fifteen

When I woke up, I kept my eyes closed for as long as possible. There seemed to be a fine layer of Super Glue sealing them shut, but in any case, opening my eyes would mean acknowledging that now I had to work out what to do. Plus, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to see what kind of unholy state I was in.

Instead, I lay there and let the invisible miners clog dancing in my head get on with their evil business and tried to think of three positive things.

Honestly, never in my life had it been so hard.

The first one I came up with, after five minutes of thinking slowly, was that at least I knew where I was.

The second was that if you were going to get embarrassingly wasted, you might as well do it in style, on vintage champagne, with a prince, however tenuous his grip on a proper princehood might be.

Unfortunately, thinking only triggered another torrent of savage clog dancing as the previous evening began to trickle back, and I would have rolled my head under a pillow if the mere thought of moving my head hadn’t filled me with nausea.

After half an hour of lying very still, I tentatively ran my hands down my body and discovered, to my surprise, that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

That was a good thing. A very good thing.

Three, I told myself, at least I hadn’t revealed the full horror of my cottage cheesy thighs to a client.

With a huge effort I opened my eyes.

I was alone on a bed the size of a small room. Disappointingly, it wasn’t round or a waterbed, as far as I could see, but the décor was enough to reduce most would-be seductees to a quivering jelly even without Nicky’s efforts. It was a massive bedroom, dominated by a majestic white marble fireplace and two long windows with cream curtains, through which rays of lemony sunlight streamed. Beneath my own horrible morning-after stench, I could make out the pale scent of rose water on the crisp linen sheets, and another cloud of fragrance coming from a crystal vase of lilies on a pedestal stand.

Even through my hangover, I noted it wasn’t exactly the bedroom I’d imagined Nicky would have.

I levered myself up to sitting with some effort and steadied myself as my head spun in a most unpleasant manner.

Come on, Melissa, I told myself sternly. Get a grip. Start with washing your face.

I groped my way out of bed, clinging for balance onto various mahogany furnishings that I’d have admired had I not been so queasy, and found the en-suite bathroom. Again, it was Vogue Homes elegant, although the main thing I noticed was that alongside the Jo Malone oils and potions was a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Bath. I’d always used it, ever since Granny had told me it was better for your skin than anything else.

While the bath was running and the comforting smell soothed my nerves a little, I studied myself in the mirror over the cool square sink.

I looked a wreck. In fact, more specifically, I looked like a Hollywood starlet gone bad, left out in the rain and put away wet. My mascara was smeared round my eyes, which were red with crying, my carefully roller-set hair had gone into mad curls, and just to add insult to injury, there was a massive white spot on the side of my nose.

For some reason, the thought of Nicky staring at the spot all night bothered me more than anything else.

Automatically, I reached for the cleansing lotion and began cleaning up my face. Then I sank into the hot bath, until the grime and misery seemed to float off my skin, then I washed my hair, over and over again, to get all the memories of last night out of it.

I always feel better for washing my hair, even with an Olympic hangover. By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, pink and glowing in a fluffy robe, I knew I at least now looked more like myself, even if I wasn’t completely all there inside.

My eye fell on a pile of clothes, laid on the chair by the bed. Had they been there when I’d left? I frowned but picked up the crisp white shirt (so Parisian) and black skirt. Underneath that was a pretty cotton sundress, and a fine cashmere cardigan, all more or less my size.

I stared at them. There was no way I could put last night’s clothes on. Fortunately, I had a spare pair of pants in my handbag, as usual, but beyond that, I’d have to go round to Jonathan’s flat to get fresh clothes.

Jonathan’s flat, I thought. You never really thought of it as yours, did you?

We can sort this out, I told myself. You just need time to think it through.

In the light of day, the apartment was about ten times bigger than I’d thought last night, with high, molded ceilings, gold light fittings, and a rather intimidating silence.

I tiptoed through to the kitchen, where there was still no sign of Nicky. Instead, someone had laid out breakfast: a silver pot of coffee, croissants, jam and English marmalade, and bone china. The china had little crests on it, and the knives were so heavy that they had to be solid silver.

As I was pouring myself a cup of black coffee with a shaky hand, a voice asked, “You have everything you need?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. A Filipino maid was standing in the doorway. “Um, yes!” I said, spilling my coffee. “Yes, fine, thank you.”

“Prince Nicolas has been called out,” she said discreetly. “He leaves his apologies, and has asked me to make sure you were comfortable.”

