Little Lady Agency and The Prince (16 page)

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I admitted, shoving the phone under my ear so I could carry on typing my email.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Honestly. I haven’t.’ I didn’t add that when I’d tried on my fall-back black-tie dress at the weekend, I’d found it rather more close-fitting than normal, on account of the croissants and that weird ten pounds of Happy Flab you always get when you meet the love of your life.

‘I read somewhere that you have to wear gloves.’

‘That might not be a bad idea,’ I said, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach. Solange had helpfully emailed me the ‘emergency diet’ all the girls in the office used on such occasions. It seemed to involve a lot of
eau
. ‘I can’t vouch for where Nicolas has been. Or how clean his hands are.’

Gabi made a funny noise. ‘You’re not helping, Mel! Short or long?’

‘Gabi, it’s a
dinner
. There will be lots of sailing types there, including Roger and Nelson, and Nicolas will probably skedaddle thirty seconds after the coffee’s been served,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m not making a
huge
effort, because I don’t want him thinking I’m tarting myself up on his account.’

‘Well, I will be,’ she said. ‘Aaron, or not.’

And then there was the matter of Nelson’s date.

I had a million single girlfriends, but alas, Nelson’s selection criteria were more mysterious and exacting than MI5’s: it wasn’t just a case of setting him up with the prettiest ones. Before the Jossy date, I’d arranged for him to go for dinner with the most gorgeous girl I’d known at secretarial college – Harriet had legs so long that she had to sit at the end of the row – but Nelson had politely driven her home by half ten, and when pressed as to why the date had ended so soon, would only say, ‘She thought the America’s Cup was a pub in South Kensington.’

However, I’d given the matter some thought, and had found him what I reckoned would be the perfect match. Leonie Hargreaves was a friend of mine from the second of my three schools. When I’d known her, she hadn’t been particularly pretty or brilliant, but she had a knack of calming down troublesome ponies by blowing into their ears, and I reckoned Nelson would appreciate that sort of thing. She was also very sensible about money, and had been treasurer of virtually every society going – again, something I felt Nelson would appreciate more than a spectacular cleavage.

Though I hadn’t seen her in years, we’d had a brief email chat after Christmas – work, family, catching up on other St Cathalians’ news, etc, etc – and I’d ascertained at the time that she’d been single for a while, and was on the lookout for a new chap. Fortunately for everyone, she was free on Wednesday night, which I took to be a Sign. She also informed me that she’d just passed some very complicated tax exam, which I took to be an even better one.

Nicolas deigned to inform me by text message that his own invited guests would be ‘Chunder and Piglet’ – or, as I was to put on the envelope, Selwyn Carter-Keighley, Esq, and the Honourable Imogen Leys.

‘I made some calls and checked them out on the internet at work,’ I confessed to Jonathan during our nightly phone call. ‘Selwyn seems to spend all his time being arrested for streaking at sports events, and Imogen is the heiress to some sort of ointment fortune. I think she and Nicky are an item. I have no idea what we’re going to talk about. I might have to make a list of ideas and hide it in my handbag.’

‘You’re taking Gabi,’ said Jonathan reassuringly. ‘There won’t be any shortage of conversation.’

I wound the phone cord around my fingers. I was sitting in the dark, the better to hear Jonathan’s voice in my ear. He had a very sexy voice. I missed hearing him whisper in my ear when we were curled up in bed together.

‘What are you wearing?’ he asked.

Ooh. I’d read about this in a glossy mag recently: How Saucy Phone Calls can Spice Up a Long-distance Relationship.

‘My black silk pyjamas,’ I purred. ‘The ones you gave me for Valentine’s Day. And I’ve just washed my hair, so it’s all fresh and clean, the way you like it . . .’

‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘What are you wearing to the dinner?’

‘Oh, um, I haven’t decided,’ I stammered.

That was my main fear with Jonathan: saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. He was difficult enough to read when I could see him, let alone when all I had to go on was his tone.

‘Although obviously I’m keen to hear about your pyjamas too,’ he added, about two seconds too late.

I sighed. ‘Gabi and I are going shopping tomorrow, so I’ll probably get something then.’

‘Nothing too spectacular,’ he said in what I
thought
was a jokey warning tone. ‘I don’t want this guy getting the wrong idea and putting the moves on you. Dropping you in a fountain or something.’

