Little Lady Agency and The Prince (39 page)

Bobsy had never mentioned Nanny Ag to me, and most of the girls I was at school with kept in touch with their nannies for years. I frowned. How was that possible?

I searched through the box and soon found out why: letter after letter revealed that Nanny Ag had been operating a network of nanny informers, from one end of the country to the other.

Gracious. I had no idea Bobsy’s father had a love child in South Africa. She certainly kept that quiet.

‘Mel, look at this,’ breathed Emery, waving a sheaf of papers at me. ‘She’s been taking notes on us! “Emery has passive-aggressive issues”, indeed. I’ll give her passive—’

She broke off as the front door closed, and Daddy yelled, ‘It was only a small one! And the bloody sun’s well over the yardarm, you fascist old boot!’

We froze, surrounded by the evidence.

‘She’s back!’ gasped Emery. ‘What do we do?’

I thought quickly. ‘Put everything back. She’s not going anywhere. We need to think about this.’

Hastily, we repacked and stowed the letters and photos with trembling fingers. My last-minute present-wrapping skills certainly came in handy now.

‘Mummy? Where is Mummy?’ bellowed Nanny Ag, clumping up the stairs towards us. ‘You are late for bed and stories!’

‘
You’re
late, you bitch,’ muttered Emery, as we slid out of the room as silently as we could. ‘Bertie doesn’t give a toss.’

Unfortunately, we’d misjudged Nanny Ag’s SAS-like ability to get up stairs faster than you’d expect from someone of her size, and we bumped into her just outside her room.

‘What are you two doing?’ she thundered.

‘I wanted to put some flowers in your room,’ I said promptly. ‘Emery was checking you didn’t have any already.’

Emery made a low hissing noise as Nanny Ag thought, then simpered. Not a pretty sight.

‘How thoughtful, Melissa. Maybe we can wipe that nasty London attitude away, after all.’

‘Mmm!’ I said, and shoved Emery down the passage.

‘What was that about?’ she demanded. ‘You creep! After what she said about you . . .’

‘Emery,’ I said, relishing the sound of Bertie howling downstairs and Daddy attempting to soothe him by singing ‘Three Little Maids from School’. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living in this house it’s that revenge is a dish best served cold.’ I pursed my lips, and thought of those unkind comments about my puppy fat. I was very disappointed in Nanny Ag. ‘There’s usually enough left for seconds, then.’

Emery gave me a sideways glance. ‘Sometimes, Mel, you really do sound like Daddy, you know.’

‘Don’t,’ I said.

19

Word got round that I was back to five full days in the office, and work flooded in. It was nice to feel needed, I suppose. But every time I came across some old restaurant card that brought back a particularly romantic evening, or when I found a date in my diary that I now had to cross out, I was felled anew by gloom. Nelson, Gabi and Roger did their best to drag me out to the cinema and cricket and whatever they could think of that didn’t involve weddings but, surprisingly, it was Nicky who did the best job of taking my mind off things.

My corsets started straining even more than normal as a culinary war broke out, with Nelson cooking up a storm at home on the nights Nicky wasn’t taking me out for dinner – which was at least two or three times a week. Though I spent some of the evening lecturing him about the minefields of proper behaviour, mostly we talked about other things, like families or old flames (90 per cent his, to 10 per cent mine, naturally). His flippant mask slipped more and more often, and I started to realise that Nicky’s wilder behaviour was deliberate – his only way of competing with his grandfather’s celebrated charm, and his father’s racing success. It was hard to be himself. I knew that feeling well. But by August, I was beginning to feel as though I was dining with the real Nicky, and the showing-off was down to a bare minimum. Well, until he spotted the paparazzi outside, and even then I think he acted up so I could tell him off.

Granny tried to cheer me up too, by sending me a stream of invitations: ‘Alex would love you to take Nicky to’ – a Prom, Ascot, tennis parties, and dinners. She took to popping into my office, hauling me round the shops for a ‘second opinion’ on clothes for her that inevitably turned into ‘a little treat’ for me too. She made the occasional gentle enquiry into how things were with Jonathan, but I could tell her honestly that, out of mutual hope that we might still be friends, we’d decided not to be in touch until we’d both moved a bit further on.

That, naturally, was much easier to say than for me to do, but Nelson and Gabi were both on eagle-eyed drunk-text alert.

