Alexander raised his majestic, sad eyes to mine. ‘What I would like to engage you to do, Melissa, is simply show him the right way to behave. For a few months.’
‘Improve his profile,’ added Granny. ‘Be seen with Nicky at a few art galleries and museums, instead of the usual trampy masseuses he falls asleep on in that nightclub.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘What’s it called? That one Prince Harry goes to.’
‘Boujis,’ I said automatically. But a dread thought was dawning on me. ‘Be seen with Nicky?’ What exactly had Granny told him about my agency? ‘You don’t want me to pretend to be his girlfriend, do you?’ I looked at Alexander. ‘Perhaps I didn’t mention it, but Jonathan is my fiancé. We were engaged at Christmas. He would . . .’ I stopped myself saying ‘go nuclear if I did this again’ and corrected it to, ‘be very reluctant to agree to my doing this.’
Alexander opened his mouth, but Granny cut in. ‘Think of it more as image consulting,’ she said. ‘Like a PR expert.’
Just as I was searching for the right way of pointing out that rebranding Prince Nicolas was more than most experienced PRs would take on, Alexander suddenly threw his napkin on the plate, got to his feet and excused himself.
Nicolas had appeared at the door, dressed in a tight shirt with three buttons undone, a pair of dark jeans held up with a belt that screamed ‘This buckle is made from gold by Gucci!’, and loafers.
I didn’t need to inspect his feet to guess that he wouldn’t have bothered with socks.
Granny and I watched as Alexander opened his arms wide, and escorted his grandson out of the dining room with all the appearance of warm family feeling. I knew enough about displays of warm family feeling to suspect it was anything but.
‘Probably going to lend him a tie,’ I suggested, to break the silence.
Granny put out a bejewelled hand and grasped mine over the table. I braced myself for some serious persuasion. No one in my entire family could ask for anything normally. More worryingly from my point of view, none of them could take no for an answer either.
‘Please, darling,’ she said in a low, impassioned voice. ‘You’re the only person Alex can turn to! I have heard him dream about that castle for forty-five years!’
‘Ladle on the emotional blackmail, why don’t you?’ I said faintly.
‘Think of it as a challenge, then!’ She arched her eyebrow. ‘And what about the knock-on effect it’ll have for the rest of your business?’
‘But Jonathan would never agree to let me do something like this again,’ I insisted. ‘Not after Godric. He hates the idea of me getting emotionally entangled in other men’s problems – and this is obviously a big family issue!’
‘Well, isn’t Jonathan in Paris these days?’
‘There are newspapers in Paris,’ I reminded her.
She made a dismissive gesture and played what was obviously her trump card. ‘Anyway, we haven’t even discussed terms yet. I know Alex is prepared to be very generous.’
‘That doesn’t make the slightest difference,’ I said stoutly.
Well, actually, it did, I reminded myself. If I was going to buy my office, it made all the difference.
But I wasn’t sure I could do what Granny and Alex wanted me to. Until I met Nicolas, I hadn’t realised how far out of my depth I’d be; now I had, I was pretty sure I’d have to say no. A sudden wave of disappointment hit me as the rosy mental image of me triumphantly showing Jonathan the deeds to the flat vanished before my eyes.
‘Oh, well, then.’ Granny picked up a menu and began to study it. ‘What a shame. Never mind.’
We examined the entrees in strained silence.
Nelson had gone through my accounts very patiently and explained that though my turnover was enough to pay the mortgage, I needed to find at least thirty thousand pounds, in cash, for the deposit.
How much would Alexander be offering as an initial payment, I wondered. What if I tried? Gave it my best shot for a month?
I bit my lip.
‘Alexander is such a darling,’ mused Granny, as if apropos of nothing. ‘He was all for giving you a separate clothing allowance too, since you’d have to dress up for events and so on, and he doesn’t want to put you to personal expense.’ She looked up. ‘Isn’t that thoughtful?’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Don’t bother going down that road. You know I make most of my own clothes.’
She smiled beatifically. ‘You’ve got so many talents, darling.’
We went back to the study of our menus.
