Little Lady Agency and The Prince (8 page)

‘Hello, Honey, it’s Angus Deering. I need to learn how to make a shelf, very quickly. Stupidly told this new girl I’d done lots of carpentry at school, now she wants me to assemble the whole effing IKEA range in her flat. Call me back? Cheers.’

I scribbled a note. I’d found a terribly good handyman who frequently gave crash courses to my less spacially aware bachelors. He also fixed their attempts while the guilty party was out at work, if necessary.

‘Um, hello, I need to speak to Honey about the nail-biting cure for my son?’

I flipped open the engagement diary and jotted the details down on a Post-it note. My patented Hard as Nails nail treatment was one of my most popular services, but it was quite time-consuming, involving, as it did, fourteen randomly spaced calls a day to the nail-biter. I was thinking of farming it out to Allegra, who positively enjoyed shouting at people.

I deleted the messages, and was going through the post when the phone rang.

‘Mel?’ said a familiar voice, above the clatter of a busy office. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

‘Hello, Gabi!’ I said, putting the envelopes down and turning on the coffee machine. This wouldn’t be a quick call.

Gabi was my best friend, and she worked at the estate agency whose Paris branch Jonathan managed. She had an ear for gossip, an eye for a bargain and a nose for sticking into other people’s business. She was also funny, generous and loyal: the very best mate I’d ever had, even if her dark petiteness made me look like the Jolly Green Giant next to her.

‘Listen, are you around this evening?’ she went on. ‘I need you to cast your expert eye over my wedding plans!’

Gabi almost sang the phrase ‘my wedding plans!’

From the initial ideas I’d heard so far, it was going to be the sort of occasion when entire roads were closed off and helicopters were involved. Even though the Big Day was sixteen long months away, Gabi had already visited every major venue in north London. I’d stayed out of it as long as I could but clearly that political immunity was now about to end.

‘I’ve had to sack that wedding planner I was telling you about,’ she added. ‘She said that doves were very last year. I mean, hello? Has she
been
to any weddings recently?
Everyone
has doves!’ She paused. ‘I’m thinking about pigeons, you know, to put like a London spin on it. Do you reckon you can clean pigeons?’

I reached for the biscuit barrel. Although I had a massive diamond engagement ring, Jonathan and I hadn’t set a date for our own wedding yet. Just thinking about trying to organise it at the same time as Gabi’s gave me hot flushes and, in any case, Jonathan wanted to ‘get things straight’ in Paris first. What with moving and work and Jonathan’s insane diary, we’d barely even begun to discuss it, to be honest.

‘Do you want to come over to ours for some supper?’ I suggested. If Nelson was within earshot, it might just keep Gabi within the bounds of reality. ‘I should be finished here about six, and Nelson’ll be back from his wine class by eight-ish.’

‘As long as Nelson’s cooking,’ said Gabi cheerfully. ‘Actually, I need to ask him about getting some goats for the ceremony.’ I heard her clicking again. ‘Nelson . . . goats . . .’ she mumbled.

‘Riiiiight,’ I said, then spotted a note in my own diary. ‘Oh, actually, Gabi, I should warn you – Roger’s coming round for a trial-run manicure.’

Gabi made an affectionate gagging sound. Even people who loved Nelson’s friend Roger were not oblivious to his hygiene shortcomings. There was a good reason that a strapping six-foot sailing expert with a private income and a full head of hair was still more single than Cliff Richard. Not that that was the whole problem.

It’s difficult to describe Roger Trumpet to anyone who hasn’t met him, but put it like this: if Nelson was a Labrador, and Jonathan was a very well-bred Irish setter, then Roger was like the oldest and gloomiest of my mother’s basset hounds. Adorable on birthday cards, less so at parties where he’d been known to clear the room in under twenty minutes, just by drinking a bottle of wine in a particularly baleful manner. He also usually smelled like he’d recently rolled in something untoward.

I was terribly fond of him, though, as was Nelson. Roger was, after all, the raw material on which I’d honed every
homme
-improving skill I had. Not, sadly, that I’d wrought much long-term effect.

‘I hope he’s paying you,’ said Gabi disapprovingly. ‘You want to watch out, people taking advantage of you left, right and centre. Are you still on for sourcing those “Save the Day” cards, by the way?’