Even though I was sure I’d started to wreak a positive effect on Nicky, relations between him and Nelson hadn’t improved. If anything they’d got worse, and the cruise was now imminent.

‘Nelson,’ I said at home one night in late July. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

‘If it’s anything to do with more office decorating, then no,’ he said, without raising his eyes from the
Guardian
crossword. ‘I’ve got a grumbling coccyx from all that sandpapering.’

‘It’s to do with Nicolas, actually,’ I said.

Nelson responded with a gagging noise, as did Roger, who’d come round to ‘pick my brains about lingerie’ – a ghastly prospect I’d been putting off for two hours now.

‘Oh, come on,’ I wheedled. ‘I just need you to coach him a little bit. For an interview.’

‘About what? How to do up all the buttons on his shirt and then apply a tie?’ Nelson looked up. ‘Or are they interviewing him about his much-loved homeland and he needs a refresher course about where it is?’

I ignored all this. ‘You remember when we were at that charity dinner and Leonie won the weekend away on Nicky’s yacht?’

‘I can hardly forget.’

‘Well, do you remember someone from a magazine offering to send their paparazzi?’

‘Melissa,’ said Nelson patiently, ‘I assumed that was a joke. No one
expects
the British paparazzi.’

Roger giggled in a high-pitched voice. ‘“Their chief weapon is surprise! And fear! And ruthless efficiency!”
Monty Python
,’ he added, looking at me patronisingly.

I sighed. That was the biggest common factor amongst my public-school clients: a forensic recall of all British comedies of the past forty years, and a primeval urge to re-enact them with other men. It was like religion, right up to the point where they paused to let everyone laugh in unison at the appropriate moments.

‘Well, apparently, they give notice these days. Someone’s going to ring us up in advance, so we can zhoush ourselves up and look relaxed. And the magazine want to have a chat with Nicky beforehand so they can run a little interview alongside the pictures, about his sailing and so on, so I was wondering if you could come along to the office for a spot of lunch and sort of . . . brief him?’

Nelson looked at me with his Grade Two Head Prefect expression. ‘Like he briefed
you
about Parisian nightclubs? And dropped you right in it with Jonathan?’

I went pink. ‘I don’t think he meant to drop me in it, and anyway, I should have checked it out myself. And it wasn’t . . . Look, let’s not talk about that. Anyway, it won’t take long – I just want him to sound as knowledgeable and seaworthy as you do. It’s really very attractive in a man,’ I added, with shameless flattery.

Nelson upped the Prefect expression to a Grade One. ‘Mel, you do realise that there’ll come a point when your spin machine steps aside, and he’ll be revealed as the moronic freeloader he really is?’

‘Honestly, you just have to get to know him!’ I insisted. ‘When he’s not in shallow social situations, he’s actually quite sensitive. I mean, when Jonathan and I—’

I stopped mid-defence, recalling with a warm glow how sensitive Nicky
had
been about Jonathan. Almost as if he genuinely cared about my happiness. Almost as if . . .

‘Are you trying to remember when you last saw him in a non-shallow social situation?’ suggested Nelson helpfully. ‘Or just assessing how badly he’ll go off the rails when you’re not spoon-feeding him?’

‘You are his social waterwings,’ intoned Roger. ‘Or, as might be appropriate to this interview, his self-inflating life jacket of respectability.’

I glared at Nelson and Roger. ‘I intend to teach him to swim without my support. In the . . . in the blue waters of . . . of . . . his own inheritance.’

‘Whatever that means,’ added Roger.

‘Don’t forget the poor journalist has to talk to the little creep in person,’ Nelson reminded me. ‘Unless you’ve added ventriloquism to your impressive list of skills?’

‘Why don’t you just do it over the phone – get Nelson to pretend to be Nicky?’ offered Roger.

‘I could not be that slimy,’ huffed Nelson. ‘I’d give myself away by not asking enough questions about the colour of the poor woman’s underwear.’

Roger went puce. ‘He didn’t ask about the colour of Zara’s. He asked if she was
wearing any.
’

Nelson made a growling noise and shook his head as if trying to dislodge a bee from his ear.

‘Come round to the office for lunch tomorrow.’ I stroked Nelson’s arm. ‘You can do your bit to put him on the straight and narrow.’

‘Make no mistake, Mel,’ said Nelson. ‘I’m doing this for you, and you alone.’

The following morning, Nicky surprised me by answering his phone on the first attempt, then frankly astonished me by claiming he was at Tate Britain.

