Little Lady Agency and The Prince
Read Little Lady Agency and The Prince Online
Authors: Hester Browne
CONTENTS
The Little Lady Agency and the Prince
Hester Browne’s Polite Thank-you Notes
WHAT THE LADY
WANTS
Hester Browne
By the same author
The Little Lady Agency
Little Lady, Big Apple
Copyright © 2008 by Hester Browne
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Hodder & Stoughton
First publishing in 2006 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette Livre UK Company
The right of Hester Browne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94801 3
Book ISBN 978 0 340 93777 8
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NWl 3BH
To DMGB: a prince among men
1
My name is Melissa Romney-Jones, but pretty soon you’ll be able to call me Melissa Romney-Jones-Riley! My fiancé, Jonathan, reckons it has quite a ring to it, although we’ve had one or two discussions about whether it should be Riley-Romney-Jones or Romney-Jones-Riley. Whichever, it certainly isn’t any more ridiculous than my office work name, Honey Blennerhesket, which . . .
Actually, let’s start at the beginning.
As Melissa, I am many things to many people: long-suffering daughter of notorious MP Martin Romney-Jones; under-educated but perfectly mannered Old Girl of several fine boarding schools; and fiancée of the debonair, successful and charming Jonathan Riley, a paragon of American dentistry who gives estate agents a good name. I’m what parents like to call a ‘nice girl’, i.e. cheerful, practical, sturdy in the leg and generous of bosom, and entirely without embarrassing tattoos. Not what you’d call a sex kitten, in other words.
But then there’s my other life. Add a satin corset, and some serious red lippy, and you get Honey Blennerhesket, bootylicious troubleshooter for London’s hapless bachelors and chaps generally in need of a woman’s multitasking mind. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no domestic problem Honey can’t sort out, no etiquette dilemma she can’t advise on, and no sticky social situation she can’t winkle them out of faster than you can say ‘Gina Lollobrigida’. It’s weird, but I can’t be bossy when I’m everyday Melissa, yet somehow when I’m walking in Honey’s stilettos I turn into an absolute whirlwind. Supernanny for grown-ups, if you like.
I’ve tried to keep my two lives apart, but they have a habit of running into one another. Even the name of the business – the Little Lady Agency – comes from the annoying manner in which my father, an unreconstructed pig of the first water, would refer to my mother, and indeed any woman, as ‘the little lady’. If men want to engage
this
little lady to run their lives the way my mother runs my father’s, they pay very reasonable hourly rates. But in return, I sort out their problems, advise them gently on the real reasons they’re going wrong and, ideally, leave them not only spruced up, but in a better state to tackle things themselves.
I really do love my job. As my flatmate Nelson says, it’s a form of social work. And he should know, being the third most well-meaning person in Britain, after Bono and Jamie Oliver.
In fact, it was by shamelessly playing on Nelson’s mile-wide humanitarian streak that I’d managed to enlist his reluctant help in the day’s first job.
‘You understand that I’m doing this on the sole condition that I don’t tell a
single
lie?’ he stressed for the ninth time, as he flipped through the stack of glossy mags on my office coffee table.
Nelson is my oldest friend. He looks how you’d imagine an England cricket hero should – tall and strapping with a shock of blond hair. At thirty-three, he is a few years older than me, but really he should have been born around 1815, when he could have spent his time striding across some vast estate, tending kindly to his peasants, railing at the iniquities of the slave trade, and eating enormous gourmet meals.
Instead, he works in fund-raising and administration for a charity, and spends a lot of time sailing with his schoolfriend, Roger Trumpet, who, coincidentally, has the personal hygiene habits of a nineteenth-century serf.
‘Absolutely,’ I reassured him. ‘I’ll be doing all the talking. You just have to look patient. You’re good at that.’
‘But what I don’t understand is why Jethro Lorton-Hunter needs you in the first place,’ he said, furrowing his brow like a baffled Labrador. ‘If his girlfriend’s so flaky that she can’t bear to see him talking to another woman, why doesn’t he just tell her to pack it in? Before he packs
her
in?’
For all his eligibility – and despite having lived with me for years – Nelson understands women about as much as I understand computer programming.
‘Because it’s not as simple as that.’
‘It never is,’ he sighed. ‘Go on, enlighten me.’
Jethro Lorton-Hunter brought his own personal cloud of gloom into my office when he arrived for his consultation. Like most of my clients, he’d been sent on a friend’s recommendation; apparently, I’d ‘done wonders’ for his mate George’s party chit-chat technique, to the point where he now had three girlfriends. Jethro’s problem was his girlfriend, Daisy, who was a sweetheart, apart from one thing: she went bug-eyed if she saw him talking to another woman.