‘And then there’s the car,’ added Granny without lifting her gaze from the card. ‘You’d have had to have a car and a driver. Wouldn’t that be fun? No having to go mad finding a parking meter outside the shops!’
‘I like my Smart,’ I replied, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘I never have to worry about parking spaces.’
There was another long pause while glasses chinked and cutlery tinkled around us.
‘Did I ever tell you Alexander has the most gorgeous old yacht?’ Granny said conversationally. ‘He’d love to invite both of us out to the Med for a sail . . . What do you think about the quails’ eggs here? Nice, or not?’
‘Granny, it makes no difference!’ I said, finally snapping. ‘I know men like Nicky – they don’t listen to girls like me. They don’t even see girls who aren’t thin, blonde and half-dressed. You know I’d love to help, but, honestly, I can’t!’
Her head bounced up but I could see a triumphant sparkle in her Tiffany-blue eyes. ‘Of course you can!’ she exclaimed reproachfully. ‘I’m helping a dear old friend in a very trying time. I’m sure you’d do exactly the same.’ She paused. ‘If it was an old, dear friend of yours.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, trying to maintain my own stern expression. I knew what she was getting at. At least she hadn’t stooped to mentioning Nelson by name, as Daddy would almost certainly have done. And she had a point: if Nelson’s grandson turned out to be a notorious let-down, making Nelson miserable in the process, I’d be itching to sort him out by whatever means possible too.
Granny’s radar must have picked up my weakening because she went in for the kill. ‘You’ve always underestimated yourself, darling,’ she said. ‘And do I need to say that you would have my undying gratitude for ever and ever, amen? I mean,’ she added, as if it had just occurred to her, ‘I did help you out when you needed that money to start up the business in the first place, didn’t I?’
Oh, God. Granny really knew how to twang my heartstrings. And she was right about the loan: if she hadn’t lent me the cash to start up the agency, there wouldn’t be an agency at all.
I turned my attention back to the menu, and let her stew while I chewed it over.
At the end of three minutes I said distantly, ‘I’ll have to ask Jonathan.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ said Granny. ‘Oh, look! Here come the men!’
I looked up and saw Alexander and Nicolas making their way through the restaurant. Each sent little smiles of recognition in different directions, but the smiles were very tight.
Whatever Alexander had said to Nicolas outside, it must have had some effect, because for the remainder of the meal, he was absolutely charming. After a little awkwardness, we worked out a few acquaintances we had in common, as well as some Parisian bars we’d both visited, and when I reminded him about poor Tiggy, the human fondue dipper, only a moment’s concentration showed in his eyes before he laughed and promised to send her some flowers to apologise.
‘That’s a good habit to get into,’ said Alexander approvingly.
I got the impression that if he sent flowers to all the girls he dipped, there wouldn’t be a gerbera to be had in W1, but didn’t say anything.
After coffee, Alexander and Granny left to go on to some other party ‘an old Greek friend’ was throwing in Grosvenor Square.
I saw Alexander turn back anxiously as they were almost out of the door, and the relief on his face when he saw me and Nicolas still chatting politely touched my hear
t. He’d seemed so moved when he’d talked about his old castle over dinner – the secret passages, the turrets, the magnificent gardens – that I’d found myself wanting to do anything to help him go back.
Maybe I could do something for Nicky, I mused. Maybe his arrogance was all show, like some other insecure men I knew who . . .
‘Yeah, I’m still here. Yeah, he’s gone. Taken Camilla with him and left me with the chunky granddaughter.’
My attention snapped back to the table. Nicky was on his mobile, talking in a rich trans-Atlantic drawl that didn’t quite tally with the polite English accent I’d just heard him use over dinner, and when he saw me glaring at him, a lazy smile crossed his face.
I glared at his phone.
‘Yeah, one sec . . . What?’ he demanded.
‘Weren’t we talking a moment ago?’ I asked. ‘If it’s an urgent call, I don’t mind you going outside. But you’re making me feel like an eavesdropper – and I don’t have the slightest interest in your conversation.’