‘I’m soaking in the culture, so I’ve got plenty to talk about over dinner,’ he informed me. ‘Develop an interest in art, it says here. Well, I am.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I said, not believing him for an instant. ‘Now, get out of bed and come over to the office for your sailing briefing.’

‘Melissa, I am out of bed! I’m in . . .’ I could hear him consulting a passer-by. ‘I’m in Millbank!’

‘Of course you are. Do you want to put Foo-Foo or whoever it is on the phone so she can tell me about Turner’s revolutionary depiction of speed?’

That was a phrase I’d learned for my History of Art A-level. I knew it would come in handy one day.

‘Don’t you mean the brilliant depiction of light which paved the way for the later Modernists?’

I stared at the telephone. ‘Um . . .’

‘I did do a year of a History of Art degree,’ said Nicky off-handedly. ‘I’m not a complete Philistine.’

‘I’m sure that’s where you developed your appreciation of the female form,’ I whizzed back.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Melissa,’ said Nicky archly. ‘What did you say you wanted me to do?’

‘Come over here and be briefed for your interview this afternoon.’ I pushed my tortoiseshell glasses up my nose in an attempt to regain my serious composure. ‘Remember? The one I wrote in your diary.’

‘How could I miss your hand? It makes me think of kneesocks and hockey. Do you want to have lunch with me first?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got clients all morning, and Nelson’s only squeezing you in by having sandwiches in this office.’

‘Nelly? Jesus. I don’t want to be squeezed anywhere by that tedious do-gooder, thanks.’

‘You’ll be here by twelve forty-five or else. He’s going to share his immense sailing wisdom with you.’

‘Of course! I’m a passionate sailor,’ said Nicky. ‘I keep forgetting there are a lot of things you know about me that
I
don’t know. Well, OK. I’ll be there. I’m doing this for you.’

‘And your inheritance,’ I said, trying to sound business-like. It was the only way to deal with that sort of flirtation. Then I hung up quickly.

Nelson arrived on the dot of twelve thirty-five, ten minutes early. Nicky arrived at twelve forty, so if Nelson hadn’t been making such a big point, Nicky would have won the time-keeping stand-off.

If he was annoyed to see Nelson rise from the comfy leather chair to greet him, he hid it well.

As they shook hands, I noted Nicky was about four inches shorter than Nelson, who looked terribly sober in his grey suit (which, I might add, he never,
ever
wore to work unless they had tax inspectors in). Nicky, on the other hand, was dressed as if he were about to set off on the cruise already, in linen trousers and deck shoes, with a pair of Gucci shades tucked into the open neck of his deep red shirt, dragging it down enough to expose a flash of chest hair.

I knew I should tell him off about the playboy shirt, but I just . . . couldn’t. I could already see Nelson eyeing the deck shoes with contempt.

‘Right,’ I said, perching on the edge of my desk, and pushing the plate of sandwiches towards them. ‘Let’s get going. I had a bit of a chat with the journalist when I was setting up the interview . . .’ I glanced at Nicky. ‘I was being your press secretary, by the way – called Flora, just so you know.’

‘Am I sleeping with you?’ asked Nicky, raising his eyebrow.

‘No, Flora is not like that,’ I said.

‘Or so she says.’

Nelson coughed.

‘And I managed to get a rough idea from her of the sort of things she’ll want to hear about – what your grandfather’s yacht is like, how old you were when you started sailing, any funny stories you have, why you think it’s a great sport for young people to get involved in . . .’ I turned to Nelson. ‘Nelson’s sailed round the Adriatic with young offenders, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Nelson, ‘but that was proper sailing, with
sails
. Not just steering a drinks cabinet from one marina to another.’

‘Two very different kinds of sailing,’ I said hastily. ‘Well, perhaps you could make that point, Nicky? That you’re more experienced with . . .’

Nicky shrugged.

‘Motor yachts,’ supplied Nelson.

‘I don’t see why I have to pretend anything,’ pouted Nicky. ‘Do you know how much our yacht is chartered out for? For a week?’

‘Heaps, I imagine,’ I said quickly, as Nelson enquired, ‘Is that a tax dodge?’ ‘But I think it would work well if you had a few stories about skippering something smaller. With sails? It’ll make you look more traditional. Besides, girls
love
men who can do knots and cope with bad weather,’ I added, more for Nelson.