I couldn’t stay mad at Gabi for long. She knew me too well, for one thing, and, besides, there was something about my office that always calmed me down. The lilac walls, I think. In the sensible hour Gabi took to walk to Elizabeth Street and back again, I’d made eight brisk phone calls of apology for services rendered (or not, in three instances), replied to five letters, and opened all the mail, while taking deep breaths and listening to Ella Fitzgerald.
I also allowed myself to try on the wig. Just seeing myself in the bathroom mirror with that long caramel fringe falling into my eyes made me feel more in control of everything. A strange peace fell over my shoulders, along with the additional hair, and I knew I could tackle anything. Hadn’t I conquered my own shyness, and built up a successful business, all on my own? In this very wig?
Then I took it off, in case one of them came back unexpectedly.
Smoothing out a few knotty problems was actually rather invigorating, and the jet lag soon fell away as my brain negotiated the familiar steps of London social routines once more.
For instance, I spoke to poor Toby Henderson before he’d had time to give his entire wardrobe to the nearest charity shop, as advised by Gabi and Allegra, and I managed to soothe his shell-shocked ego back to semioperational state. In a stroke of inspiration, I looked up his measurements, still on his file card from our trip to Austin Reed last year, and suggested doing some shopping for him, online, when I was back in New York.
At half twelve, the office door edged open, and Gabi’s dark curls appeared nervously round it; she found me in a surprisingly good mood, considering the horrors I was unearthing.
“Just think,” I said over the phone to Toby, motioning for Gabi to sit, “you won’t have to go into a changing room, and I know how much you hate that. I know. I know—not the most hygienic places…no, you won’t have to deal with Allegra again. I promise. Ever. Yes, on my honor.”
Gabi made some fresh coffee, rather self-consciously.
“Or Gabi,” I added, in response to Toby’s question. “Actually, she does have a boyfriend. No, I don’t think she talks to him quite like that though…”
Gabi started to make an outraged face, then remembered she was meant to be contrite, and stopped.
“Toby, I’m terribly sorry, but I have to go,” I said, as he began to unload his new hair-loss agony. “But I think I saw something exactly for that kind of problem in Duane Reade, this super American drugstore, so why don’t you write me a nice long e-mail, and I’ll sort it all out for you by the end of the week?”
That seemed to cheer him up, and I crossed his name off my list with some relief. It was the last one, apart from Roger Trumpet, with whom I intended to have a very long chat, but not over the phone.
“Well,” I said, as Gabi put a cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate cake in front of me. “That’s that cleared up. And you might like to know that Piers Saunders isn’t going to sue us, after all.”
“Sorry,” she said immediately. “But he should have known Allegra wasn’t a real skin specialist—”
I held up a “Stop!” hand. “Gabi, come on—if these people had any idea what they were doing, they wouldn’t be calling us in the first place. I know you and Allegra don’t have much sympathy for dithering men, but, for my sake, can you try? This is my livelihood you’re dealing with, not to mention their feelings.”
Gabi cast her eyes down for a moment, then looked up, unable to disguise her unquenchable thirst for gossip.
“So, you are coming back then? Jonathan hasn’t proposed now he’s finally lured you over there?”
I blushed. “Yes! And no. He hasn’t. Come on, Gabi, it’s only been a fortnight.”
“But it’s going all right?” She added a meaningful look.
“Yes,” I said, busying myself with my pencil pot.
“He’s making more time for you now?”
I hesitated. “Um, yes. Sort of. And the house is amazing! The master bedroom has two bathrooms.”
Gabi kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the sofa, balancing her cup and saucer on the arm—until she saw my expression and placed them carefully on the side table next to her.
“Well, go on then,” she said encouragingly. “Spill. What kind of house has the King of Realtors chosen for his domain?”
After I described Jonathan’s house in Greenwich Village in sufficient detail to satisfy her, Gabi asked, “So he’s sold the huge apartment on Park Avenue that he had with…Cindy.”
