‘We weren’t in bed!’ I yelled. Not that it was any of his business. My entire head was turning red now. ‘We were never in bed! I don’t . . . do that kind of thing!’
And I didn’t, by the way. Appearances can be deceptive. Just because someone has a generous chest and a romantic nature doesn’t mean they’re easy. As Orlando found out when he tried to proposition me on our third date after no more than a Fiorentina and Diet Coke at Pucci Pizza.
My father was still cackling in an unpleasant Leslie Phillips manner. ‘Your trouble is that you persist in thinking the best of everyone, my dear little Melissa. It’s rather charming, but it’s only charming up to a point.’
‘Which point?’ I asked frostily.
‘The point at which you stop making a complete fool of yourself and find a nice man to take care of you and your congenital idiocy.’
I said nothing because I was focusing on not bursting into tears. My father knew exactly which buttons to press to inflict maximum torment. I supposed gloomily that it was his job.
‘For most girls that’s at the age of about twenty-one,’ he added helpfully. ‘And the idiocy comes from your mother’s side.’
I was twenty-seven, and I had a diploma, I might add – not that he rated it much above a cycling proficiency certificate.
With a supreme effort, I managed to retort, ‘Better to think well of everyone and be proved wrong on occasion than to go around like, like . . . like a suspicious old crone.’
‘Only nuns and children can get away with simpleton behaviour, Melissa,’ he snapped.
There didn’t seem to be much reason to continue the conversation after that.
‘Couldn’t you have spoken to your mother?’ asked Nelson as I pulled the velvet throw over my head on the sofa and sank into the fresh depths of misery the conversation had opened up to me.
‘No. She wouldn’t have been any help.’ My mother spent half her existence organising my father’s social life, and the other half recovering from it. In public, she was the epitome of the perfect politician’s wife, all blow-dried blonde hair and tailored suits, but, well, it took a lot out of her. Little did she realise that being a Deb of the Year in 1969 would only qualify her for becoming Secretary of the Century for the rest of her life. From the cheerful sound of my father’s voice, he’d already spent an agreeable afternoon reducing her to a quivering mousse of apology before he decided to start on me.
Nelson put his arms round me over the top of the throw and gave me a reassuring squeeze. ‘Come on, Mel. You’ll get another job. I’ll help you. And for God’s sake, what with all those mad school friends of yours you’ve got more contacts than MI5. The only people you don’t know in London are the ones in witness protection programmes.’
I had to concede that was true. For one reason or another, I ended up going to four schools in all, all of which, in retrospect, were really just giant networking grounds. Taking into account school and friends and Mummy’s endless parties – and the fact that I do enjoy meeting new people – I did rather know just about everyone, even if I didn’t always like them very much. And, I reasoned privately, if some of the dozy girls I knew from school had managed to get jobs, there was absolutely no reason why I couldn’t get one.
‘Well?’ said Nelson.
‘Oh, let’s face it, I wasn’t a career estate agent,’ I said, sitting up. I wiped my eyes and pulled myself together. ‘No point getting on my high horse about it. Plenty more jobs out there.’
Nelson looked sympathetic, though I know he wasn’t completely taken in by this show of bravado. He had, after all, seen it many times before.
‘Why don’t you go and have a nice long bath?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s start the evening over again. I can knock up a chicken korma and we’ll watch Upstairs Downstairs on UK Gold.’
I was in full agreement with this excellent plan and was washing that estate agency and my vile father right out of my hair when the phone rang.
I cursed and got a mouthful of shampoo. If it was Emery calling to chew over fresh plans for her ghastly wedding, I swore I’d drown myself in the bath. In a moment of unusual family warmth, I’d stupidly mentioned something about helping her with her wedding dress, as well as my own bridesmaid’s dress, and she wouldn’t let me forget it, claiming she’d already spent the money she’d saved on the wedding cake deposit. There’s something of my father about that girl.
Then again, I reasoned with a lifting heart, it could be Orlando.
Nelson edged into the bathroom with the walk-around phone in one hand, and the other hand gallantly covering his eyes.
