Little Lady Agency and The Prince

by Hester Browne

  ‘I’m not talking about them,’ he said, throwing open the curtains and letting in the unfeeling morning sun. ‘I’m talking about people like Roger.’

  ‘Roger has a girlfriend!’ I barked from under the duvet.

  ‘Not for much longer if you don’t give him a call.’ I could hear Nelson rummaging in my drawers now, chucking fresh clothes on the bed for me to put on. ‘I spoke to him on Saturday morning – apparently, Zara lost one of her earrings round at his flat last week, and was most upset about it. He turned the place upside down, found it, popped it in a little box and gave it to her over dinner.’

  I was sufficiently curious to pull back the duvet. ‘And the problem was?’

  Nelson paused in his clothes selection. ‘If you were having dinner at the chef’s table at Claridge’s, and your boyfriend said, “Darling, I’ve got a surprise for you . . .” then put a little pale blue box on your plate – and you opened it to discover it contained your own earring, what would you do?’

  ‘I’ll give him a call,’ I said, swinging my legs out of bed.

  ‘Good,’ said Nelson. ‘That’s more than Zara’s done for five days. Now, red blouse or black blouse? And do you want a lift to the office?’

  I hated admitting Nelson was right, but he was. As usual. Although there was a lingering dull ache in my chest, once I’d dragged myself into work I did feel better for being surrounded by my familiar things, doing stuff and being useful.

  Obviously, though, that was while my brain was safely engaged elsewhere. I had to take a break every fifteen minutes or so to be choked up at the sight of a matchbook from the Zetter or by flicking back in my diary and remembering some special date.

  I tried to make a list of pros and cons about Jonathan, but when I got stuck on whether his business sense was a pro or a con, I phoned the one person I knew who’d give me a straight opinion. Gabi.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped when I told her what had happened. ‘I’m coming over right now!’

  ‘But you’re at work!’ When Jonathan had been in charge of Gabi’s office, he’d made them sign in and out, even for cigarette breaks.

  ‘Sod that,’ she replied. ‘Hang on . . .’ I heard her cover the phone with her hand. ‘Paula,’ she went on, with muffled concern, ‘there’s been some kind of mix-up with the keys to that house in Elystan Place – I’m just going to pop out for half an hour, OK?’

  Paula said something in response to which Gabi laughed uproariously. ‘I’ll be with you any moment, Crispin,’ she said loudly to me, then added in a venomous whisper, ‘You want me to send an anonymous company email about him having alopecia? Dave from IT taught me how to fake spam. I’ll have an alibi while I’m out.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, don’t do anything like that. Just come over.’

  Gabi arrived within fifteen minutes. She had the coffee machine on and was dictating the pros/cons list to me before one arm was out of her jacket. She got up to nine cons before the coffee even started filtering.

  ‘Drink that,’ she said, pressing a mug into my hand, ‘and ten, he had very thin lips.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said automatically.

  ‘But sod him – how are you?’ she asked, perching on the desk next to me. ‘That’s all that matters. You’ve had a crap weekend.’

  ‘I’m . . . confused.’ I put the mug down. ‘I mean, I can’t help thinking maybe I’m getting wound up about moving to Paris, and transferring my stress onto Jonathan and—’

  ‘Hold it right there,’ said Gabi, jabbing the desk with a finger. ‘So far, the worst thing you’ve said about Paris is that the pavements are so appalling they’ve wrecked your high heels. That’s the worst thing. You’re two hours from Waterloo, your French isn’t that bad, and you’ve already got the obligatory small dog.’ She raised her hand. ‘I don’t accept the Paris argument. In fact . . .’ Gabi peered at me. ‘If anything, I think you’re transferring the other way. I think you’re pushing the doubts you have about Jonathan onto Paris.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Freud,’ I said, with a sarcastic frown.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘Everything you’ve told me so far, you could sort out with one balls-out conversation. Your dad, the business, everything. Why are you so scared of speaking your mind? You have tougher conversations at work every day. So it must be him.’

  Gabi had an unerring knack of coming right out with the unsayable, then saying it again, just in case you hadn’t got it first time.

