Little Lady Agency and The Prince (22 page)

‘Oh, I am. If there’s going to be lots, why not invite Roger too?’ I said quickly.

‘I might,’ said Nelson, sounding a bit odd. He paused. ‘There isn’t a
reason
you don’t want me to invite Leonie, is there? You’re not . . . jealous, are you?’

‘No! No!’ I exclaimed. ‘No! I just thought she was a bit . . . dull. That’s all. But anyway, it’s absolutely up to you who you have for dinner. I’ll be back tomorrow, so save me any leftovers!’ I said a bit too cheerfully, and rang off.

When Gabi came round for her lunchtime chat about canapés, she was more robust in her opinion.

‘Leoneezer Scrooge is coming for dinner?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, God help Nelson. They’ll spend all evening comparing credit card rates, then haggle with the minicab firm.’

‘You didn’t take her advice about putting a little away each week for your pension, then?’

‘No,’ said Gabi, opening her copy of
Brides
. ‘And you can tell Nelson to tell
Leoneezer
that I won’t be taking her advice about going to the Isle of Man for my honeymoon instead of Barbados, either. It isn’t “just as romantic”. I’m not going anywhere Aaron can watch Sky Sports.’

‘Hmm.’ On paper, Leonie was just the girl for Nelson: financially responsible, good job, attractive, not prone to Sloaney shrieking or watching reality TV. Everything I’d wish for him. So what was wrong?

Gabi looked up when I didn’t respond. ‘Don’t worry, Mel,’ she said. ‘She’ll start telling Nelson to cut back on his organic olive oil and that expensive deli habit he has, and he’ll give her the Spanish archer soon enough.’

‘I’m not
worried,
’ I said. ‘I . . . just want him to date more people till he finds, you know, just the right girl.’

‘The right girl. You’re waiting for him to
find the right girl
?’

‘Of course I am,’ I said. ‘He deserves someone really fantastic.’

Gabi’s brown eyes widened. ‘Yeah, right, Melissa,’ she said mysteriously, and went back to making notes on mini Yorkshire puddings.

I drove home to find a strange silence filling the house. I don’t think I’d ever come home to silence, other than the time Mummy had a sushi evening and everyone had to be kept in at the cottage hospital overnight.

‘Hello?’ I called, letting myself in.

My voice echoed in the empty hall as I looked through the post lying on the table. Normally everyone leaped on the post the moment it hit the mat, but today’s post was still lying there. Mummy’s subscription copy of
Harpers
, some letters from the bank, circulars . . .

I recognised the distinctive blue notepaper Jonathan’s accountant used, and picked up the letter. It was addressed to M. Romney-Jones.

How odd, I thought. I wonder why they’ve sent it here, and not to our new address in Paris? Maybe it was some tax arrangement.

‘Melissa!’

I spun round to find my father standing right behind me. Strapped to his chest in a suede papoose was Emery’s baby, opening and shutting his shiny round eyes in sync with my father’s rapid blinking. He seemed to be growing very quickly, and had already developed adorable little bracelets of fat around his wrists and knees. The cute effect, however, was almost completely counterbalanced by the sheer incongruity of his being attached to a middle-aged schemer in a tweed jacket.

The fact that they shared identical squashed red noses was plain spooky. It was like Daddy had found a mini-me.

‘Daddy!’ I said. ‘Hello!’

I spotted Emery peering over the banister at the top of the stairs. When she saw Daddy, a thwarted look crossed her face and she vanished.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked. ‘I thought—’

‘Is that letter addressed to you?’ asked Daddy, wagging his finger.

I looked down at it. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s from Jonathan’s accountant, and it’s addressed to M. Romney-Jones, so I assume it . . .’

‘Esq,’ said Daddy, snatching it off me and tucking it into the papoose behind the baby. ‘M. Romney-Jones, Esq. And they should have put MP. Come this way,’ he went on before I could ask what on earth Jonathan’s accountants were doing writing to him. ‘I expect you’ll need a cup of tea after your long drive. You look worn out.’

I ignored the insult and let myself be shepherded towards the drawing room. This display of pleasantness could only mean Daddy wanted a favour, and that meant I needed my wits about me.

‘I thought I’d come over to check Braveheart’s shots were up-to-date,’ I explained. ‘I’m not staying . . .’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ said Daddy, making himself comfortable in his armchair. The baby’s fat little legs stuck out cutely but any desire to nuzzle them vanished as Daddy leaned forward and said, ‘Now, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’

I swallowed, and thought of the letter. Had Jonathan got his solicitors to arrange a prenup? That would make sense, even if it wasn’t terribly romantic.

