk to me about this etiquette research he’s commissioned me to do.’

  Gabi gave me a patient look. ‘Melissa. Think. Are you sure he’s not stringing you along for something else? There’s no scam in it anywhere?’

  ‘No! It’s for his Olympic committee. I’m rather touched he’s asked me to help, actually. We’re working together.’ I knitted my brows. ‘Honestly, I’ve thought about it from every possible scam angle, and I can’t see what’s in it for him. Maybe he just wants to include me. Out of family feeling.’

  Gabi snorted, and I left before she could make free with her suggestions to the contrary.

  Crossing London after New York felt rather odd. The streets were winding, for a start, and weren’t logical. The meeting was taking place at the antediluvian members’ club my father belonged to, and as I walked down Piccadilly, en route to Pall Mall, I was struck as never before by the sheer elaboration on the building façades. Fortnum and Mason nearly brought me out in a proud patriotic rash. It was all so . . . old!

  Daddy was lurking in the fusty reception area, ready to pluck me from the disapproving eyes of the doorman. It was not an establishment that readily welcomed women, or indeed any aspect of the twenty-first century, which was why my father liked it so much.

  ‘She’s my secretary,’ he explained, hustling me past the front desk.

  ‘You could just have said I was your daughter,’ I protested, under my breath. ‘There’s no shame in that!’

  ‘For the purposes of today, you are my secretary. Got that?’ he hissed, as he propelled me past an oak door and into a panelled meeting room, where two besuited men were sitting in stunned silence in front of a presentation plate of cheese in various shades of orange, while Allegra regarded them with her steeliest gaze. She had changed, I noticed, into a very sharp black pencil skirt and matching jacket, accessorised with a lapel brooch that looked like a stainless-steel chrysanthemum. She looked like a wildly sexed-up, big-budget, Goth version of Honey.

  The anti-Honey.

  I shuddered, as the thunder clapped in my head.

  Before I could say, ‘What are you doing here?’ Daddy moved swiftly to cut me off.

  ‘Always late, eh? These women! What can one do?’ he tutted blokeishly to the first of the two men, and Allegra snarled something in what might have been Swedish, but could easily have been her clearing her throat.

  ‘Anyway, now my assistant has finally laid her hands on that vital paperwork, let’s get down to business! As you know, gentlemen, there will be a significant tender for cheese at the Games; we’ll need that plastic stuff for the continental breakfasts, plus regional specialities for lunch buffets, as well as a selection of quality cheeses for the formal dinners,’ he rolled on.

  Then he paused, while Allegra cackled away in tongues. ‘Melissa, take it down, take it down!’

  ‘But my shorthand is rubbish!’ I hissed. ‘I failed my exams twice.’

  He leaned very close to me, so close I could smell the Jahlsberg on his breath. ‘Just pretend then. And do try to smile. You might at least look authentic.’

  And so this bizarre meeting passed. Since Daddy had spent the best part of his parliamentary life chasing various EU cheese freebies round the five-star hotels of Europe, I should have known he’d find a way to shoehorn his cheese interests into his new line of work. Sadly, the delights of Cheddar weren’t enough to stave off the jet-lag creeping up on me. I literally had roughly three functioning minutes left on my brain meter when Daddy abruptly drew things to a close, swept Sven and Ullick off to a boys-only drinking session and unceremoniously booted me and Allegra out into Pall Mall. It was drizzling, but warm at the same time – a seasonal treat only London could offer. Like a monsoon without the excitement factor.

  ‘What was that about?’ I demanded, as we walked in the direction of Green Park Tube.

  ‘Oh, I don’t ask,’ said Allegra. ‘I think we had to make an appearance at some point. For the sake of his invoices.’

  I stopped walking and stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Allegra didn’t stop. ‘Oh, I expect he’s claiming us on expenses. Two secretaries, three secretaries . . . every little counts.’

  Was this a scam, after all? That cash going into my account for Allegra’s salary – was that Daddy’s money? But surely I’d be getting more than twenty per cent of it, if that were true. I batted the thought away.

  Allegra was some way off now, and I had to hurry to catch up with her.

  ‘How’s Lars?’ I asked, panting slightly. ‘I hear things are movin
g on with the investigation? I meant to ask earlier, but . . .’

  Allegra turned to me with a disgusted expression. ‘Do you think I care? That little shit. He sent me flowers, you know. From the police station! Like I would be impressed!’