‘I’ll ring you back, darling,’ he said, without taking his eyes off me, and snapped his phone shut. ‘Right,’ he said, straightening his coffee cup and spoon so they were neat, then folding his arms patronisingly. Now he sounded very Kings Road again. ‘Let’s get a few things clear. I don’t want some goody-two-shoes nanny following me round. And I don’t imagine you much want to be forced to have a good time and get drunk and go to interesting parties, either, do you?’
I started to bridle, but he held up a hand and carried on.
‘However, my grandfather, in his desperation to get his mouldy old castle back, has made it pretty plain that failure to comply with the plan he and your grandmother have hatched between them will result in a . . . how can I put it?’ He put a finger on his chin and I longed to slap it away. ‘A certain financial embarrassment for me?’
‘He’ll stop your allowance,’ I interpreted.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, that won’t be a problem, will it?’ I said, now too annoyed to hold back. ‘Because you’ll have your salary to fall back on . . . Oh,’ I added, with maximum sarcasm, ‘don’t tell me you don’t have a job?’
Nicolas scowled. ‘I’m not the one pretending to be someone’s girlfriend.’
‘I’m not the one pretending to be a teenage sex pest,’ I retorted. ‘Tell me, what is it you do for a living? Because if you’re a prince by profession, surely it would make sense to get the castle that goes with it. A prince without a castle is . . . what?’
‘Still a prince,’ he insisted sulkily.
‘Still a prince,’ I repeated. ‘But more of a . . . prince in name only. The artist formerly known as Prince, say, rather than Prince William.’
We glared at each other until Nicky suddenly smiled. It was a fake smile, but it was so sunny and gorgeous that for a moment I was utterly wrong-footed.
‘Whatever,’ he said, checking his phone for messages. ‘We can play it a couple of ways. I can make your life so miserable that you’ll give up within a fortnight.’
‘That would never happen,’ I said stoutly. ‘I have professional standards.’
‘Whatever. Sure you don’t want to try?’ Nicolas flicked a dark eyebrow at me. ‘Could be fun?’
‘I’d hate to stand between my grandmother and the home she loved,’ I said meaningfully. ‘For the sake of a few months’ good behaviour.’
‘Oh, Melissa,’ he said, putting his hands flat on the table and leaning forward. ‘Can you really be as wholesome as you seem?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I snapped. Then added, after a pause, ‘I mean, I’m sure, deep down, you’re a perfectly . . .’ I ran out of words, and looked up to meet his eyes with the most innocent expression I could summon up.
‘A perfectly . . . ?’ prompted Nicky, gazing up at me from between his thick eyelashes.
I swallowed, and refused to meet his eyes. This was obviously how he gazed women into bed. It was a sticky moment.
‘A perfectly decent man. No matter how keen you are to pretend otherwise. And your plan B was?’
He sighed, as if disappointed I hadn’t said more. ‘Plan B was to go along with it. But you must know that I’m doing it for the sake of my allowance. And I don’t want you pretending to be my girlfriend. There are too many girls out there who already think they are. I don’t have time to put them all straight.’ He smirked.
‘Nicolas, I have no intention of doing that,’ I said. ‘My fiancé would never allow it, for one thing. And for another—’
I stopped myself just in time.
‘Do go on,’ said Nicolas smoothly.
Again our gazes met over the table, and I felt a dim and distant lust memory stirring. If my ex, Orlando, had been taller, smoother, richer and altogether more golden god-ish, he might have got within smarming distance of Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg.
‘You’re really not my type,’ I lied.
He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I’m crushed,’ he said dramatically.
‘Good.’ I tried to bury my nose in my water glass, but I couldn’t help a smile sneaking onto my lips. Maybe he had a tiny sense of humour.
Nicolas caught me smiling, and grinned back. When he wasn’t trying so hard, he could be quite cute, in a boyish way. Or maybe he just thought he had me safely under his spell.
‘You do realise, don’t you, that you’re on a wild goose chase?’ he said.
‘In what way?’
‘Grandfather thinks you’re going to turn me into a throwback prince, teach me some proper behaviour.’
‘Yes. And?’
Nicky leaned across the table and murmured confidentially, ‘Melissa, I spend more time hanging out with princes than you do, and I can assure you that this is how princes behave. Boujis. Klosters. Mustique. Believe me, I am absolutely hitting the mark.’