Honestly. Virtually everyone I knew liked to haul themselves up to the moral high ground before asking for favours themselves.

‘Absolutely, yes, Mrs Lumley, we’ll have those keys round to you by courier this afternoon!’ said Gabi abruptly, which I assumed meant that her boss, Hughie, had rolled in from his long lunch, so we left the conversation there and I went back to the post, exhausted.

The one intriguing handwritten envelope amongst the bills turned out to be from my office landlord, Peter, a retired violin teacher who lived in Stow-on-the-Wold. He didn’t see why he should spend his remaining years at the mercy of central heating, he wrote, and so the time had come to sell up and buy the little house in Sicily that he’d escaped to in his head during the thirty years of listening to children scraping away at ‘Frère Jacques’.

Oh, how nice, I thought automatically, then realised with a start that this might mean it wasn’t just Peter packing his bags for pastures new.

I reached for a second chocolate biscuit.

Peter wrote that he hoped the sale of the flat he’d bought in Pimlico for five thousand pounds all those years ago might now be able to fund that dream, but rather than turf me out on my ear, he wanted to give me first chance to buy it. If I was interested, I should get in touch with the estate agents who’d brokered the original letting agreement when he moved out a few years ago, but that I should do so within a month, before he opened it up to everyone else.

That estate agent was, naturally, Dean & Daniels. You’d think that would put me at an advantage, what with my fiancé being the biggest
fromage
in their European operation, but having worked with estate agents myself, I knew that wasn’t necessarily the case. And the asking price would be jaw-dropping. Peter had been renting it to me at a very generous price for the past year or so, and even if a new owner let me stay, it’d be at about three times the amount I was paying now.

I put the letter down thoughtfully. It would be a really good idea to buy the office, not least because it would mean I’d be bringing something to my marriage to Jonathan. He had so much money, and property in New York, whereas I had only my business, and though he was always going on about how much he admired my entrepreneurial skills, I knew he’d be amazed if I could pull off a little property deal of my own.

Plus, if there was one thing Mummy had taught me it’s that a girl needs a flight fund – a little something up her sleeve in case of emergency. Not that I saw any emergencies in the future with Jonathan, but one never knew.

I pulled out my calculator and started doing some sums.

At six, I packed off my last client, a simple consultation about furnishing a bachelor flat so that it wouldn’t remain a bachelor flat for too long. Once Simon was safely loping down Elizabeth Street, with a shopping list for Heals, I slipped thankfully out of my pencil skirt and back into my own comfy trousers, and drove home through the London drizzle, parking neatly in the half-space next to Nelson’s scooter.

Nelson was still out at his wine class, but he hadn’t risked letting me tackle supper. Instead, he’d left a note on the kitchen table instructing me – rather bossily – about which freezer dish to put in the oven and for how long, and what wine I should open and when.

Nelson really would make someone a splendid wife, I thought, scraping unsalted butter onto the shepherd’s pie topping, as directed in the accompanying diagram. While Roger’s tramp-like gloom explained his single state, Nelson was a whole other kettle of fish. It seemed absolutely incomprehensible that such an attractive, capable, baggage-free man should still be single at his age.

I reminded myself to ask subtly how the blind date had gone on Friday. Jossy was only the fourth in what I intended to be a long line of potentials. If Nelson was going to be fussy, he’d picked the right address book.

Jonathan would be home now, I reckoned, kicking off my shoes and arranging myself on the sofa. I pictured where he might be in the apartment as the French ringing tone blared in my ear.

The apartment, on the fourth floor of an atmospheric old building in the Marais district, was exactly what I dreamed a Paris apartment would be, from the long windows with the little flower-filled balcony looking out over the narrow street below, to the clanking elevator with the concertina doors, and the crackly buzzer system downstairs. Being Jonathan, he’d insisted on all mod cons as well as period ambience, so it had wi-fi and integrated stereo and all sorts of other high-tech gadgets slightly at odds with the original cast-iron fireplace and wooden floors.

There was a click, as my call was transferred, then another ringing tone, then a clipped woman’s voice said, ‘Allo?’

My heart sank. It was Solange, Jonathan’s new French PA. He’d always had frightfully competent robo-secretaries, but Solange was all that,
and
immaculately dressed. She was one of those skinny, manicured women who really suit navy blue. I’d met her in person only once, but my attempts to charm her, as one ex-PA to another, had fallen
sur
stony
terre
.

