It was Godric Ponsonby.
Or, as he’d been universally called, when I’d known him for a few brief months in 1994, Oh-Godric.
A hot flush started in my forehead and spread rapidly down my body.
Oh-Godric and I had had a fleeting flirtation, and even more fleeting backstage tussle during the final night party of a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. My girls’ school had had to borrow some men from the nearby boys’ school, and Godric had been one of the few artistically inclined volunteers. I hadn’t been acting, though—I’d been in charge of wardrobe, and pretty busy with it, too: the boys had constantly damaged their doublets and insisted on personal repair attention, usually while they’d still been wearing them. Godric had been the worst offender. He’d had a long list of fabric allergies too, and consequently, by the final night, we’d been on such intimate medical terms that snogging had been more or less inevitable.
I cringed at the memory. Even then, I hadn’t been naive enough to believe I was Godric’s first choice for drunken grappling. Emery, in the throes of her Goth Actress phase—she’d worn a lot of Rouge Noir nail polish and grown out her eyebrows—had been the star of the show and had had the male fairies following her around like geese. I suspected she’d given Godric the flick, and so, on the last night, he’d consoled himself with literally pints of punch and a quick roll around the props cupboard with me.
Actually, it would have been quite romantic if he hadn’t had a “bad reaction” to the doctored punch, vomited all over Bottom’s head, and broken out in hives. The matron had taken the night off, so I’d had to drive him to the local emergency ward, while he’d still been in his Marks & Spencer’s opaque tights, still vomiting, and I’d never seen him again after that. Just as well, really, given what I knew about his, er, inside leg measurements.
Obviously he recognized me too, at exactly the same moment, and presumably suffered the same excruciating mental slideshow.
I wondered if he’d be discreet enough to pretend we hadn’t even met so we could start again. After all, one doesn’t like to start reminiscing about love bites and curaçao vomit at a smart Manhattan cocktail party.
“Melissa?” he said, peering at me, then dropping his line of sight a bit lower. “Melons?”
I ignored the Melons bit. Fine. There was no getting out of it. “It is!” I said. “Hello!”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The mixture of grumpiness and chronic shyness hadn’t changed much in ten years. At least I knew he hadn’t deliberately been rude to that woman. Godric never had had much in the way of social confidence. From my sewing chair in the wings, I’d noted that the other thesps had affected gloomy self-doubt, but with him it seemed painfully real.
Still, that didn’t excuse much now. Good heavens above, no.
“Of course I do!” I protested. “It’s Godric. Godric Ponsonby!” For a second, I moved forward to kiss him on the cheek, then thought better of it and put my hand out to shake instead. “What are you doing in New York? Do you know Bonnie and Kurt?”
“Who?”
“The hosts?” I raised my eyebrows in Bonnie’s direction, but she’d vanished into the throng again. “Um, well, do you know Jonathan then? Jonathan Riley? The party’s in his honor.”
“Who?” he grunted. “No. I don’t know any of these tossers. Didn’t even want to come. It’s a crap party.”
“Yes, you do! You know Jonathan,” interrupted a small, dark woman, who’d appeared from nowhere. “Jonathan found you that awesome loft in Tribeca! Hi!” she said, grabbing his arm and looking up at me intently. “Paige Drogan.”
“Hello,” I said. “I’m—”
“No, I should do the introduction,” scowled Godric. “Weren’t you taught any manners? Paige, this is Melissa Romney-Jones, Melissa, this is Paige Drogan. She’s my agent. Don’t suppose you’ve got a job, have you, Mel?”
But I was still gawking from the previous revelation to rise to that. “Your agent?”
“Yeah, ’m an actor,” he muttered.
“No!” I gasped. “A real one?”
Paige laughed prettily and smoothed back her short, coffee-colored hair. She was wearing a tortoiseshell-print wrap dress that emphasized her pepperpot curves, finished off with bright yellow shoes and a pair of black winged librarian glasses that frankly gave me serious spec envy. She reminded me of a wren.
“He’s being very modest,” she chuckled. “Ric’s about to be huge over here. He’s starring in a very significant film, which opens in a few months and is going to really launch him to the next level, but he already has a market presence with some very well-received television work. You may have seen him in Grey’s Anatomy?”
I shook my head. “Um, we’re rather behind you, I think.”
“And he’s working on some stage projects, aren’t you, Ric?” She nudged him. “Ric?”
He nodded sullenly.
Paige put a little cupped hand to her ear and tilted her head to one side, birdlike. “I can’t hear you, Ric, this party’s awful loud. What was that?”