  ‘I know you’ve never liked Jonathan . . .’ I began defensively.

  ‘Bollocks!’ she said. ‘He’s a great catch, if you like ginger men. But you’ve got to be able to argue, Mel. Look at your mum and dad – they’ve been married for years.’

  ‘Gabi, I’d rather die alone with cats than have a marriage like theirs.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘We’ll, they must be doing something right. I know things have always been perfect with you and Dr No, but you had to fall out sometime. It’s what making up’s all about.’ She paused. ‘If you want to make up, that is.’

  ‘I do!’ I protested. ‘I just worry that . . .’

  The words stuck in my throat.

  ‘Out with it,’ said Gabi. ‘Unless it’s something bedroom-related, in which case just hint, please.’

  I wrapped my hands round my mug and tried to put my thoughts in order. ‘When I’m at work, I’m bossy and organised – but I can only do that so long as I can slob out in the evenings. Jonathan’s organised twenty-four hours a day, so when I’m with him, I have to be too. That’s what he loves about me. It’s exhausting being the girl he thinks I am.’ I raised my eyes pleadingly to Gabi. ‘But you can’t break up with someone just because he thinks you’re perfect, can you?’

  ‘You can if you’re too scared to let him see you be less than perfect.’ She looked at me. ‘You’ve seriously never slobbed out in front of him before? I feel like I know your corns better than your chiropodist.’

  I had no idea my feet were such a centre of attention for my friends.

  ‘It’s like we’re always on our tenth date,’ I said. ‘Still sexy, still romantic, still thrilling . . . but I just don’t know how much I can ever relax.’

  Gabi put her coffee down and hugged me. ‘It’s OK to admit things aren’t perfect,’ she said more softly. ‘But it’s very stupid to let yourself be swept down the aisle without ever actually working out if you can fix them.’

  I blinked back tears. ‘Can we talk about something more cheery?’

  ‘Sure!’ she said, and creased her brow in concentration. ‘You’ve still got your cruise to look forward to!’

  ‘Which cruise?’

  ‘The charity cruise on Prince Nicolas’s yacht. The one Aaron and I should have won. The one that that horse-faced accountant Leonie won. With her one ticket.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I opened my desk diary and disconsolately flicked through the pages. It wasn’t that far away, now I looked at it. Between managing Nicky and getting ready to move to Paris, the year was racing past. We were already well into May. ‘I wish you were coming. I don’t fancy spending the weekend listening to Leonie Hargreaves tell me how I should have gone for an offset mortgage instead of a tracker. Still,’ I sighed, ‘Nelson seems to like her. He’s been out for drinks with her and everything. It sounds as if they might actually be . . . you know.’

  ‘Mmm, no,’ said Gabi. ‘I think he might just be humouring you and your blind-date fixation.’

  ‘No, I think he’s quite keen.’ I picked up my coffee mug and took a sip. Gabi had added my pre-Paris diet milk and two sugars. ‘He lent her his Range Rover so she could move house at the weekend,’ I went on. ‘You don’t do that out of the goodness of your heart.’

  ‘Unless you’re Nelson. Dur!’ said Gabi, popping her eyes at me. ‘He lent her his big, comfortable car then drove five hundred miles in a mobile shoebox to rescue you! I bet she was sick when he dropped off the keys and left her to it. Talk about dropping hints!’

 
‘I know Leonie. She’s not one for clutter. At school, she used to fit all her stuff into one small box at the end of term when everyone else practically needed a trailer. I doubt she’d need Nelson’s help to hump anything,’ I replied.

  Gabi sniggered. ‘I doubt that very much too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet up under me. ‘He was so kind this weekend, looking after me. He’ll make someone a lovely husband.’

  At that moment both our gazes fell on the stack of wedding magazines Gabi had left by my desk for future reference.

  ‘Mel,’ said Gabi suddenly, looking guilt-stricken, ‘you really don’t have to help me with my wedding any more.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said bravely.

  ‘Oh, but seriously, I can get someone else to . . .’

  Jonathan and I hadn’t even set a wedding date yet. Gabi’s was nearly two years off and she’d already ordered her shoes. Between his diary and my foot-dragging reluctance to leave London – well, that said it all, didn’t it?