  I decided I didn’t want to go down that road either. Allegra didn’t offer many conversational avenues in this sort of mood. ‘Well, just so long as you know what you’re doing. And you’re OK.’

  She didn’t even dignify that with a response.

  I steeled myself. ‘Allegra, you will speak to Mrs Kendall, won’t you? Those toys were most unsuitable for the poor little chap.’

  ‘Are you going home for the weekend?’ she demanded, ignoring me.

  ‘Um, yes, I suppose so. It’s Mummy and Daddy’s—’

  ‘I know! Give them this from me,’ she said, reaching into her bag and shoving a small giftbox at me. I recognised it as one of the emergency scented candles I kept in my office present drawer. ‘If they’re still together by the weekend. I’ve seen Daddy’s real secretary.’ She pulled a very descriptive face. ‘Apparently, Claudia used to be a Rhythmic Gymnast. Still is, by the look of her.’

  And she stalked off towards Cork Street without a backward glance.

  16

  Jonathan met me at JFK on Sunday night, and drove me back to Jane Street.

  ‘How was home?’ he asked, as we crossed the bridge back into Manhattan. I was still transfixed by the glittering, metropolis skyline.

  ‘Oh, er, quite pleasant, actually.’

  ‘Parents on drugs?’

  ‘Parents not there.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, I thought too. I only saw them for a few hours. Emery had booked them on a mini-break to Venice six months ago, and forgotten to tell them. William called while we were having dinner, to tell them a cab was on its way. They only made the plane on the final call.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Two hours goes a long way with my family.’ My parents had an up and down relationship, but the ups tended to be as dramatic and vocal as the downs, which didn’t make ‘home on an anniversary weekend’ an ideal place for a child reluctant to end up in therapy.

  ‘Anything happen while I was away?’ I asked to push that lurid thought away.

  ‘Braveheart’s been foul. He’s furious with me for letting you leave the country. He bit Yolanda? The dogwalker? Bonnie needs you to help her with some bridal shower gift she has to buy. Paige wants us to go and see that idiot Godric in whatever play he’s in off-off-off-Broadway.’

  Jonathan took his eyes off the driving for a moment. ‘You want to go?’ he asked, as though we’d been offered front-row seats at an autopsy.

  ‘I’d quite like to see Godric act,’ I said. ‘And maybe you should too? It might improve your opinion of him.’

  Jonathan leaned out of the window to pay the bridge toll. ‘Unless he’s acting his pants off in the part of a civilised intelligent human being, I doubt that. What else?’

  ‘Sold your apartment?’ I asked. I tried to sound casual, but it was much easier to promise Gabi I’d be tough about Cindy than it was to do it, now I was back in New York without a safety net.

  ‘Almost,’ he said.

  ‘Problems with the buyers?’

  Jonathan’s face turned stony, and I knew he was concealing extreme annoyance. His voice remained light, though, which only made me more edgy. ‘Problems with the co-vendor, I regret to say. I’m going to have to get lawyers involved if she doesn’t stop messing about.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, sinking back into my seat. ‘You think she will?’

  ‘I intend to make her,’ replied Jonathan grimly, and I let the subject drop.

  The next day, I got up to walk Braveheart and pick up some groceries. Jonathan had most of his food and drink delivered, but never seemed to have enough milk. I was beginning to realise just how many people were involved in the smooth running of his life: Concetta the cleaner, Yolanda the dogwalker, the grocery man, the dry-cleaner’s, the squash coach, the shopper . . . Apparently, he assured me, this was completely normal for a Manhattan professional. I hoped he’d leave enough space in there for me to do something. My offers to start picking out decorating materials had been gently squashed, even though I felt like I knew his house better than he did, given the amount of time I spent in it.

  ‘Now,’ he said, standing on the doorstep, so our heads were at the same height. ‘Do nothing today, OK? Go shopping or something. Visit a cathedral.’ He leaned forward to kiss me, quickly in case anyone was watching.

  ‘I will,’ I promised.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I might be late because of my fundraiser meeting, but don’t forget we’re having dinner at the Grammercy Tavern tonight with some people?’

  ‘Lovely!’

  More people? Were we ever going to get dinner on our own again?

  Jonathan must have sensed my flicker of reluctance because he touched my nose. ‘Can you blame me for wanting to show you off? Everyone wants to meet you, and I can hardly say no, when you’re making me seem like the luckiest guy in town.’

  ‘But—’

  He moved his finger from my nose to my lips. ‘Come on. This is the most exciting I’ve looked for years. Give a ginger guy a break, OK?’