“I’m in The Real Inspector Hound, he mumbled offendedly, as if she’d demanded to know his bowel movements. “It’s not a very good production, and the director doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but, you know…at least it’s proper theater. Not like wasting time with those film wankers who—”
“Ha ha ha!” laughed Paige in a transparent attempt to drown him out. “Ha ha ha! Ric, honey, can you go and get me and Melissa drinks, please?”
“She’s got a drink,” he pointed out.
“Well, I’m sure she’d like another,” said Paige firmly.
“Ungh,” grunted Ric. It was a sound I heard about nine times a day on average—a combination of resentment and resignation—and he sloped off in the direction of the waiters.
“I saw what you did there,” said Paige. “With Lucy Powell? Thank you for that. Ric’s a sweetheart, but he’s kind of unpolished!”
“Yeeeees,” I said, wondering if unpolished was an American euphemism for barely socialized.
“So…anyway, let’s talk about you—you’re the famous Melissa!” She beamed at me with a scary intensity.
The famous Melissa?
I suddenly felt lanky and un-put-together, my new outfit, perfect hair, and bargain $15 manicure notwithstanding.
“Well, I’m not sure about the famous bit,” I faltered.
She tipped her head to one side. “Ah, I’ve got my ear to the ground,” she said. “I’m Paige with an i. I was at Brown with Cindy, but Jonathan and I go way back too. Like Ric said, I’m an agent. For actors.”
“How interesting,” I said, ignoring the flicker of panic that ran through me at the mention of Cindy’s name. I really had to knock that on the head. It wasn’t like she was here. “Anyone I know?”
Paige reeled off a list of clients, some of whom sounded vaguely familiar. “So. You and Jonathan, huh?”
What did that mean? I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and nodded.
“So you’re English?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, relieved to be on safe ground. “Many generations.”
“Married before?”
“Um, no.”
“Kids?”
“No!”
“Cool. Okay, I’m building up a picture here. What is it you do?”
I was starting to feel slightly interviewed. “I run a…a life management consultancy,” I said defensively.
The upside of New York was that no one raised their eyebrows and snorted at this, as they would have done in London. Paige actually looked impressed. Though that may have just been a holding expression until she worked out what it was that I did.
“Really? Whereabouts?”
“In London? Victoria?”
She gave me a “more information?” look.
“Near Buckingham Palace?” I hazarded, economizing somewhat on the truth, I must admit. Well, my office was near Buckingham Palace. Compared to, say, its proximity to Brent Cross Shopping Center.
“Right,” she said, arching her perfect brows above the frames of her spectacles. “And what type of client relationship is your specialty? I mean,” she added before I could reply, “please God tell me you’re not one of those terrible women who play with color swatches and tell men to floss!”
And she laughed one of those blood-chilling power laughs. The sort with no humor involved whatsoever, the sort that gives you a conversational deadline: Prove me wrong by the time this laugh dies away.
The temperature seemed to ramp up a couple of degrees at this point, despite the air-conditioning, and beads of sweat began to pool in the cups of my Lycra skin-graft bra. Suddenly, I felt as if I was at some kind of large-scale interview, where the whole panel was Jonathan’s friends. And they knew a lot more about the job I was applying for than I did.
To my horror, even as I was wishing I could click my heels and be back in Nelson’s comfy sitting room, I felt a familiar tingle up my backbone as my whole posture started to shift. My hips went slightly forward, pushing out my ample bosom, shrinking my waist and lengthening my back.
Honey. I dragged Honey’s personality in front of mine like a riot shield. Even though there was already a little voice in my head telling me it probably wasn’t a good idea.
“Actually, I run a life coaching agency,” I said breezily. “I work with a variety of clients, mostly male, from a broad social spectrum.”
Paige nodded more slowly but didn’t look totally convinced, so I found myself plowing onward.
“It’s terribly old fashioned, in some senses, but I find simply harnessing some of the more traditional aspects of etiquette is really rather empowering for many men.” I smiled. “Providing them with social parameters from which they can build their own relationship bridges, on a professional as well as social level. And through positive role reinforcement from a feminine perspective, I’m able to encourage them to project and visualize an idealized version of their own persona, and guide them toward attainable targets.”
Paige was nodding hard now. “Uh-huh. I can see that, the way you handled that moment there with Ric. It was pretty slick. And you’re doing that over here?”
“I’m on holiday right now,” I hedged. Honestly, my heart was beating so fast. Where did all this stuff come from?
“But you could do your coaching work here, yes?”
By now, Jonathan was on the other side of the room, apparently deep in an anecdote with a couple of tall women and a priest. “Well, I don’t see why not,” I said, more to sound professional than anything else. “I’m sure American men have their own sets of hang-ups.”