‘Don’t be an idiot!’ I said, taking the phone and giving him a little push. ‘You’ve seen it all before!’
‘Not quite like that, I haven’t,’ he muttered and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I sank back into the warm bath water and said, ‘Hello?’ into the phone. The acoustics of the bathroom seemed to make my voice sound rather sultry.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t Orlando on the other end.
It was Gabi, and from the background noise it sounded as if she was calling from a bus. Gabi had no qualms about discussing her life at full volume in front of an audience of complete strangers, whereas I did.
‘Hiya, Mel,’ she said. ‘How you bearing up?’
The sound of her voice reminded me of Dean & Daniels and the genius letter templates I’d finally perfected and being sacked, and my mood deflated like the bubbles in the very cheap bubble bath, revealing the dunes of my porcelain-pale tummy in all their undulating glory.
‘I was fine,’ I said, contemplating my navel. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a wimp!’ bellowed Gabi. ‘It’s not like you! Come on out for a drink, and we can brainstorm what your next move should be.’
Even on a good day, much as I loved her, Gabi’s brainstorms tended to involve a lot of imaginary violent behaviour and few realistically practical solutions, but of course I didn’t tell her that because she must have been feeling terrible that she still had her job while I’d been made redundant.
‘Come on out,’ she wheedled. ‘Come out, just for one drink. On me.’
‘We-e-e-ell, OK,’ I said, to be nice. ‘Can Nelson come too?’
There was a faint noise on the line, which could well have been Gabi swooning against the side of the bus. Despite her near-military campaign to get Aaron down the aisle, Gabi had something of a soft spot for Nelson. Presumably she’d given him a Posh Boy Exemption too, or else the fact that he worked for a charity rather than an estate agency swung the balance in his favour.
‘Oh, if he must,’ she said, pretending to sound reluctant. ‘But get a move on. And don’t bother getting dressed up. I don’t want you overshadowing me if Nelson’s coming.’
3
We went to the Bluebird on the King’s Road because Gabi was paying and there was a bus Nelson and I could get there and back.
When we arrived, Gabi was already halfway down a large Cosmopolitan and was scanning the bar with a beady glare. With her dark hair, very bright red lipstick and what-is-this-peculiar-smell? expression, she could easily have passed for an unimpressed bar reviewer, although I guessed the real source of her irritation was the absurd number of thin blonde women dominating her line of sight.
Nelson and I made our way over to her table, while I checked to see if there was anyone around I knew. I’m a bit short-sighted, and when you know lots of people, it’s so easy to offend swathes of your address book, just by leaving your specs in your bag.
‘Is that Bobsy Parkin over there?’ I muttered to Nelson.
‘Bobsy what? You forget that I don’t have the same glittering social circle as you do.’
I squinted. If it was Bobsy, she’d certainly smartened herself up since I last saw her. You certainly couldn’t do highlights like that in your kitchen with some Loving Care and an old bathing cap.
‘Bobsy Parkin. Parents live in Eaton Square. Not the bri
ghtest button in the box but very good with animals. Had an allergy to ink that made her hands swell up like boxing gloves, so she did her GCSEs in pencil, or something.’
Nelson paused in his polite shoving to give me the full benefit of his incredulous expression. ‘The more you tell me about your school, the more amazed I am that you’re so normal.’
I shot him a hard look. Nelson’s mother was a Labour County Councillor and made a big thing about not sending Nelson to private school. She made very sure they were living in the right catchment area for the grammar school though.
‘Bobsy Parkin?’ asked Gabi avidly, when we finally reached the table, still sniping at each other. ‘Didn’t you tell me about her? Is she the Bobsy Parkin who rode Jasper Attwell’s Great Dane bareback round the Chelsea Arts Club? You have so got the best friends, Mel.’
Nelson groaned.
I made a mental note to edit what I told Gabi more carefully in future.
We squeezed around Gabi’s table, and angled our chairs so she could sit very close to Nelson and I could look at Bobsy without drawing attention to myself. She was sitting at a corner table, having supper with her father. I guessed he was telling her some upsetting family news because he was stroking her hand in a consoling manner.