  My rising ‘coffee and best mate’ spirits slumped again, but Gabi knew me too well to miss the signs of impending gloom.

  ‘You know what? Why don’t you redecorate?’ she suggested, waving her hand towards the walls. ‘Freshen things up. We pop out now, get some colour cards, and samples – Nelson and Aaron could sort it out in a weekend. New paint, new start.’

  If only everything else was that simple.

  Still, I let myself be dragged down the stairs and out to the Kings Road.

  Gabi was swooning over some purple and gold flock wallpaper in Osborne & Little when my phone rang.

  Thinking it might be Jonathan, I dug it out of my bag with trembling hands. I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk to him, but I still couldn’t help wanting to hear his voice.

  ‘Hey, at last!’ said a smooth, yet sympathetic voice. ‘Your phone’s been off all weekend. How ARE you?’

  It was Nicky, calling from the parallel universe he lived in. Having him ring me for no good reason, while I was very much in my own universe – and with Gabi – was a bit unsettling, to be honest.

  ‘Um, fine, thanks,’ I said, failing to sound cool. ‘I mean, not great, but coping OK. Sort of.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Nicky had a very bedroomy phone manner, now with added concern for my well-being. It didn’t help.

  ‘How are you?’ I squeaked, to get off the sticky topic of myself.

  ‘Not so bad. Spent Sunday calming Piglet down by taking her shopping. It was her birthday party on Friday, actually – the party we bailed out of? Didn’t want to tell you at the time in case you forced me to go back to it out of manners. I tried to buy her a little present, but after what you said about women and their prices . . .’ I heard a faint laugh.

  ‘And what’s Imogen’s?’

  ‘A Hermès overnight bag. Which came in handy, as it turned out.’

  ‘Why?’ I could see Gabi moving nearer and, from the look on her face, she’d worked out who I was talking to. I waved her away, unsuccessfully.

  ‘Because she packed nearly all her stuff in it when she stormed out. We’ve split up. So it was a going-away present as well as a birthday one.’

  ‘Nicky, I’m sorry! Was that my fault?’ I gasped, not actually feeling that sorry at all. Imogen was ghastly, with her ratty extensions and her snotty, grabby attitude. At least if he wasn’t with her, he stood a chance of attracting someone nicer.

  ‘It was your fault,’ he confirmed, and I wished I could see his face to tell if he was joking. I stared hard at some wallpaper and tried to concentrate even harder on his voice. ‘You inspired me to break it off, after you were so honest with your fiancé,’ he went on. ‘I thought about what you said, and she’s not the sort of girl I’d want to spend the rest of my life with, even if she is determined to get her hands on my crown jewels at every opportunity.’

  ‘She did seem a bit of a social climber,’ I agreed.

  ‘What?’ said Nicky.

  ‘Your crown jewels.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes. Is that all you’re going to say? Not, “Well done, Nicky”? “You’re on your way to becoming Prince Idol”?’

  ‘Well, yes, well done,’ I stammered. Gabi was standing so close she was practically on the phone herself now. I was surprised Nicky couldn’t hear her breathing.

  ‘So, what’s next for me?’ he asked. ‘I’d understand if you wanted to give it a rest for a little while, but, on the other hand, I have heard the best thing for one’s troubles is keeping busy.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, kicking myself for not coming out with something smarter.

  ‘Grandad’s still banging on about this Act being ratified or what have you in a matter of weeks, and you know how quickly I slip into bad ways,’ said Nicky. ‘How about dinner this week? I’m sure you had something on your list about dinner. What was it?’

  ‘Having dinner with a lady without trying to get her into bed,’ I said. ‘It’s an important gentlemanly skill.’

  Gabi made a ‘What!’ face, which I ignored.

  ‘I quite agree! I definitely think that’s one lesson worth practising,’ said Nicky. ‘I mean, it’s win–win, isn’t it? Give me a date. I’ll cancel anything.’

  His voice was so flirty, I could feel my entire body blushing, including my feet.

  ‘I’m not at my desk right now,’ I said, trying not to sound too keen, ‘so I don’t have my diary in front of me . . .’