I leaned forward too, close enough for him to think I was about to kiss him. I wasn’t, of course. ‘But modern princes don’t get fairy-tale castles, Nicky. They go on Celebrity Big Brother and make fools of themselves. So if you want the castle and the cash, you’d better start listening to this expert on throwback manners. OK?’
‘Mmm,’ he said, apparently distracted by the brooch pinning my dress together. ‘Is this real?’ He poked at it.
‘No, it’s paste,’ I said, leaning back to put myself out of harm’s way.
‘I wasn’t talking about the brooch. Anyway.’ He winked and swilled back the rest of his wine. ‘Got a party waiting for me. Can I get you a lift anywhere?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
‘Be like that.’ He leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks, resting a hand on my waist as he did so. ‘Ooh. Big pants under here? Appearances, eh?’ Then he gave me a cheeky wink and was gone while I was still grappling for the right thing to say.
If I’m being honest, I was a bit dizzy.
It was only when I stood up to leave myself, felt a sudden draught around the thighs, and discovered the eyes of the whole restaurant on me and those very same wildly unflattering big pants, that I realised Nicky had not only unfastened the safety brooch at my cleavage, he’d undone my wrap-dress with a practised, undetectable hand.
Right, I thought grimly, pulling my dress together as best I could. Clearly, the Melissa approach wasn’t enough. From now on, Nicolas would be dealing with Honey.
6
When I climbed the stairs to our flat, alternately seething about Nicky’s appalling attitude and cringing at my pant humiliation, I found Nelson still up, going over some figures at the kitchen table. He was surrounded by paper and cold cups of coffee, one hand pushed into his blond hair, the other hand twirling a Biro round his fingers like a mini baton.
I didn’t feel too sorry for him. Untangling complicated accounts was pretty much Nelson’s favourite thing, after writing angry letters to the Guardian about the growing misuse of apostrophes in signage, and reminding me to pay the Congestion Charge. Despite this, he was also handy with a screwdriver and could
do the aforementioned foot massages, so I forgave him his amateur sainthood. He didn’t take himself that seriously.
Nelson’s ability to do hard sums combined with his inherent soft-touchness meant that he was always being taken advantage of by hopeless causes. At the moment, for instance, he was helping out with a sailing charity based round the corner in Victoria. The idea was to take inner-city kids with ‘issues’, put them to sea in an old tea clipper, and make them splice the mainbrace and keel haul and that sort of thing, until they discovered self-worth and gave up shoplifting. Nelson had spent the previous summer captaining the ship like a sea-faring Bono, and now the ladies-who-lunch running the charity had made him a board member, partly so they could have their figures straightened out free, and partly, I reckon, so they could admire Nelson’s lovely English ruggedness and fantasise about him hoisting sails and hitching sheets, or whatever he did in his spare time with Not-very-jolly Roger.
‘If this is a hint about the rent, I’ll give you a cheque tomorrow,’ I said, and put the kettle on to make a pot of tea.
‘It’s not,’ he said absently, jabbing at his calculator. ‘Monday will do. I don’t suppose you want to go to a charity ball, do you? And know roughly three hundred and thirty-nine other people who might?’
‘Of course I’ll go!’ I said at once. ‘How much are the tickets?’
‘A hundred and fifty quid each? I know, I know,’ he added, as I spluttered something about budgeting. ‘But Araminta’s commissioned a three-ton ice sculpture of HMS Victory and says it’s impossible to compromise on the catering since it’s Faye’s god-daughter’s company . . .’ Nelson sucked in his breath through his teeth, then looked up at me with a wry grin. ‘How was your prince?’
‘Which one?’ I pulled a pretend starry-eyed face. ‘Oh, don’t groan like that. Who knows when I’ll get to say that again in my life?’
‘The one you’re meant to be turning into Prince Charming.’
‘Nicolas? Oh, he was even slimier than I expected,’ I said, looking to see if the biscuit barrel had magically replenished itself. Happily, it had.
Little Lady Agency and The Prince Page 9