‘How are you, Nelson?’ cooed Gabi. ‘When are you going to take me out sailing on that yacht of yours?’
‘It’s a very small one-seater racing dinghy. There’s barely room for me on it. Can we focus on working out a job for Melissa, please?’ said Nelson impatiently. ‘Much as I adore her company, she has certain financial commitments to BT and London Electricity, which I am currently meeting for her. And there’s about to be a catastrophic run on the Bank of Barber.’
Gabi’s eyes went all glazed. I must admit that Nelson does suit a touch of impatience. And much as he thought she was a nice girl, Gabi did bring out the impatience in him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve made a list.’ And she got out a notebook. ‘Sorry, Mel, I nicked it from work. I’ll put a note in the stationery book.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ I said, with a pang for my immaculate stationery cupboard that would doubtless go to hell in a handcart now that Carolyn was in charge. ‘It’s not my responsibility any more.’ But I couldn’t stop looking at Bobsy long enough to care. She looked a lot better dressed than she did when I knew her at school.
‘So listen, Mel, I’ve made a list of your skills and achievements, and another list of all the mad flakes you told me about who work in nice offices,’ said Gabi in her best efficient manner. I’d only ever heard her use it on the phone when she was trying to negotiate her store card repayments. ‘Shall we go through it? Starting with Poppy Sharpwell-Smith – according to you, she’s got an au pair agency in Kensington but she’s a total ditz who thought that fairy cakes were made by real fairies. You could organise her, no problem. Sounds like she needs it, if you ask me. Or there’s Philly Bloom the florist, who you said you knew from your Scottish dancing club . . .’
Nelson looked pained. ‘I’ve changed my mind. You two stay here and let me get another round in.’
I humoured Gabi for ten minutes, agreed that temping might suit my short attention span quite well, conceded that the bar was indeed full of Afghan hounds in human form, then I cracked and excused myself to help Nelson attract some attention at the bar. Getting served immediately in bars is one of those mysterious things I just seem to be able to do. I also felt the need for a large drink.
However, curiosity got the better of me en route, and I drifted by Bobsy’s table, near enough for her to notice my big social smile.
Bobsy returned the big social smile, and I spotted the new improved teeth, but she didn’t beckon me over to join her. Still, I thought, family news is family news.
The barman served me as soon as I leaned on the counter, much to Nelson’s disgust, and so we knocked back a quick livener while we were there, before taking two rounds of Martinis to keep us going.
Suitably fortified, Gabi ran through the rest of her job-option list, which made me feel even more desperate. I made my excuses, and slipped off to the loo. I hadn’t realised how much my job at Dean & Daniels had suited me until I didn’t have it, and though I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying so to Gabi, some of the girls she was talking about filled me with, well, horror. It was quite chilling seeing one’s friends and acquaintances through Gabi’s critical eyes.
Still, I was beginning to understand her constant surprise at how normal and down-to-earth I was.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t fitted in at school because I had: I’d been in all the teams, had gone to all the parties, and no one had ever actively bullied me. I just never made any bosom buddies. To cut a very long and embarrassing story short, I had to change schools first when my father was caught red-handed in a tax scandal, then again when he and Mummy moved to France for a few years, then again when they moved back, then finally because I insisted on going somewhere I could actually pass some A-levels. Even though everyone was terribly nice, for the first year at each place, I always had the feeling that conversations stopped whenever I walked in the room. And that went for the pupils too. Unfortunately, my father has a ghastly ‘silver fox’ sort of charm, and that, combined with a marked reluctance to pay taxes, kept him in one column or another of the papers – which naturally kept me top of the gossip pops.
My elder sister, Allegra, dyed her jet-black hair bright red, brazened it out and made scandal her big entrée into the cool girls’ circle. Emery just floated through the education system as vaguely as she’s floated through everything else since. But I was mortified for Daddy, and Mummy – and me – and though I made lots of friends, I was really, really careful never to do anything to draw attention to myself. I was so good at being nice to everyone that I never really made any special friends.