  Gabi rolled her eyes and offered me her own diary.

  I glared at her. ‘But I’ll ring you this afternoon and let you know when’s a good time.’

  ‘How about tonight?’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘Don’t pretend Nelly’s cooking you lamb chops or something. Come on, let me take you out.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll look forward to that,’ said Nicky, with an audible smile, and he hung up.

  ‘That sounded a lot like flirting to me,’ observed Gabi, when I managed to get my phone back in the bag.

  I shook my head weakly. ‘Yes. But no, I think he’s like that with everyone.’

  Gabi did her double eye-roll. ‘Ding!’

  ‘Don’t you start with that,’ I said, picking up a wallpaper sample book. ‘Nelson’s bad enough.’ But to be honest, Nicky’s charm was like sinking my weary body into a warm, scented bath. It didn’t solve anything, but it felt nice. I just hoped I could get out again.

  When I got back to the office with my new lamp and a pep talk from Gabi, I’d regrouped enough to deal with Ranald Harris, who’d spun himself into an appalling web of lies by fibbing on his speed-dating form, then inadvertently speed-dating four different women, to each of whom he’d told increasingly elaborate porkies, without making notes. Slowly, Ranald and I unravelled them between us, to the point where he could at least contact two of them with reasonable explanations. The other two, I told him sadly, he’d have to write off. There’s nowhere you can go once you’ve insisted you’re an international fast bowler, and/or a stage hypnotist.

  Flushed with success, I called Roger about Zara, and how he could make it up to her after the jewellery clanger.

  ‘It’s not about what you give her,’ I said, for what felt like the millionth time since Friday. ‘It’s the thought you’ve put into it.’

  ‘I don’t have any thoughts,’ he said wildly. ‘I’m a bloke!’

  ‘Well, take her on a mini break or something – surprise her. What does she like doing? Which bits of England hasn’t she seen? Why don’t you take her back to Hereford and show her your apple orchards?’ I improvised.

  ‘Riiight,’ said Roger, in a far from encouraging manner. ‘I did hear they’ve got the new tractor now, might be quite interesting for her. By the way, sorry to hear about your bad news.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said automatically, then wondered what Nelson had told him.

  ‘How are you coping? Ar
e you eating?’ Roger’s voice had taken on the ghastly solicitous tone he used when dealing with women in distress. I only had myself to blame; I’d taught him to use it instead of his old blunt ‘Why are you crying? Are you up the duff?’ approach. ‘You don’t want to eat too much,’ he went on. ‘Or drink too much. I expect Nelson’s looking after you.’

  ‘For your information, Roger,’ I said crossly, ‘I don’t need looking after. I haven’t broken things off with Jonathan at all. We’re just . . . thinking.’

  ‘You’ll go through various stages,’ he reassured me. ‘Including denial. Anger is perfectly normal.’

  I bitterly regretted buying Roger Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.

  ‘Let me know how you get on with Zara, won’t you?’ I said, as sweetly as I could. ‘And for future reference, any jewellery gift that is not an engagement ring should be presented in nothing smaller than a shoebox. Got that?’

  ‘Yurp!’ said Roger, and he hung up, presumably to get the tractor polished and ready for Zara.

  I made my way through a fair amount of paperwork, and was drafting a tactful email to a client who seemed to think I’d actually go to his godchild’s birthday party for him, as well as sort out the gift, when my mobile rang again.

  I saw from the caller ID that it was my mother.

  I stretched out my hand to take the call, then I chickened out. She loved Jonathan. She’d want to know what Parisian delights he’d showered on me over the weekend.

  Later, I told myself, guiltily. I’d call her back later, when I wasn’t at work, and had no distractions.

  I went back to my emails, and ten minutes later Daddy rang. I had a special ring tone to alert me to his calls. It was the Blackadder theme tune.

  I definitely wasn’t talking to him.

  When I didn’t take his call, he added a voicemail message to Mummy’s, and when Emery rang at four o’clock, I thought I’d better not answer that either. So she left a message too.

  At four thirty, just as I was about to nip out to Baker & Spice for a cake reward for getting through the day, the phone rang again, and this time there was no Romney-Jones caller ID so I picked up.