“Oh, right,” I said. That didn’t sound like something Nicky would say. My brain still felt coated in treacle. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

She shook her head.

“Right.” I looked at her. I wasn’t the sort of person to say That will be all, but I wasn’t sure how to make her leave me to my headache. To be honest, she looked as if I wasn’t the first woman she’d seen stumble out of Nicky’s bedroom.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said. “Um, lovely coffee, by the way!”

She smiled in surprise. “Thank you,” she said, and slid out of the kitchen again.

I sank onto a chair and massaged my temples. What was I supposed to do now? Where did I start working out what I wanted?

Handbag, I thought firmly.

My phone still had enough battery left to check my voice-mail messages, of which there were five.

The first was from Jonathan. I could hardly bear to listen to it, but I forced myself.

He sounded choked. “Melissa, it’s Jonathan. Look, we’ve both said some hard words tonight.” Pause, for him to stick his right hand into his hair. “You’re right—we need some time to think about where we go from here. I don’t want to rush you. So let’s talk in a week. I’m so sorry. Really, I am. You’re so special. I’ve never …” Then his voice cracked, and he hung up.

I had to sit very still for a moment after that.

Then I gathered myself to listen to the next one. It was Nelson. “Hi, Mel. I’m, er, I’ve just noticed that there’s a rather good offer on some wine that we’re studying at wine class at the Sainsbury’s in Calais, and I thought I might, er, pop over to pick up a case or two this weekend. Roger’s not around, off with Zara somewhere. …Anyway, I was wondering, if things aren’t any better with Jonathan, you might want a lift back? I was, er, a bit worried when you didn’t call me back last night, so, er, let me know.”

Nelson’s kind, worried voice made my eyes fill up again, but I bit

my lip and dialed his mobile number. He picked up immediately, almost as if he’d been waiting for it to ring.

“Mel?”

“Hello, Nelson,” I said, gulping back tears. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a lift, if that’s OK.”

“Oh. Oh, splendid.”

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“Um, on the outskirts of Paris?”

My heart filled up with warmth. “You’re here? What if I’d said I didn’t need a lift?”

“Then I’d have gone home with a trunk full of wine. Look, I’m more than happy to rescue you, but I didn’t want you thinking that I assumed you’d need it. You’re always saying how annoying it is when Jonathan treats you like a child, so …” He paused. “Only this time, you know, I thought you might need the cavalry to arrive in good time.”

“Oh, Nelson,” I blubbed. “I really, really want to go home!”

“Fine with me,” said Nelson. “Just tell me where you are and I’ll stick it in my sat nav.”

“Oh,” I said. “Actually, I’m not sure where I am.”

“What?”

“I mean, I know where I am, I’m in Nicky’s apartment,” I gabbled. “But I’m just not sure whereabouts in Paris it is, let me just see if I can find someone to tell me …” I hurried into the big reception room in search of the maid and was immediately poleaxed by the view from the long window.

It was the Place des Vosges—the unbelievably posh square just around the corner from Jonathan’s flat. The one where super-smart L’Ambroisie was. The one he told me it was harder to buy in than the most exclusive New York co-op.

Meanwhile, Nelson was going about as spare as I’d expected he would. “Bloody hell, Melissa! I thought when you didn’t call me back last night that you were with Jonathan, sorting things out! What was Remington thinking, letting you go off with that cretin? If you’d told me you were with P. Nicky I wouldn’t have bothered checking into the hotel last night, I’d have come straight there—”

“What do you mean you’d have come straight here?” I demanded. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here all night?”

“Well … more or less,” admitted Nelson. “I couldn’t sit at home when you sounded so out of your mind with worry, so I just got in the car and caught the night crossing in the Channel tunnel. It’s really very efficient, and much cheaper at night. Anyway,” he added as an afterthought, “I was coming over for the champagne.”

“Oh, yes, the champagne,” I said. Anyone would think Nelson had just made that up as an excuse. “Listen, I’ve found the address.” I read it off the top of some engraved stationery on a writing table.

“So where is the pretend prince?” he asked.

“Out. He had a bit of an argument too last night,” I said wryly. “You couldn’t bring some Nurofen with you?”

“No problem. I’ll bring some Dettol too, if you want. I hope he didn’t take advantage of your distress? Mel? You didn’t let him get you drunk? Oh, no. Oh, no. He did. Oh, no.”

“I’m more than capable of getting drunk on my own.” I rubbed my head. “Look, I’ll explain when I see you.”