“Oh my God, yes.” She nodded frantically. “And therapy isn’t always the answer.”
“Well, quite,” I said, as if I didn’t think therapy was a license to moan. “One can’t blame one’s mother for everything.”
Paige threw her head back and cackled. Then she snapped it back to fix me with a fierce look. “Listen, Melissa, I could use your help.”
My heart sank. The last thing I needed was to get involved in someone else’s relationship. Especially someone who knew Jonathan. “Oh, honestly, Paige, I don’t really know much about American men and—”
“It’s not an American man,” she said. “Can we meet for a coffee this week? I’d really love to talk with you.”
I made demurring noises, casting my gaze around to see if Jonathan had moved into hearing distance. “Well…I am meant to be on holiday, and Jonathan isn’t…”
She intensified her gaze until I could almost feel it on my face. At the same time I felt my will to resist evaporate.
How did she do that? I wondered. What an amazing trick. If she could teach me how to do that, I could have Braveheart eating out of my hand in seconds.
“Well, okay,” I conceded.
Paige smiled.
That Sphinx-like smile was worth learning too, I thought, dazed. It just made you wonder what you hadn’t noticed.
Fortunately Godric chose this moment to reappear, with four glasses of wine squashed in his hands, as if he was schlepping drinks from the bar at the White Horse.
Paige rolled her eyes. “Ric! I keep telling you. Just ask the waiter to bring you what you want! You don’t have to carry them across the room like that! You’re not a server!”
“Shut up,” said Godric.
Not really wanting to get embroiled in further conversation with either of them, I started to move backward in my patented party extrication method—inch away until you make sufficient corridor for other people to pass between you, wave hopelessly as if being swept out to sea, then leg it.
“Call me!” mouthed Paige.
I nodded in a way which I hoped conveyed yes, but within no definite time frame.
While I was still backing away, I managed to bump into someone, and when I spun round to apologize, I found myself standing nearly nose to nose with a statuesque blond woman with magically unsupported breasts and the most gorgeous smile I’d ever seen outside the beauty pages of Vogue.
“Oops! Hi!” she said, extending a beautifully manicured hand. “Jennifer Reardon. I’m a colleague of Bonnie’s. And a friend too, of course!”
“Hello,” I replied, fixing her name in my head. Jennifer. Breasts. Diamond hoops. “I’m Melissa. Melissa—”
But she interrupted me before I could finish my introduction. “Are you British?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am. I’m…”
“Oh my God, I was right!” she said, clapping her hand to her chest. “My instincts are so good for these things? I saw you talking to Ric Spencer over there, so I figured you must be the writer Bonnie was telling me about. The column in the London Times, right? Hi, I am so pleased to meet you! Now, call me nosy, but have you got any inside stuff on this new girlfriend of Jonathan’s?” she went on, with a giggle. “I’ve been out of town for a while so I’m a little behind on the gossip. He’s been really tight-lipped about her—which makes you wonder, huh?”
I opened my mouth to put her straight, but she didn’t give me a chance to speak.
“She’s British too, right?” she demanded gleefully. “I was at Cindy’s for dinner earlier this week—you know his ex-wife? She might come along later, actually, if she has time—and she was telling me she heard he was dating this blond girl called Honey or Happy or something like that. Totally too young for him, and soooo rebound! I mean, it’s an understandable reaction, after breaking up with your wife of all those years, but, eek!”
Jennifer pulled a face, then touched my forearm in an “oh, we’re so awful, aren’t we?” gesture. My stomach shrank. I knew I should say something before she dug herself any deeper, but my throat had suddenly gone tight with horror.
“And Cindy totally thinks it’s because he’s cut up about her and Brendan, but listen, who wouldn’t be? It’s a terrible, terrible situation, but sometimes you’ve got to go with Fate, know what I mean? Their baby is the cutest, cutest thing. Parker? Isn’t that an adorable name? I could eat him up! Not literally! A ha ha ha! He so has Cindy’s eyes. Anyway, I must catch up with Jon in a minute because I need to give him a message from Cindy. Do you know if he’s brought rebound girl along tonight?” She craned her neck around to see past my stunned face. “I don’t see any teenage blonds in here. I guess she’d stand out, right?”
Jennifer was rattling on at about ninety miles an hour, and so probably didn’t notice the silence falling around us. I’ve been there myself—you’re so busy dishing out the gossip that you can’t hear anything but your own voice. But since I hadn’t spoken for what felt like an hour, to me the shocked hush was all too apparent.
So much for people claiming never to eavesdrop at parties.
“You know her, huh?” she said, seeing my crestfallen expression. “Oh, nuts. Have I put my foot in it?”
