Little Lady Agency and The Prince (23 page)

‘Well,’ said Mummy with a pointed look down the table, ‘if your father had been sober enough to make himself clear to the vicar, you would have been called Emily Jane, as I specifically requested.’

‘And if your mother hadn’t been so out of it at the christening, she might have noticed the silly arse of a vicar getting it wrong,’ he retorted.

‘I had thirty-one stitches!’ she snapped. ‘And you had a crate of Dom Perignon!’

This was news to me. I’d just assumed Daddy had assumed she’d be a boy, then refused to budge on his weird name choice.

‘What?’ demanded Emery, flicking her gaze between the two of them. ‘You mean I wasn’t even
meant
to be called Emery?’

‘Not really,’ said Daddy, helping himself to the last bit of toast. ‘Still, hasn’t done you any lasting damage.’

‘I wouldn’t take it personally,’ said Allegra. ‘Apparently, he wasn’t even in the country for my christening. Marlin-fishing in Iceland, wasn’t it?’

‘That was a parliamentary trip,’ replied Daddy. ‘For the good of the constituents. Anyway, why not call the little chap Percy – I’ll be reminded of Wasdalemere’s dreadful poetry, and that ridiculous table tennis he used to make us all play after dinner. God, I can just hear him now . . . “Your serve, Dilly?”’

Granny threw her napkin on the table. ‘He is not going to be called Parsifal, and that’s an end to it!’

I was surprised to see just how upset she seemed. Since Grandad died, she’d had quite a merry widowhood, but maybe this was stirring up sad memories for her.

‘I know!’ I said, as a genius idea struck me. ‘If you want to call him in memory of someone we all loved, I can think of the perfect name!’

Five faces turned to me, baffled.

‘Emery! Your first pet!’ All our dogs were buried in their own special graveyard in the woods, with proper headstones and everything. Mummy planted dogrose bushes on each one.

‘Bodger?’ Emery wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t call him Bodger, Mel. Nice idea but that would be weird.’

‘Bodger was a cat, darling, he doesn’t count,’ said Mummy, then she turned to me, her eyes sparkling with tears and love. ‘She means Cuthbert!’

‘Cuthbert!’ we cried with a wash of affection, even Daddy. Bertie had been our first basset hound, and his appetite was matched only by his smelly ability to process all the food he stole within a matter of hours. When he died, we all wore black for a week and buried him with his basket, blanket and half a pound of mature Cheddar.

‘Wonderful idea!’ cried Granny. ‘Bertie McDonald! I’m in love with him already!’

‘I’ll let William choose the rest,’ decided Emery graciously.

The next morning, I had to get up at some unholy hour to get back to London before the rush hour started, long, long before anyone else managed to drag themselves from their pit.

But to my surprise, as I crept downstairs to make myself a quick cup of coffee to brace me for the M25 ahead, I caught a flash of black and white movement in the kitchen and, for a moment, almost believed Mummy’s ludicrous stories of the violated cavalier maid her psychic advisor insisted lurked around the servants’ quarters.

On closer inspection, however, I realised it was nothing of the sort: it was Nanny Ag.

‘You’re up early,’ I whispered, putting on the kettle.

‘Routine!’ she bellowed, with scant regard for the others still sleeping. ‘Mummy needs to be woken to express milk at six forty-five, then Baby has his first feed at seven!’

‘Six forty-five?’ I said incredulously. ‘But Emery’s knackered!’

Nanny Ag gave me a reproving look. ‘We don’t like words like that. The Queen would say “fatigued”.’

I swallowed and tried to batten down the rising feeling that Nanny Ag, far from being the beacon of reliability I’d remembered, was actually something of a bossyboots. ‘Can’t she wait until half seven?’ I tried, with a persuasive smile. ‘She’s really awfully tired. And Bertie seems to have slept pretty well.’

‘Mummy and Baby need their routine. They both need waking for a feed. They’ll thank me for it later,’ she said, putting a couple of dry crackers on a plate.

‘That’s not for Emery, surely?’ I asked, peering at the crackers. ‘Doesn’t she need something a bit more . . . nutritious? Look, I can whip up a bit of French toast, if you like. I learned to do it when I was a chalet girl and I’m actually . . .’

Nanny Ag turned to me and gave me the Glare of Disapproval, not to be confused with the Glare of Disappointment or, worst of all, the Glare of Dismay. ‘Melissa. Nanny knows best. No one’s at home to Mrs Meddler. What this house is crying out for is some order!’ And she picked up her tray of dry crackers and sterilising equipment, and made for the stairs.