Nelson sighed. “Right. I’m coming to get you. Be ready.”

“I’m more than ready,” I said, and hung up.

Quiet descended over the apartment again. I sat down at the writing desk and gazed into the elegant square below, where a few bon-chic-bon-genre Parisiennes were walking their tiny dogs and their Barbour-jacketed children. I’d often strolled round the old arcade of shops and galleries that ran underneath the aristocratic apartments, wondering who could live above them. Now I knew.

The sun shifted and drew my attention to the cluster of silver-framed photos on the desk. I picked up the nearest for a closer look.

It seemed to have been taken by the sea in some Mediterranean resort: sitting on a rock, with an azure sea glittering in the background, was a pretty brunette woman in huge Jackie Onassis sunglasses, holding a little boy on her lap. Next to her was a rangy man with serious sideburns. I assumed this family shot was Oriane, Nicky, and the vanishing racing driver. It was impossible to see whether the man or the woman was happy or sad because of the huge shades masking their eyes and the 1970s “photograph expression” making them pout.

Nicky, on the other hand, had a smile that almost split his suntanned face, revealing cute gappy teeth that had obviously been corrected shortly afterward.

The other photo had been taken at the same time and was of Alexander, looking like Blake Carrington in Gucci trunks, carrying Nicky on his shoulders as they splashed through the shallow waves. They were both having a whale of a time, and laughing their heads off.

How sweet, I thought. Nicky’s got matching trunks!

“Sweet, isn’t it?” said a voice right behind me, and I jumped again.

“Didn’t I tell you not to creep up on women?” I demanded. “It’s very bad form. Haven’t you heard of mace spray?”

Nicky put his finger on his chin and pulled his suave face, which now, with repeated exposure, I knew he was doing as a kind of self-parody, not because he thought I was taken in by it. I was beginning to suspect that much of Nicky’s behavior was as put on as his too-strong cologne. “I have my own secret weapon, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Well, it doesn’t work on me.”

“You won’t let me get it out.”

I put the frame down and rubbed my still-thumping head. Nicky looked perfectly fresh in his habitual red shirt, tan loafers, and jeans combo, which didn’t seem as Euro-trash in Paris as it did in London.

“So, how are you feeling this morning?” he asked. “I think I can hazard a guess.”

“A bit fragile, thanks.” I wandered toward the black grand piano, suddenly self-conscious about exactly what I might have drunkenly confessed last night. The piano was strewn with more photo frames, some of which contained photos of people I thought I recognized. Alexander and Grace Kelly at a party. Alexander pulling a Christmas cracker with … Elizabeth Taylor? Either Alexander and his family rubbed shoulders with genuine Euro-celebrities or everyone had looked like minor royalty in the seventies.

That woman, though, I did recognize. Granny, about my age, with her hair whirled in a chic updo, wearing the red satin cocktail dress I’d worn to a ball at the Dorchester. With Jonathan. I turned the frame away as fear punched me square in the chest.

“This isn’t quite what I imagined your flat would be like,” I said, walking over to a huge sofa and sinking into it.

He sat down at the other end and leaned forward to pour the coffee from the fresh pot on the table. “What were you expecting? Black silk sheets? But no, it’s not my apartment. It’s my grandfather’s place. I’ve got a little pied-à-terre in St. Germain. I wouldn’t normally bring girls back here. But you’re not normal girls.”

So had that been Alexander’s bedroom? I blinked, confused and a little uncomfortable. “Should I be flattered, or not?”

He pushed the cup toward me. “I think so.” He looked up and straight into my eyes with a disarming smile, and I thought how much more boyish and less sleazy he’d have looked if the dentist had left his teeth where they’d been. “Maybe I thought you’d be impressed with the official Paris residence. Maybe I thought you wouldn’t be impressed with my bachelor flat.”

“Or maybe there was someone else sleeping in your bachelor flat?”

The eyebrows lifted slightly. “Maybe.”

“Imogen?”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Maybe not. In fact, that reminds me, I should go back there and check she hasn’t trashed the place.” He blanched. “She hadn’t calmed down this morning. She’s convinced you and I are on the point of eloping, which would absolutely ruin her plans to be a princess.”

“I hope you gave it to her straight,” I said.

“Melissa!” he said, with a shocked expression.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Do you take sugar?”