‘Neither do I!’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s for Nelson’s charity. I promise you it’s less than likely to get out of hand in any way, shape or form.’

‘You’re a friend in need to Nelson,’ said Jonathan drily. ‘And your granny. And this Nicky. But soon it’ll be just you and me, right?’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘Now,’ said Jonathan in a much less brisk tone, ‘tell me about those pyjamas . . .’

8

On Wednesday afternoon, I rushed home from a tricky wardrobe consultation (Freddie Markham: allergic to all known fabrics, apart from bri-nylon and Kevlar) to get changed myself before Alexander’s driver arrived at seven o’clock to collect me.

Nelson had already left. He loved the hysterical hours before a big event. If he could have run the dinner with a series of whistles and commands, he would have done. Araminta was probably lining up right now to have her clipboards inspected, I mused, as I squeezed myself into my outfit for the evening: a crimson satin cocktail dress with a full skirt and a laced back that held me in to the point where more than two drinks was a complete no-no.

The exertion of doing up the lacing made me pant, but the effect it had was worth it – the resulting cushion of milky-white cleavage was one that Marie Antoinette would have been proud of. I slipped on the matching red stilettos, and fixed the pearl earrings Jonathan had given me for Christmas, then paused before the final part of the outfit.

My blonde Honey wig.

The first time I pinned up my hair and slipped it on I’d felt so glamorous, and special, and free of all the hang-ups and family-inspired paranoias I’d dragged around for years. Falling for Jonathan, and knowing he’d fallen for the boring Melissa under the wig, had removed
some
of those hang-ups, but, secretly, I still preferred the way I looked when I was spotlit by that halo of blondeness.

Plus, the wig wasn’t just about the hair. It was about letting out something else – a borrowed sass that I needed as self-defence from someone like Nicky. I hesitated for a brief second, then carried on. If you were going to fight fire with fire, you might as well make sure you had a big old flame-thrower.

I slipped the wig onto my head and tugged it into place, deliberately not looking until it was sitting in exactly the right spot.

Then, holding my breath, I let my eyes lift to see my reflection in the mirror.

Wow.

My eyes sparkled, my skin took on a pale golden glow, and a long, slow smile spread across my face as my whole body seemed to elongate then settle back into a confident curve, filling out the dress.

Usually, I didn’t spend much time looking at myself, preferring to ignore all the lumps and bumps as best I could, but as I applied my make-up, my face seemed to come to life. Darker eyeliner, flicked at the sides, brought out the gold flecks in my brown eyes. Deep red lipstick, the same scarlet as my dress, made me notice how full my lower lip was.

Standing back to see the whole effect, I was so pleased that I smiled at myself. What with work, and moving, and generally getting used to living with Jonathan, it was ages since I’d looked this nice.

But before I could preen any further, there was a ring at the door.

I grabbed my coat and bag, and when I opened the door, a grey-haired man in full green-and-gold livery was standing there, peaked cap and everything.

‘Miss Romney-Jones?’ he asked, holding out his hand to take my coat.

We descended the stairs rather awkwardly – I got the feeling he wasn’t used to collecting people from first-floor flat conversions – and he directed me to a rather lovely old Bentley, which he’d parked in the middle of the road, blocking the way imperiously until I was ready.

‘Are we going straight to the dinner?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid we have to collect Prince Nicolas from his apartment first, madam,’ said the driver.

‘Oh, good!’ At least I’d know he would be turning up, in that case. ‘I hope he’s ready!’ I joked.

There was a discreet silence from the front seat.

Once we’d got underway and I’d broken the ice a bit with some compliments about his terrific sense of direction, he became much less formal, and revealed that his name was Ray, he’d worked for Alexander for thirty-seven years ‘man and boy’, and that his least favourite task was collecting ‘that lad’ from various nightclubs.

‘Some nights I wait until four,’ he grumbled, ‘then he comes out, covered in God knows what, pardon my French, ma’am, usually with a dolly bird or two . . .’ He stopped suddenly, and I could see in the mirror that he was looking stricken.

I don’t know what it was, but people often told me the most personal things, even without my having to probe.

‘Oh, Ray! Don’t worry,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m not Nicolas’s date, not that way! I’m just . . . accompanying him. My grandmother is an old family friend. Dilys Blennerhesket?’