‘Allo, Solange!’ I said, screwing up my forehead in concentration. ‘
C’est
Melissa! Um, Jonathan –
est-il là?
Um
, s’il vous plaît?
’

‘Yes, he is here,’ she said, in perfect English. ‘Had you forgotten about his committee meeting this evening?’

‘Ah,
oui
, sorry,’ I said. It had slipped my mind. Jonathan was always getting on to committees. ‘Is he in it now?’ I added, having run out of French.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

Short cross-channel silence.

‘Oh, well,’ I said brightly. ‘Perhaps you could tell him I called? I’ll ring again later. When he’s home.’

‘Very well,’ said Solange.

‘Um, do you have . . . any idea when that would be?’

‘Around half past eight.’ There was a definite note of reluctance in Solange’s voice. She really was the most discreet secretary in the world, I marvelled. Maybe I should encourage my father to poach her for his own office. Heaven knew, he needed someone super-discreet.

‘Well, thanks so much!’ I said, trying to sound friendly. ‘Hope you’re not stuck in the office for too much longer!’

‘Goodnight, Melissa,’ iced Solange. ‘Thank you for calling.’ And she hung up.

I stared at the phone for a long moment, then went into the kitchen in search of some comforting Pringles to tide me over until the shepherd’s pie was ready.

About an hour or so later, during which time I’d reread my
Eating Guide to Paris
and made a list of places Jonathan could take me to at the weekend, I heard the sound of raised voices and feet on the stairs.

Well, one raised voice, to be exact. Gabi’s.

‘. . . was thinking about having a horse and carriage, because that’s really eco-friendly and romantic, isn’t it, but when I mentioned it to Aaron, he said his little brother would want to drive the carriage, but there’s no way I’m letting Sol anywhere near a carriage because he’s got nine points on his licence already, and you can’t even trust him with a shopping trolley, so do you know if those things come with their own drivers? I don’t mind budgeting for that, but I’d want them to be in the same colours as the rest of the wedding party, and . . .’

The front door burst open, and Nelson came in, looking dazed, followed by Gabi, bearing two pink carrier bags and an armful of magazines.

‘. . . I’m thinking something unusual like
sand
because everyone goes for apricot or burgundy – hi, Mel! – but if you’re going to be an usher, you’d have to wear sand and it would wash you out with your colouring, don’t you think? What do you reckon, Mel? Can you see Nelson in sand?’

‘Can’t I just wear my morning suit?’ asked Nelson weakly, heading straight for the bottle of wine on the table.

Gabi rolled her eyes at me. ‘Like, yeah! If you want to be really, really predictable. What about shi’take? That’s in my reserve colour scheme.’

‘We’re going to have morning suits,’ I said tactfully. ‘When Jonathan and I get married. It makes it all much easier for you – they do suit everyone.’

‘No offence, Mel,’ said Gabi, pausing to unload her magazines next to me, ‘but you and Jonathan are going to have a very different wedding to myself and Aaron.’

‘It may even end up being in a different
century
to you and Aaron at this rate,’ observed Nelson.

I glared at him and he raised his eyebrows innocently. ‘I’m just saying. Can I get anyone a drink? I see you’ve already started, Melissa.’

‘I had to,’ I said. ‘It’s been quite an odd day.’

‘Ooh, yes, please,’ said Gabi, settling herself on the other end of the sofa and tossing me
Vogue Bride
.

I held out my empty glass and opened up the magazine.
Vogue Bride
had the best ‘price on request’ dresses. I could just see Jonathan, tall and distinguished in his morning suit, me in a simple bell-shaped gown, light streaming onto our upturned faces through the stained-glass windows of some smart London church . . .

‘Now, this is a Bordeaux,’ explained Nelson, as he poured. ‘You can tell that because of the shape of the bottle. Can you see? It’s got shoulders. Not a slopey shape. That’s Burgundy.’

‘Fascinating. Fill her up,’ said Gabi.

‘You should be looking out for blackcurrant and leather,’ Nelson went on. ‘A classic Cabernet Sauvignon. What are you getting, Mel?’

‘Um, a sort of grape-y taste?’ I said, to humour him.