Nicky didn’t seem to be displaying any signs of anything having happened between us last night. In fact, he was drinking his coffee as if it had been a perfectly normal evening. Either he was being amazingly discreet, or it had been a normal evening for him.

“So,” he said, stretching out his arm along the back of the sofa.

“I’m thinking of buying some new wheels. What’s the Little Lady ruling on suitable cars?”

“Ah,” I said, grateful to talk instead of think, “that’s quite a question….”

For all his nightclub charm, Nicky had amusing daytime conversational skills too. He showed me the stained-glass windows in the apartment, and he told me some funny stories about his family, and I told him a few, heavily censored, stories about mine. Time passed and my hangover receded to a dull throb almost without me noticing.

“I don’t want to pry, but what are your plans?” he asked eventually. “You’re welcome to stay the weekend here. Just tell Maria and she’ll sort out whatever you need. And if you want to carry on drowning your sorrows, there’s a really great party I can take you to tonight … Oops!” He put his hand over his mouth and looked naughty. “Forgot I’m not allowed to go to parties. Are dinners in Parisian restaurants allowed? Could be good practice for me?”

I knew he was trying to cheer me up. I met his teasing eyes for a moment, and for a moment, I was seriously tempted to sidestep into Nicky’s fantasy world for a few days. Be whisked from place to place, not caring about anything, or paying for anything, or thinking too hard about anything …

But I couldn’t not care. It was like getting drunk: I’d only have to wake up to my own life in the morning. I owed Jonathan an answer. Anyway, it wasn’t me, all that shallowness and posturing. I wasn’t sure I could put it on and take it off, like my blond wig.

“Thank you, but I can’t,” I said. “I’m going home. I need to get back to London so I can do some thinking.” My dignity wobbled. “I need to work out where the compromises are.”

Nicky’s teasing expression softened. “Don’t worry about the fiancé,” he said, in a surprisingly normal voice. “If he’s got any sense, he’ll be the one doing the compromising.”

“I’ve already made him move from New York to Paris.”

“Well, London to Paris might be nearer, but it’s still a different country.” He touched my hand—a delicate little gesture, considering he could easily have shoved up the sofa and slung his arm round me. “Home is where the heart is, and all that. At least you know where your home is. Mine are all over the place.”

I did know, inside. Home was a scruffy flat in Pimlico. But surely it was time I grew up and left?

“I’m just being stupid,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Melissa, you’re not stupid.” He let his hand rest on mine, and I felt my skin tingle underneath it. Nicky’s hand was soft, but quite cool. “Where’s that great big diamond?”

“I gave it back to him,” I said sadly.

“Ah. Now that proves you’re a nice girl. You can tell how nice a girl is by how many presents she needs, and how many she sends back.”

“It’s not about the present,” I said, “it’s the thought that goes into it. I’d rather have tiny little gifts that someone had spent time finding, rather than ludicrously expensive ones they’d just charged to their Amex.” I looked up at Nicky and blushed a little bit to see him gazing at me intently.

He raised his eyebrows good-humoredly, as if he’d never heard such a weird thing.

“It’s not good form for a lady to feel she’s being bought,” I added, as if we were just talking theoretically about his List of Princely Attributes. “Or at least, not good form for her to establish she has a price.”

“So the Rolls-Royce full of Cartier tank watches I’ve got waiting for you downstairs will just have to go back?”

“Maybe you should give it to Imogen,” I said.

Nicky shook his head. “She’s more of a Lamborghini girl.”

“Expensive?”

“No, loud and thirsty. Impossible to park. Unlike you.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Nor of the fact that he hadn’t let go of my hand and showed no signs of doing so.

Actually, no—now he was threading his fingers through mine and clasping it with his other hand, while letting a shy smile play across that lusciously sexy mouth.

“Nicky,” I said, “why didn’t you tell me at the polo match that you were going to be in Paris this weekend? I told you I was coming over.”

“Maybe because I hadn’t decided I was until you told me that.” He paused and looked at me again, sending hot flushes through my whole body. “Melissa,” he began, “you know you—”

My phone rang on the table, making us both jump this time.

“That’ll be Nelson,” I said, reaching for it. “He happened to be in France this weekend too, so he’s coming to pick me up.”

“Nelly happened to be in France?” repeated Nicky, screwing up his nose incredulously. “He happened to be here?”

I nodded. “Why not? You were, weren’t you?” I said, and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“I’m outside,” barked Nelson. “Are you ready to come down? Not sure I can leave the car. God knows what sort of parking wardens there are in Paris.”