  There was something about Jonathan’s natural authority that really was awfully sexy, when you weren’t on the office end of it.

  Maybe I should see if Lori needed some extra temp staff, I thought sadly, watching his athletic frame vanish around the corner.

  When I’d fed Braveheart, and read the papers, and looked at my guidebooks, despite my best tourist intentions I found my thoughts straying back to work. The trouble was, I wasn’t all that keen on being a lady of leisure, particularly when all Jonathan’s female friends – more of whom I’d be meeting that evening – were such high-flyers, and also, since I’d just seen how much damage Gabi and Allegra could wreak on my business in a matter of days.

  Besides, I told myself, I needed to talk to Gabi about some problems I’d spotted with Nelson’s flat when I’d popped in to check up on the builders. I poured myself another cup of coffee from Jonathan’s drip machine, and dialled the agency number.

  Again, there was no reply. Where were these two? Was Allegra translating something for Daddy somewhere else? And was she getting paid twice? The more I thought about it, the fishier it got. Honestly, they were all such shameless scammers.

  I turned on my mobile phone, and accessed the new voicemails. From the extended bleeping there seemed to be quite a few.

  ‘What ho, Gabs, Roger here. Lunch today OK for you? I’ve booked at Foxtrot Oscar. Hope Mel isn’t too cut up. Got a bit of an ear-bashing from her at the weekend. Think living with Remington’s gone to her head a bit. So, um, probably best not to tell her about the other night, eh?’

  What?

  Roger blethered on some more, in an unrecognisably chummy manner, then rang off, obviously blithely unaware that he’d left a message on the wrong office number.

  My brow creased. Surely Gabi couldn’t have been drinking in Hush the other night with Roger? Could she?

  The next message was from Tristram Hart-Mossop’s mother, Olympia. ‘Good morning. This is Olympia Hart-Mossop, Tristram Hart-Mossop’s mother,’ she announced, in case I couldn’t make the connection myself. ‘I need to make an appointment with you to, am, discuss certain new developments regarding my son. He’s very, am, anxious to ascertain when the transmission date of his makeover show will be, as his schoolfriends intend to organise some kind of party around it.’

  Oops.

  ‘So if you could call me back,’ she wound up nervously, ‘that would put all our minds at rest. He’s hectoring me about buying a new outfit for the event. A new outfit,’ she repeated, in wonderment. ‘Apparently several young ladies are keen to attend. Am, yes. Thank you. Goodbye!’

  I picked at a left-over mini muffin. Transmission dates.
I should have thought of that. Maybe Paige would have a good explanation I could borrow for shows that didn’t get made. I made a note to ring her back – I didn’t want Tristram to lose face, not now he was on the road to super-studdom.

  ‘Hello, Mel,’ said a familiar voice, backed with what sounded like seagulls. ‘It’s Nelson. I knew you’d be checking your voicemail, even though you’re not meant to be, so I thought I’d say hello. We’re having a great time, weather’s pretty grim, but that just makes it more fun. Not that I’m letting anyone put themselves at risk,’ he added predictably. ‘That would be silly. Well. Not unless they’ve really annoyed me.’ I could hear clanking and swooshing in the background. For an engine-less ship it was very noisy. ‘Anyway, just ringing to remind you not to buy any of those knock-off handbags, like the one you got in Turin that gave you a rash, and don’t forget my deli list. GET OFF THAT MAST, TARIQ! AND WHERE IS YOUR REGULATION JACKET? So, yes, some granola and—’

  A piercing emergency whistle ended Nelson’s call, presumably the one around his own neck, and I felt a little bit bereft. Although I wouldn’t have admitted it, especially not to him, I did worry. Awful things happened at sea, even to capable sailors like Nelson – storms, leaks, bits falling off the boat. I mean, look at Simon Le Bon. And Captain Bligh! He wasn’t expecting that, was he? Nelson’s leadership qualities did verge on a sort of militant Jesus.

  Besides, I thought, in a small voice, it would have been kind of nice to have him scoff rudely, in his inimitable fashion, at my worries about Cindy.

  I bit my lip. But what if he didn’t scoff? I couldn’t hide anything from Nelson. He could winkle out things I didn’t even know I felt. Between him and Gabi I had no secrets whatsoever.

  Braveheart pushed his china dish towards me across the floor with his black leathery nose, as if to say, ‘Fill her up, lady.’

  ‘You’ve eaten once this morning,’ I pointed out.

  He fixed me with his liquorice eyes and quivered with apparent starvation.