‘You’ll be aware that my book is about to go into its major second phase of promotion,’ he said as if it had been selected for the Booker Prize. ‘And I need the family to rally round with the publicity plans.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said quickly. ‘I got the rota, and I’m afraid that I’m going to be in Paris for the dates you suggested—’

‘I don’t want
you
, Melissa,’ Daddy interrupted. ‘I was after that prince you’re dating. If he could come along to the baby’s christening, it would help publicity no end. Emery and I are thinking of asking him to be a godfather.’

‘I’m not
dating
him,’ I protested. ‘You can’t just
borrow
him for publicity, Daddy. Besides, I don’t think Nicky is really the sort of person I’d trust anywhere near a baby.’

I couldn’t see Nicky as a responsible godfather. A Godfather, maybe – in his own imagination.

Daddy peered at me, and the baby leaned forward with him, its little forehead puckering. ‘I don’t expect him to do it for nothing,’ he said. ‘What sort of, ah, encouragement do you think he’d need?’

I boggled. ‘Encouragement?’

‘Sweeteners, Melissa,’ said Daddy crossly. ‘Cash. Honestly, sometimes I do wonder where you sprang from.’

Before I could reply, the door burst open and Mummy stormed in, with Allegra in hot pursuit. She paused for a second when she saw me, flashed a quick smile in my direction as she usually did for the press in moments of political embarrassment, then went back into rage mode.

‘If he’s trying to get you onside, then ignore him!’ she snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Daddy. ‘It’s Emery’s decision, not his!’

She sat down on the chair opposite his, as if to prevent any further discussion. Allegra flung herself on the sofa. I noticed that she was carrying a ball of knitting wool and a pair of needles.

‘Cast on for you, Mummy?’ she enquired.

‘Yes,’ snarled Mummy. ‘It’ll stop me injuring your father with the needles.’

‘Do keep it down, Belinda,’ said Daddy in injured tones. ‘Think of his little ears.’ And he put his hands tenderly over the baby’s head.

‘Where’s Emery?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure, darling.’ Mummy grabbed the needles off Allegra and started knitting angrily, her fingers almost knotting in the wool. A self-satisfied smile spread across Allegra’s face. ‘She went for a lie-down after lunch, and we haven’t seen her since.’

‘And Nanny Ag?’

‘Annexing the nursery,’ said Allegra. ‘And, given half a chance, annexing Emery, then the kitchen, then the rest of us, the power-crazed old bag.’

‘I see.’ I clapped my hands on my knees. ‘So . . .’

The clock ticked as everyone glared at each other.

I tried to think of something easy and non- confrontational to talk about.

‘I can’t keep calling him Baby Macdonald,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Has Emery decided on when he’s going to be christened?’

Like a mighty river bursting through a dam, it all kicked off, punctuated by the startled yapping of Braveheart and Jenkins, who had been sleeping behind the curtain on the forbidden window seat.

‘. . . really not up to you, Martin! If Emery wants a New Age ceremony it’s her decision . . .’

‘. . . ludicrous, irresponsible, just what I expected . . .’

‘. . . nothing wrong with Tiger as a name, for a
dog
 . . .’

‘. . . Martin is a perfectly good name . . .’

‘. . . yeah, maybe for an
old man
 . . .’

‘. . . bloody mutts under control then we wouldn’t need to Febreze the tapestries . . .’

‘. . . William’s feelings?’

A short sharp clapping of hands brought everyone to an abrupt halt, dogs included. Standing at the door with her hands now on her hips was Nanny Ag. Standing next to her, hanging her head like a guilty schoolgirl, was Emery. Even the fact that she’d already managed to squeeze her boyish hips back into her precious Earnest Sewn jeans didn’t seem to be cheering her up. She looked as if she’d spent the past three days in a tumble dryer.

‘It’s time for Baby’s feed, Mummy!’ announced Nanny Ag, marching towards us with her arms outstretched. ‘So I’m going to have to take him off you, Grandad.’

‘I’m really not too keen on this grandad and grandma business,’ winced Mummy. ‘Can’t he just call him Martin?’

‘No,’ said Nanny Ag. She had to raise her voice over the furious wailing now emanating from the baby, who had also turned himself cherry-red in protest at being plucked from the bosom of his grandfather.

Daddy smiled smugly.