“I’ll, um,” I said, one eye on Nicky. “I’ll come down right now.”

“Oh, let him pop up,” drawled Nicky. “I’d love to say hello.”

“No, really,” I said hurriedly. That was the last thing I needed: handbags at dawn between Nicky and Nelson. “I’ll see you in two seconds.”

I hung up, taking a second to stare at the phone and collect myself, then I turned back to Nicky.

“I have to go,” I said. “Thank you for last night.”

Even I saw the double entendre in there, but he didn’t rise to it.

“Glad I was there,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry it was under such tricky circs.”

I took his hand and squeezed it. Well, if he could do it, so could I. “Maybe I’m doing better with you than I thought.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you rescued a damsel in distress, took her home, and didn’t take advantage of her.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Either I’m slipping or you’re winning.”

I shouldered my bag and let Nicky guide me out of the apartment, into the elaborate elevator, and down to the arcade beneath, where Nelson was standing, arms crossed, peering at the architecture.

I felt better at once, just for seeing his familiar messy blond hair and meticulously ironed blue shirt. He was a pure pocket of Englishness next to the Renault Clios and manicured French trees in the square.

“Nelson, it’s so nice to see you,” I said, giving him a hug.

“And you,” he said, staring, I think, over my head at Nicky. “Are you OK?” he muttered into my hair. “He hasn’t …you know?”

I pulled away. “Certainly not.”

“Nicky,” said Nelson, extending a hand.

“Nelly,” said Nicky, shaking it. I noticed he’d gone back to his usual louche mannerisms. “It was my pleasure.”

Nelson’s eyes narrowed, but he made an effort to be polite. “Right. Mel, if you’re ready? Don’t bother waving us off. I’m sure you’ve got lots to be getting on with. Choosing a new flag for your castle and so on.”

I wondered where he’d parked the car, and, more to the point, why he was trying to get rid of Nicky before we left. Then I looked down the arcade and realized. There was no sign of Nelson’s battered Range Rover, but parked three cars away was my tiny pink Little Lady car.

I stared at it. “You drove my Smart here? All the way to France?”

I didn’t add in a pink car with a cartoon woman on the side. That much was obvious.

Nelson coughed. “Yes, well, it was a bit cramp-inducing toward the end, but—”

“You must be buying very small bottles of wine,” observed Nicky. “Babycham, perhaps?”

“I lent the Range Rover to Leonie so she could move,” he explained to me, shooting a ferocious glare toward Nicky. “I forgot. And there wasn’t time to go and get it back. I just thought … you know, time was of the essence….”

I smiled. “It’s the perfect car for Paris,” I said, linking my arm through his. “Let’s get home.”

“Melissa?” called Nicky. “Shall I have your clothes laundered and sent back to the office or your home address?”

Nelson sucked in some air between his teeth.

“If I can find all the little … bits and pieces,” Nicky added, rather unnecessarily, I thought.

“That would be really kind,” I said, turning about as pink as the car.

Being with Nelson meant I could no longer ignore the reality of my argument with Jonathan, but at the same time, it wasn’t quite as scary as it had felt standing alone on the bridge.

Slowly, very slowly, I was beginning to realize that I’d simply asked the questions that had needed to be asked. And Jonathan hadn’t come up with answers. Or rather, the answers I wanted to hear.

Nelson listened patiently as I spilled out all the awful details, not even prompting me as I repeated conversations word for word, sucking his teeth at the worst bits and wordlessly passing me his cotton handkerchief as I confessed, to myself as well as to Nelson, that I just wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore.

Eventually, he let a long pause fall, presumably to make sure I’d finished, then said, “I think you’ve done the right thing.”

“Why?” I asked miserably.

“Look, Jonathan’s not a bad man, and I’m sure he loves you. But there are some things that you just can’t ignore, and rating a business deal above how you’d feel about being in your father’s pocket again … He doesn’t get it. And I don’t care for the way he was happy to abandon that dog of his at your mother’s either.”

“No,” I said. “I keep asking when we can bring Braveheart over, but he’s not keen. I don’t think Jonathan’s a dog person.”

“That’s not the point. Well, maybe it is. And I didn’t like the way he never consulted you about anything—moving to Paris, this business you were going to run together, giving up your agency which you love so much … And as for not giving up his own career, while assuming you’d be happy to give up yours! He just sprung things on you, so you could agree with him!”