A terrible picture of poor Emery being wrenched from her warm bed flashed through my mind – not to say the idea of Bertie being woken after only just dropping off. He wasn’t going to like that.

I don’t quite know where it came from, but in a flash I was at the door, blocking her way. ‘Nanny Ag,’ I said, sweetly but firmly, ‘you will kill everyone in this house if you try to introduce order all at once. They can’t go cold turkey like that. Why not leave it until half seven?’

We glared at each other for a second or two.

Slowly, Nanny Ag put the tray down on the kitchen table. ‘You never used to be so headstrong, Melissa,’ she said, with a note of wounded disappointment.

‘No,’ I agreed, and picked up my car keys from the table.

11

I barely had time to notice spring blossoming into early summer, what with constant baby-related calls from home, French refresher CDs, and my appointments around London with Nicky. I’d set about implementing my list of improvements, starting with getting him fitted for a proper English suit. After a couple of strained meetings, he finally seemed to be bending to my will – or else imagining life without his allowance. Which is to say, he now answered my calls on the second attempt: I called that progress, of sorts.

Jonathan also seemed to be making progress with his new business, though he was still rather cagey about when he was leaving Dean & Daniels. He called my mobile one Wednesday morning, as I was walking down the tree-lined street to the office. I was still half-asleep but from his caffeine-buzzed tone, he’d obviously been at his desk for ages.

‘Hi, sweetie!’ he said, then before I could reply, breezed on. ‘You remember Farrah Scott? Dom’s wife?’

‘Oh, yes!’ I said. I’d found Kylie’s trainer, via a friend of a friend who worked in private catering: I owed serious favours as a result.

‘Well, she called me yesterday because she wants you to check out the right club to join in Paris. Somewhere she can hold client meetings?’

‘A members’ club?’ I asked, nervously. This was precisely what I was dreading about Jonathan’s business plan. I knew most London places pretty well, but that was after years and years of meeting different people who went to them. But I had no idea whatsoever about Parisian clubs – and not knowing many (any) Parisians meant it would take me ages to learn which were which, and who you could expect to bump into in the loos.

And as for queue-jumping Farrah onto the membership list of some trendy French place . . .

But Jonathan was speaking again. ‘Yeah, wherever the media people go in Paris. You know, like Soho House.’

‘Um, I’m not really sure I can—’ I began, but he interrupted.

‘I told her that was exactly the sort of thing you were so good at,’ he said, confidently. ‘Knowing the right places. You can look into that for me, can’t you? Ack, I’ve got a call on the other line – listen, we’ll talk later, OK?’

‘OK,’ I said, since there wasn’t really much else I could say.

Feeling ambushed, I climbed the stairs to the office, and let myself in. There was only one message on the answering machine, and I played it as I took off my jacket.

It was from one Poppy Lowther, squeaking, ‘Oh my God! It’s in today, Melissa!’

I’d barely absorbed that good news when the phone rang, and before I could even get my Little Lady office greeting out, I was cut short by a ferocious snarl.

‘What the
hell
are you doing getting me banned from Greens?’

‘Nicky!’ I said reproachfully. ‘Is that the way to greet a lady?’

Nicky replied with something that definitely wasn’t the way to speak to a lady, especially before ten o’clock.

‘If you’re going to talk to me like that, I’m going to have to hang up on you,’ I said with some regret. Regret for myself mainly, because though I wouldn’t dream of letting on to Nicky, the office had taken on a more glamorous hue just from his call. ‘Don’t make me do that. I’ve only ever had to twice.’

‘You will not hang up on me,’ growled Nicky. ‘Tell me what you’re playing at – or have you just gone mad? I tried to get into Greens last night for a drink and the silly mare on the door wouldn’t let me in.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Yes,
that
.’ He spoiled the effect of his growling by coughing with the effort. It was, after all, very early for him. ‘Do you realise I just about keep that place afloat? There are not one but two champagne cocktails named after me.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen the papers yet myself, but if you look in this morning’s
Daily Mail
,’ I said serenely, ‘you will see a story in the gossip column thing, all about how Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg has been banned from the notorious society—’

‘The
Daily Mail
?’ demanded Nicky. ‘Hang on, there’s a copy here.’