‘Here you go, Mummy!’ said Nanny Ag, depositing the squirming, screeching infant in Emery’s unwilling arms. ‘Now then,’ she said, addressing us, ‘Mummy will see you in the dining room for her own supper in half an hour, before getting a nice early night.’ She turned her fierce gaze on the dogs, whistled once, and, to my astonishment, both trailed towards the door, tails between their legs. Jenkins looked so contrite his ears dragged along the floor.

Gosh, I thought. No wonder Emery had phoned me. It was just surprising she hadn’t asked for a file in a cake as well.

Looking on the bright side, supper was a marked improvement on recent fare. A security chain had been installed on the fridge, and until Braveheart learned how to crack combination locks, Mrs Lloyd’s comestibles were safe.

Granny returned from her ‘day in town’ just as we were about to sit, and then Emery appeared at the same time as the salmon terrine and toast corners. She looked stunned.

‘Fresh from the milking parlour!’ observed Allegra. ‘Our very own little Buttercup.’

‘Do shut up, Allegra,’ said Emery, wafting towards her seat. ‘Better a milk cow than a drugs mule.’

I looked up in surprise, as did Allegra. Motherhood seemed to be taking some of the vague off Emery.

‘Well, darlings, now we’re all together, maybe this is a good time to discuss the christening, I mean . . . naming ceremony.’ Mummy sent a nervous glance my way.

‘I don’t see what’s to discuss,’ said Emery calmly, helping herself to some toast.

‘You can’t have my first grandson named in some hippy woodland frolic!’ roared Daddy. ‘I won’t have it!’

‘No one’s asking you to
frolic
,’ she said. ‘Just wear a garland.’

‘A garland!’ said Granny. ‘How chic!’

‘What about names, first?’ I asked hastily.

‘Martin,’ said Daddy at once. ‘Family name.’

‘No, it isn’t, darling,’ said Mummy, ‘it’s
your
name. Anthony has the family name, since he’s the oldest.’

Daddy was the youngest of four sons. His eldest brother, Anthony, had got the nominal titles, Uncle Gilbert had got the brains, Uncle Tybalt had moved to Australia to farm, and through some family skulduggery so complex even Daddy hadn’t seen through it at the time, he’d been landed with the house no one wanted on account of its leaky roof, uncertain foundations, and threadbare furniture. This had powered his all-consuming ambition to become an MP and somehow revenge himself on the lot of them.

‘Anthony is an effeminate name,’ huffed Daddy. ‘Fit for hairdressers and tennis coaches.’

‘I have a list,’ said Emery to me. ‘And so does William. He emailed me his third version this morning. What do you think?’

She passed me a piece of paper and I read aloud. ‘Tanguy, Parsifal, Basil, Gascoigne, Ptolomy and . . . Jasper.’

I looked up.

Mummy, Daddy, Granny and Allegra were looking green. Emery carried on eating her terrine.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I take it those are your choices? OK. William has picked Austin, Alonzo, Drake, Becker, Lyle and Jimmy.’

‘Now, Drake I like,’ said Daddy, jabbing his butter knife in my direction. ‘Add Churchill, Winston, Bannister, Redgrave, Isambard, Kingdom
and
Brunel . . .’

‘What are
you
leaning towards, Emery?’ I asked.

‘I like Parsifal,’ she said. ‘After Grandad Blennerhesket. Percy, for short.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Mummy. ‘Isn’t it, Mummy? Remembering Daddy like that.’

‘Um, yes,’ said Granny, ‘but it’s not a very little-boy name, is it? Percy.’

‘I rather think he has a look of Daddy,’ said Mummy fondly. ‘Don’t you, Martin?’

‘Oh, absolutely. The red face?’ suggested my own father. ‘The red nose? The fixation with eating and sleeping?’

‘Do you have any more suggestions?’ asked Granny pointedly.

‘I don’t mind Austin,’ said Emery.

‘After the good old British motor manufacturer?’ beamed Daddy.

‘No,’ said Emery. ‘After the American city where William and I had a nice mini break. I’d be happy with Parsifal Austin.’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You’re sure?’ It just wasn’t like Emery to be so definite.

A more familiar consternation muddled her expression. ‘Well . . . I quite like Ptolomy too. Or Ulysses.’

‘No, darling,’ said Mummy. ‘He’d have to be awfully handsome to carry that off. You have to choose a proper name.’

‘If you’d only thought of that when you were choosing a name for me,’ said Emery crossly, ‘I might not have spent fifteen years of my life being called
Board
.’

We all tried to muffle giggles. Poor Emery, not being the sharpest tool in the box, had assumed Board was some reference to her flat chest, and had stuffed her bras furiously until someone explained the joke to her. By then she was seventeen, and had started to be called Socks instead.