“Mm.” I didn’t think I needed to tell Nelson about the way Jonathan had virtually penciled babies into my diary.

“Having said that,” he conceded reluctantly, “you do need to tell him what you’re not happy about. Have you actually spelled it out for him?”

“Yes!” I said.

“Ding!” said Nelson.

“I have,” I insisted. “It’s just that … I don’t think Jonathan hears it.”

Nelson took his eyes off the road to look at me directly: a sign of deep concern. “I’m not going to go on about this, Mel, but when you started that agency, it was as though you suddenly got the confidence to be yourself. I really admired the way you stood up to your dad, the way you knuckled down and made it work. It’s something to be really proud of.” He looked very slightly abashed. “And I don’t mind admitting those tight skirts were … very you. But since you got engaged to Jonathan, you’ve started to let people boss you around again. Mainly him. One minute you were turning him down because he wanted you to move to New York, then suddenly it’s all on again and you’re both moving to Paris. What changed? Did you talk about it?”

“Not really,” I said sadly. “It just … happened. But that’s the thing about being with Jonathan—it’s like being in a film. Lovely dinners, and dressing up, and feeling glamorous and witty …”

Nelson abandoned his polite driving style and pulled over onto the shoulder, causing the van on our tail to swerve and honk furiously at us. “Melissa,” he said, turning toward me as much as his seat belt would allow. “You are glamorous. You are witty. Even when I see you in the kitchen with your hair in rollers, you look utterly fabulous to me. Jonathan is a businessman, who used to be married to a boring, ambitious, bitch of a businesswoman. No wonder he fell for you! But life—real life—can’t always be dressing up and fancy dinners. Sometimes it’s leaky plumbing and flu and ironing. And you need to be able to talk about problems, not just go along with what one person decides.”

I opened my mouth to agree, but Nelson hadn’t finished. “I don’t want to give you a lecture.” He paused. “I just want to say this. You’re an incredible woman, and I know you’ll make someone happy forever, and that’s what you deserve in return, Mel. Someone who’ll love you, and respect you, and share everything with you, whatever happens.”

I met Nelson’s gaze and saw the concern and affection creasing his forehead, making his blue eyes crinkle earnestly at the edges. He was a fine, decent man, I thought, through my general ache. Listening to him in full flow was like hearing “Rule Britannia!” sung by a male choir accompanied by a brass band.

“Someone who loves you for who you are,” he went on, more passionately. “Who knows the real you, not just Honey.” He tried a little smile. “Someone you can take your shoes off with, even when your feet reek.”

And with that, he put his finger on the splinter that had been twisting into my heart: Jonathan was really in love with the Honey he’d met first, not me. That was really all Jonathan knew—me making a big effort. He’d never even seen me with leg hair.

I gasped with pain at that realization at exactly the moment Nelson put his hand on my knee, and he whisked it away as if my knee had been red-hot. It was a very small car. We were practically sitting on each other’s laps as it was.

“You can put your hand back if you like,” I said sadly. “I think we know each other well enough by now, Nelson.”

“Quite,” said Nelson awkwardly. “God, this is … Not a great moment, but … Um … I just hate to see you unhappy when I … when you mean so much to me.” A flush spread across his cheekbones and down his long nose. “Very much to me, in fact.”

I knew from my vast experience of British men that declarations of fondness that didn’t involve making fun of your hair were hard to come by.

“And you mean the world to me,” I replied. “Oh, Nelson!” I said, a sudden rush of affection surging through me. I flung my arms around him. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you! Thank you so much for coming to get me! You’re the only man I can really rely on.”

He pulled away so he could examine my face.

“What, um, what exactly do you mean by that?” he asked, with an intense look that made his blue eyes seem quite dark. The boyishness had gone, and I was startled by how, well, intense he seemed.

I stared back at him, confused. Through the mists in my brain, I remembered what Gabi had said about Nelson’s fondness for me, and I wondered if this was some kind of … of romantic overture?

Surely not. It was so the wrong time. And place. Nelson wouldn’t dream of taking emotional advantage of an old, old friend who’d just argued with her fiancé—but not quite called things off just yet. That would be the final weirdness, and I wasn’t sure I could cope with that right now.

“I mean … I’m so lucky to have you as a friend, and flatmate, and everything else!” I blinked, then, to break the rapidly growing strangeness in the car, I flung my arms back round him and hugged him again.

“That’s what I thought you meant,” sighed Nelson, which put my mind at rest.