I heard scrabbling. ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

‘Up,’ he said. ‘And that’s all you need to know.’ I strained my ears and picked up the flicking of pages, and from the clinking in the background I guessed he was in a coffee shop somewhere. Or still in a bar. ‘Is there a photo?’ he added, unable to control his vanity.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I supplied one.’

There was a howl of horror as Nicky found the page in question. ‘Jesus and Mary! You’re kidding! I look like—’

‘You look like a jolly nice chap,’ I said. I’d sent them a photograph I’d snapped during one of his fittings at Huntsman for his new suit the previous week. Stripped of his open-necked shirt and Gucci shade combo, Nicky had actually looked rather sweet in a normal white shirt, especially since the wind had ruffled his hair up from its usual slicked-back look and revealed hitherto unsuspected curls.

‘I look like a total dork!’ he roared. ‘And . . . oh, my God! “Besotted fans of playboy Prince Nicolas of Hollenberg will have to seek him out elsewhere now he’s banned from his usual haunt, Chelsea private members’ club, Greens. Society doorgirl Poppy Lowther revealed that doe-eyed Nicky has been banned for good behaviour.” Good behaviour? What the hell is that about?’

‘Well, if you read on, Poppy will explain,’ I said.

‘“Once known for his wild antics and drunken exploits, recently the eligible young aristo seems to have turned over a new leaf. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ says clipboard princess Poppy, ‘Nicky’s days of Nazi uniforms and pole-dancing with Olympic show-jumpers are over. He used to party all night then stay for our famous Brunch-of-the-Dog but now he’s into his early nights. I’ve even heard he’s started detoxing! And we can’t have that sort of behaviour here – we’ve got a reputation to maintain!’ Poppy says.”’ There was a pause, then Nicky continued, in a more suspicious tone, ‘“Rumours are circulating that this new leaf might have something to do with Nicky’s new flame – a mystery blonde who’s replaced ointment heiress Imogen ‘Piglet’ Leys as his regular party popper.”’

It was my turn to be outraged. ‘What?’

‘Oh, don’t play the innocent,’ said Nicky. ‘You told them to put that, didn’t you?’

‘I most certainly did not,’ I protested. Blood drained from my face, then rushed back into it.

Party popper? I’d been to
one
dinner with him! Well, and a couple of suit fittings. And a quick frogmarch round an art gallery, then a coffee afterwards that had sort of turned into lunch. Oh, and a cocktail reception at the Irish Embassy.

‘“Sources close to the prince are hinting that this curvy honey has got London’s most eligible bachelor abandoning strip clubs and police cells for golf clubs and wedding bells.” Curvy
honey
? Don’t tell me you didn’t plant that!’

‘But I didn’t! I mean, generally yes,’ I flustered, turning pink, ‘I admit I got Poppy Lowther to say that – she’s the younger sister of one of my old clients, and I did drop the story to a friend of mine who works with Richard Kay at the
Mail
, but I definitely didn’t—’

‘Thank God there’s no name,’ said Nicky. ‘Yours, I mean.’

‘Well, quite,’ I said.

‘You should be relieved,’ he went on. ‘You don’t want to see Piglet when she’s mad. I’ve seen her throw people.’

‘
People?
’

‘Don’t laugh. She gets you round the knees and hoists, like you’re a caber. Some Scottish army bloke taught her. Broke Cully Hatton’s collarbone at Cowes last year.’

‘Oh,’ I said, making a mental note to stay outside grappling distance of Imogen Leys in future. ‘Oh, dear. Well, I’m sure if she knew the whole story . . .’

There was a faint snort at the end of the line.

‘What?’ I demanded, suddenly conscious that Nicky actually seemed to be prolonging the call. My senses abruptly went into panic mode, as I counted down the seconds until I said the wrong thing. ‘I suppose you’re imagining Imogen chucking me now, are you?’

‘No,’ chuckled Nicky, rather sweetly. ‘I’m imagining you chucking Imogen. I’d say you were about a match for each other. I’ve got to hand it to you, Melissa – banned for good behaviour? God almighty. You’re so going to ruin my social life before this is over. Any other clubs I should know about?’

‘Not so far.’

‘You realise, thanks to you, I’m going to need a whole new set of friends at this rate? The ones I’ve got think I’ve gone mental. Ha!’

As his tone turned more conversational I started to relax, and tried to picture what he’d be doing on the other end: laughing, rolling his eyes at the same time, scratching at his ear as I’d noticed he sometimes did when he was amused at something.