Daddy always insisted on the most expensive schools, so we’d ‘forge our own social connections’ – or so that everyone else’s backgrounds would be as weird as ours, if you ask me – but unfortunately, whereas boys’ schools forgive a lot on the rugby pitch, girls’ schools don’t.
Girls remember everything.
As I washed my hands and checked my nail varnish for chips, a familiar face emerged from a cubicle and loomed up behind me in the mirror. Bobsy, at least, had been some way below me in the pecking order, on account of the way she always smelled of pencil shavings and cat litter.
‘Hello, Bobsy!’ I exclaimed. Not an animal hair in sight. And just the one earring in each ear, both of them diamonds too. ‘How are you?’
‘Melissa, darling! I’m fine, thank you so much.’ Her voice was much softer than I remember, as if it had been filed and polished. Maybe she wasn’t yelling at horses so much these days. I noticed she still wore her ‘trademark’ hairclips (our Home Ec teacher, Mrs McKinnon, stressed the need for a lady to develop a chic trademark) – only now the large red camellia on the clip was definitely real Chanel and not the Top Shop knock-offs we’d all gone mad over at school.
I swallowed and wished I’d put on my better shoes.
Bobsy beamed broadly. ‘You haven’t changed at all. Still the same old sexy Melons. How are you?’
‘I’m very well,’ I replied, stoutly. Nearly everyone at school called me Melons – because I was so chunky, I guess. Even so, I did feel a little guilty, because although the school network was still operating at full strength (Christmas especially was exhausting – some old girls clearly roped off October onwards for writing cards), Bobsy had rather slipped through the net. I had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but she was looking very well on it.
‘Are you still with that law firm?’ she asked.
‘Er, no. I’ve moved on from there.’ That had been my first position, five jobs ago. As soon as I got a place ship-shape, I usually ended up being made redundant. Nelson said it was my own fault – being too organised just highlighted the excess staff, and I was too nice, according to him, to fight dirty when it came to office politics.<
br />
‘Really?’ Bobsy raised her eyebrows in enquiry. They were very groomed.
‘Actually, I’m between jobs right now,’ I admitted in a rush of cocktail honesty. ‘As of today, in fact. Any suggestions?’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said sympathetically. ‘How annoying for you. Well. What sort of thing are you looking for?’
‘Anything . . .’ I was about to add ‘at all’ but managed to change it to ‘. . . new and exciting.’
Bobsy put a thoughtful finger to her lips. I noticed, with mounting approval, that it too was very nicely shaped. I liked to keep my nails polished too; stylish nails took my mind off typing. ‘What would you say your skills were?’ she asked.
‘I’m very good with people,’ I said immediately. ‘You know, organising them, making sure they’re happy. Smoothing out problems before they happen. And conversation. I’m awfully good at talking to the most tedious, difficult people.’ And I bloody well should have been after twenty-seven years with my father. Then, just in case she could read my mind, I added, ‘I’ve got excellent typing speeds and decent IT skills, and I’m terribly discreet.’
‘Oh yes, discreet,’ she said with a naughty smile. ‘Well, you would be, what with your daddy’s shenanigans!’
Hot beads of sweat prickled under my arms. I looked away, and caught sight of us in a mirror; Bobsy with her finger still on her perfectly lined, red lips and me with my chignon unravelling round my flushed face. Why was I standing here in the loos of the Bluebird being interviewed by Bobsy ‘Pencils’ Parkin? She was a lovely girl, but I didn’t need a job in a poodle parlour, and certainly didn’t want my father dragged into the conversation.
‘Anyway,’ I said, standing up straighter. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Bobsy, but I don’t want to keep you from your dinner, gassing on here. We should meet up for lunch some time.’
She rubbed her nose with a more familiar horsey gesture, and said, ‘Absolutely. Yes.’ She reached into her tiny handbag which was so tiny it couldn’t be of any practical use, so I guessed it cost a fortune. I only had enough money to be stylish, not fashionable.
The Little Lady Agency Page 3