“Melissa,” said Bonnie unwittingly, bowling up behind me with a tray full of food. “I had to show you these myself—aren’t they darling? Jonathan’s had three already.” And she shoved a plate of miniature Yorkshire puddings filled with shavings of roast beef and wisps of horseradish under my nose.
She looked up when I didn’t speak. Neither did the seven people immediately around us. I felt sick.
“Oh, now don’t tell me you’re low-carbing!” said Bonnie, taking my silence the wrong way. “Jonathan loves you just the way you are! He told me so! He says one of the things he loves best about dating you is that he can always order a starter and a dessert without feeling bad!”
I could almost hear the penny drop in Jennifer’s head. It probably didn’t hit much on the way down. A ghastly recognition slid over her face, and her eyes went glassy with embarrassment.
If I’d been Honey, or even Gabi, I might have made a scene and stalked out, but this wasn’t my party or even Jennifer’s. It was Bonnie’s, and she’d gone to a lot of effort. I wasn’t going to let someone else spoil it and make a show of myself in the bargain. I’d show them how well-brought-up British girls could rise above sticky moments. Even if we did want to sprint, sobbing, from the room.
“Oh, I can’t stand women who go out for dinner and never eat! What on earth’s the point?” I said, taking a Yorkshire pudding and racking my brains for the most outrageously untrue thing I could think of to break the crashingly awkward silence. “Now, tell me, is it true that all shopping is free for tourists on Sundays? I’m sure I read it somewhere.”
At once, about seven different voices joined in with sympathetic denials and then suggestions for outlets that had such terrific values that it might as well be free.
Jennifer melted into the background, mumbling something about having a top-secret sample sale leaflet in her bag somewhere.
I managed to keep the tears that were rising in my throat at bay by frantically nodding my head and raising my eyebrows, hoping fervently that Jonathan hadn’t overheard. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I mean, it was very flattering that he was so confident about my social skills that he could just leave me to meet people, but it wasn’t like this was your run-of-the-mill drinks party…
And then I felt a familiar hand in the small of my back and a sudden warm breath on my neck. Relief swept over me.
“Sorry, but I couldn’t leave you alone a minute longer,” murmured Jonathan in my ear. “I’ve been studying your rear view for ten minutes now, and I don’t see why these people should have the monopoly on the front.” Then, as I went pink, he put his arm around my waist and said in pretend formal tones, “Hello, I’m Jonathan, Melissa’s boyfriend. Has she mentioned me? Oh, dear. Apparently not. Sorry, Anthony, you’ve been wasting your time—she’s taken.”
Everyone laughed, and Jonathan launched into the story of how I’d tamed the evil Braveheart in the time it had taken him to confirm a restaurant booking. “Just by using her accent!” he marveled. “I’m telling you, Melissa is an organizational miracle worker.”
The lady standing next to Anthony (Was her name Blythe?) touched me on the arm and said, “Melissa, any time you want to come over to my house and organize our Weimaraner, you are more than welcome. Please.”
Feeling slightly fraudulent, I accepted everyone’s amazed congratulations, then made an excuse about getting a pen and paper to write down those sample sale details. On my way out, I had a quick glass of champagne to revive myself, then—since no one was looking—another.
My heart was still hammering, and not in a good way, as I splashed water on my wrists in the marble-lined bathroom. I reapplied my lipstick slowly in the huge gilt mirror and wondered forlornly if Honey would have handled the situation better. I always seemed to come out with better repartee when I was wearing that wig.
I pushed the thought away with a stern hand and smoothed my flicked-up brown ’do. I didn’t need the wig to be polite. Manners, that was all I needed. Besides, Jonathan chose Melissa, not Honey. Of course his friends would be suspicious of any new girlfriend—it was only natural. And Bonnie and Kurt had been so kind and welcoming, and other people had been friendly. Even Jennifer, right up until…
But had they only been nice to me because he’d been standing there by my side? Jennifer’s words seared across my brain. Was that what they were thinking—that I was just some rebound bimbo Jonathan was dating while he was still grieving over Cindy?
God. How I wished Nelson were here to give me a boot, or Gabi. I opened my bag and took out my mobile phone, then resolutely put it back. Gabi would be in bed right now, and Nelson would be…well, I wasn’t going to phone Nelson at the very first inkling of trouble.
I took a deep breath. You’ll just have to show them how suitable you really are, I told myself. Then I turned on my heel and strode back down the parqueted corridor, Mummy’s dog training tips at the ready.