‘It’s because of some stupid mix-up at a party,’ he explained, shredding a tissue. ‘We were playing that game with the orange, you know, where you pass it along with your chin, and, well, you know how things roll down Tilly Chadwick’s . . .
chest
. . . and then Daisy walked in. It was
totally
innocent, but you know what some people can be like. She’s been like the secret police ever since. Convinced I’m eyeing up women
every time
we go out.’ He stuck his hands in his thick black hair. ‘She even accused me of flirting with a traffic warden this weekend! I mean, Daisy means the world to me, but nothing I can say makes the slightest difference, and it’s driving me nuts.’ He raised his eyes to me. ‘What can I do?’
I heard that phrase at least four times a day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, patting his knee. ‘There’s a very quick way to fix this.’
‘. . . so we’re going to have lunch with Jethro and Daisy, who thinks I’m an old schoolmate of Jethro’s. Not as
me
,’ I added hastily. ‘As Honey. I’m going to give him the full Honey Blennerhesket charm offensive, and Jethro’s going to make a big show of being utterly disinterested.’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘All you have to do is sit there and give her the impression that you’re my boyfriend.’
‘But I’m not,’ Nelson pointed out. ‘If I was being your boyfriend I’d need a much more expensive suit and a faint air of superiority.’
Nelson wasn’t all that keen on Jonathan. I put it down to jealousy, plain and simple, combined with the fact that they were, in many ways, quite similar. Their manic attention to detail, for one thing.
‘You don’t have to lie,’ I said, ignoring the dig. ‘Just . . . play along.’
‘Fine,’ said Nelson. ‘I’ll pretend you use my razor to shave your legs. Oh, hang on –
you do
.’
I gave him a reproachful look.
‘Listen, I need to get changed, so could you stick the coffee machine on? I could do with a quick cup before we leave.’
As Nelson inspected my fairtrade coffee supplies, I slipped into the spare room to remove Melissa’s comfy wide trousers and decant myself into Honey’s stockings. My office had once been a little two-bed flat, and in the old second bedroom I kept my foxy Little Lady wardrobe of pencil skirts, neat tweed suits and deep V-neck cardies. I had the sort of unmanageable figure that made high-street shopping pure misery, even with my best friend Gabi’s encouragement, but somehow my ample bosom and even more ample hips filled Honey’s fitted outfits like cream in an eclair. In that things constantly threatened to burst free, but in a good way.
‘So what are you going to do to the poor man?’ yelled Nelson, as I wriggled into a tight black pencil skirt. In the beginning, when I was trying to keep my agency a secret, the clothes had been more of a disguise than anything, but since the bombshell uniform seemed to focus both the client’s mind and mine on the job in hand, it stayed. There was no way this little plan would work, for instance, if I were just plain old Melissa. Believe me, I was perfectly resistible as Melissa.
‘Oh, you know, the usual Honey stuff.’ To be honest, I never really planned
anything
as Honey: it just seemed to come out of its own accord. I buckled a waspie belt round my waist. At least having hips like a Russian doll’s meant your waist looked smaller by comparison. ‘I’ve told Jethro that he has to ignore me, whatever I do, go on about how happy he is with Daisy and, if necessary, ask me to stop flirting because he’s
simply not interested
. Just don’t let her slap me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m the office First Aider,’ said Nelson. He did a gratifying double take as I sashayed into the main office and slid my feet into a pair of patent-leather peep-toe sandals. ‘Good Lord. How does anyone get any work done with you dressed like that? How do you walk downstairs? How do you
breathe
?’
‘I’m a woman of many talents.’ I winked, then paused, as I caught a glimpse of my curvaceous reflection in the mirror. Something was missing. I was still too . . . Melissa.
‘Do you think I should . . . ?’ I made a halo motion around my head.
‘Should what?’ he said sternly, as if he didn’t already know what I was talking about.
‘Should I . . . put it on?’
We held each other’s gaze.
He knew I was talking about the Wig.
I used to offer a rather ingenious service whereby I’d pretend to be a client’s girlfriend – just to tide them over a tricky social hump, you understand. Weddings, meetings with nosey mothers, that sort of thing. To stop other folk recognising me – because I know an
embarrassing
number of people and I didn’t want what I was doing getting back to my family – I bought a blonde wig. But the weird thing was that tossing my fabulous blonde mane round gave me an amazing thrill. I wasn’t frumpy, reliable Mel any more, I was a fearless, quick-thinking butterscotch goddess.
It was how I’d met Jonathan, actually: he’d moved here from New York after a horrendous divorce and needed a smokescreen to stop being match-made to death by all the hostesses desperate for gorgeous thirty-something bachelors. So when he and I got together for real, Jonathan decided for obvious reasons that he didn’t want me wearing the wig for work any more. I could see his point. I was never quite sure what would happen myself when I put it on. So I promised him it would stay in the box.
And it had, more or less.