A broad smile swept away the tension lines. ‘Yes, well, I’d have known that anyway from the family resemblance, ma’am!’

‘Really?’ I beamed. ‘Thank you!’

‘You’re her dead spit! Oh, now she’s a
proper
lady. One of the old school, if you’ll permit me to say so. And,’ he winked, ‘I’m not the only one with a high opinion of her.’

‘I adore her,’ I agreed. ‘She’s the most charming person I know.’

Ray looked like he was about to say something else, then changed his mind, as his face gloomed up again. ‘Now, if Prince Nicolas could find a lady like your grandmother, I’m sure Prince Alexander would sleep easier at night.’

‘Mmm,’ I agreed as non-controversially as I could. ‘How near are we to his flat? Perhaps I should call to make sure he’s ready.’

Nicky ignored three calls, but as we were pulling up outside a house in Eaton Square, he finally condescended to answer.

‘If he tells you he’s not in, ignore him, ma’am,’ muttered Ray. ‘My colleague Jim dropped him off from the airport an hour ago. Overnight bag, dolly bird and all.’

‘Nicolas, it’s Melissa,’ I said. ‘We’re outside your house. Are you ready?’

‘Oh, no!’ he gasped. ‘I completely forgot! Melissa, you won’t believe this, but I’m actually in Hydra on a boat with some—’

‘I know you’re at home,’ I said firmly. ‘I can see you.’

That last bit was a trick I’d learned from work. Amazingly, it never failed, even with men significantly brighter than Nicolas.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. ‘But . . . I’m naked!’ he said. ‘How much can you see?’

I decided to let that go. ‘We’re outside,’ I went on, ‘so if you could put your dinner jacket on and come down here in five minutes . . . ?’

‘Or?’

I tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. It felt quite odd, having hair that tickled my shoulders again. ‘Don’t make me call your grandfather.’

He hung up.

A mere seven minutes later, the other rear door opened, and Nicky slid in, his hair still damp from the shower.

‘Jesus!’ he said, rearing back theatrically when he saw me. ‘Why, Miss Jones, when you take off your glasses . . . you’re beautiful!’

‘Thank you,’ I said. It was hard not to turn a little pink under such intense scrutiny, and such deep brown eyes, but I was trying very hard to be cool. Honey, I knew, would be cool about this sort of attention.

‘Do you always wear wigs for dates?’ he asked, looking me up and down with his unsettlingly direct gaze. He stopped assessing and winked. ‘Is it, like, your little kinky
thing
?’

‘Of course not. It’s better if no one knows who I am.’

‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t recognise you. What did you do with Mary Poppins?’

‘She’s still here,’ I said, shifting over slightly to avoid his widespread knees. ‘Underneath.’

Nicky gave me his most Sloane-seducing gaze. ‘Are you going to let me look underneath and check?’

‘No,’ I said, as Ray set off towards the Hilton.

We drove round Sloane Square and Nicolas used the centrifugal force as an excuse to spread his legs further apart.

I shifted nearer the window.

He started to stretch his arm along the seat back and I twisted myself to lean against the door, out of reach. The bones in my dress dug into my ribs, but I forced a smile onto my face. He might be skilled at making passes in taxis but I was equally well-schooled in avoiding them. I hoped this was where lesson one started: teaching him that not every girl put out under duress.

‘You’ll rip your trousers if you’re not careful,’ I observed.

He arched an eyebrow at me in response, and when I refused to rise to it, he said, ‘So, if you’re in disguise this evening, what am I meant to call you?’

I hesitated.

‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘people are going to want to know who I’m with. They do that,’ he added helpfully. ‘There’ll be someone there to take names.’

‘I
know
,’ I said. Honestly, did he think I hadn’t been to a gazillion charity dinners thrown by my own mother alone? ‘Don’t call me Melissa. Call me . . .’

It was the logical thing to do. But it was also asking for trouble.

‘Call me Honey,’ I said. ‘Honey Blennerhesket.’

I must confess that it was rather fabulous to arrive at a hotel and have a liveried driver leap out, run round, and open the door for me.

Nicky flounced straight inside, but I stopped to say thank you to Ray.

‘Any trouble, give me a call,’ he said, slipping me his card.