As promised, Jonathan swept me off at ten o’clock, and we left to promises of lunch dates, and drinks with Bonnie and the girls, and requests for advice on everything from neurotic dogs to clever birthday gifts for godsons. I think Jennifer must have either snuck off or hidden in the loo for the rest of the evening, because I didn’t see her again.
“You were such a hit!” Jonathan squeezed my knee in the cab. “Bonnie was raving about how you were even nicer than she remembered, and how marvelous it was that you just circulated and talked to everyone.”
“Isn’t that what you’re meant to do at parties?” I asked. I didn’t want him to guess how much effort it had taken after Jennifer’s bombshell. “Talk to people?”
Jonathan pulled a face. “Well, no. Some people like to get conversation buzzing by telling the hostess she needs to lose ten pounds, then pulling her outfit to pieces.”
It had been bad enough having Cindy’s presence hanging over me at the party, but I wasn’t having her in the cab with us afterward. “They were terribly nice people,” I said firmly. “Especially Bonnie and Kurt. It was kind of them to make me feel so…” Again, I hesitated over the right word. “…amongst friends.”
Jonathan suddenly looked serious. “Listen, Bonnie told me about Jennifer’s stupid remarks. I’m so sorry. You were very dignified, and she’s grateful to you for not taking offense. If I’d been there…”
“Oh, that.” He did know. “Well, I just did what any well-brought-up person would do.”
“Well, Bonnie was mortified. She’s going to speak with Jennifer. Set her straight. Jen’s always had a big mouth.”
“Well, at least she knows I’m not a blond bimbo now,” I joked weakly. “Although it was flattering that the rumor-mill thought I was some teenage nymphet.”
“Melissa.” Jonathan put his finger on my chin and turned my head so he could look me in the eye. “Bonnie’s going to tell her that I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Blond, brunette or redhead. And she happens to agree.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down at my lap. My insides glowed with delight to hear him say that, but—well, the whole evening had been somewhat overwhelming. “I’ll bear that in mind. Anyway,” I added, to change the subject, “apart from that, I had a lovely evening! I met some very interesting people. Like your friend, Paige? The actor’s agent?”
“Paige? I didn’t see her.”
“Yes,” I went on. “She was there with one of her clients, actually, an English chap. It was like being back at home for a moment, watching him pick his teeth and insult the guests.”
Jonathan’s face darkened, and abruptly I sensed I was on thin ice. “Honey, what exactly did you tell Paige about your job?”
“I told her I was a life coach. Of sorts. I’m not daft, Jonathan,” I said lightly. “I didn’t tell her anything that might, you know, be embarrassing to you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d never do that!”
Jonathan seemed to be summoning up superhuman levels of tact. “Darling, I’m very proud of what you do. I mean, yes, obviously, I don’t think the circumstances of our meeting would…play so well, taken out of context, and while in years to come it’ll make a great story, I just don’t think, for now, it needs to, you know…”
Get back to Cindy, I thought, but I said nothing.
“…be discussed at parties,” he finished. “You know how these things get embroidered. Plus,” he added, with more of a smile, “this is meant to be a break for you! A vacation from work. Us time!” He took my hand in his. “You let Paige Drogan know how good you are at fixing up idiot men and she’ll have you working twenty-four-seven for her client list. And you don’t want that, believe me. I mean, don’t tell me she didn’t hint at it?”
“Um, not exactly.” I didn’t think it was the best time to mention the fact that Paige had asked me to call her. “Anyway, she mentioned that you’d already done a favor for this chap. Ric? You remember?”
Jonathan groaned. “Do I? Yeah, slightly. Paige made me spend an interminable day with that…that…”
“Oik?”
He clicked his fingers and pointed at me. “Good word. Oik. Jesus. I mean, sure, the guy can act but…euch. I don’t know if he means to be rude, but I’ve never come so close to punching someone.” His expression softened. “I only put up with him because he was from London and he kind of reminded me of you.”
“Well, I’m touched. Funnily enough, I do know him, vaguely,” I admitted.
“Not a client? Please God.”
“Do you mind?” I said. “You think I’d release something like that back into the community? He’d hardly be an advert for the agency. No, Godric and I…met briefly at school.”
“Godric?” Jonathan looked amused. “Ric’s short for Godric? Now, if I’d known that while I was putting up with his belly-aching.”
“Family name. Some kind of inheritance issue, I think. Anyway,” I said more emphatically, “forget all that. I need to make some kind of to-do list for the next week, and I’d like some suggestions, please.”
He slid his arm around me, tipping my head onto his shoulder. “Melissa, I have plenty of suggestions, believe me. And,” he added, under his breath, “some of them are tourist attractions!”
“Okay,” I said happily. I had a feeling that Jonathan’s suggestions could quite easily take up my entire stay.