“Yes,” I said. Gabi was the sort of PA who made her job interesting by raiding the HR files like she was on an MI5 intelligence mission. “He’s selling it right now.”
“He’s selling it? You mean, as in he’s…”
I nodded.
Gabi widened her eyes. “That’s so typical! And you tell me he’s not a control freak?”
“No, Gabi, it’s not like that—Cindy instructed him! She’s driving him round the bend about it…” I stopped. We were getting onto quite thin ice now.
Gabi’s eyes narrowed again. “I see. How convenient for her. To have her ex over a barrel and on the end of a string. No wonder you’re worried. Did you find out if that’s where he was the other day, when he was late for your lunch meeting?”
Suddenly I didn’t really want to talk about it anymore.
“Um, he didn’t say where he was.” I forked some cake in half, trying to ignore her very perceptive observation. Any minute now my lurking fears about Cindy would spill out. Then there’d be no packing them away again. In desperation, I tried the distraction technique that worked so well on Braveheart. “Did you know in New York, they say “I don’t care” instead of “I don’t mind”? I couldn’t work out why people were being so rude to me when I was trying to be nice…”
“Really?” Gabi’s expression suddenly turned serious. “Did you get my Kiehl’s stuff? Because if you haven’t, I’ve just been reading about a new cleanser you can only get in New York…”
For a good ten minutes, every time Gabi’s mouth opened to ask another question about Cindy I told her about Karen and her speed-dating adventures, and how breathtaking Grand Central Station was, and the supercheap OPI nail varnish, and the bus maps that you needed to have A-level Maths to figure out, and how weirdly hard it was to buy postage stamps. For variation, I also filled her in on Braveheart, Jonathan’s romantic boating trip, and the frosting-tastic Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street.
“And do they love your accent?” she demanded. “Do you tell them your father is a Right Honorable Gentleman?”
“No! I do not.” I paused. “I’m not telling anyone very much about me, to be honest.”
“Not even about your agency?”
“Especially not that.” I hesitated. This wasn’t going to play well in Gabi’s eyes either, I knew it. “Jonathan wants me to softpedal the whole agency thing. Because it comes across wrong to Americans,” I added, seeing the outrage on her face. “The fact that it’s men, and me, and you know. And I don’t want to show him up or anything. Everyone’s so easily offended over there—they keep asking me if I mind them smoking, or drinking wine, or talking about religion…” I stopped, as a positive thing occurred to me. “The good thing is, I never miss any of their jokes, not like I do here. I always know when to get my hearty laugh ready, because they check first that I won’t be offended by the punch line.”
“Thoughtful,” said Gabi dryly. “So, come on—you haven’t met Cindy?”
“No,” I admitted. Even though I didn’t really want to talk about it, something inside was urging me to get it off my chest, now I was here with one of my own friends. “Jonathan and I had a really good talk about her, and he doesn’t want me to spoil my trip by meeting her.”
“How thoughtful of him,” said Gabi sarcastically.
“Don’t say it like you don’t believe me. Plus, he doesn’t want to see her any more than he has to. Apparently, she’s acting up about their apartment.”
“And not just because his new girlfriend is in town?”
I bit my lip, but it was too late. The floodgates were opening, sweeping away all the lovely things I wanted to remember. “Oh, Gabi, I feel like she’s there all the time, but in a negative way. Like, when we meet people, I can see them looking me over, to see if I’ve got anything in common with her. And Jonathan’s always telling me how he loves the fact that I’m not pushy, and not plastered in makeup, and not this, that or the other…”
“But I thought it was all done and dusted, with the divorce. You told me last year that he…”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said unhappily. And I was shocked at how unhappy I felt, now that I thought about it.
I knew I should tell Gabi about what that Jennifer woman had said at Kurt and Bonnie’s party, about the “rebound girl.” But suddenly, a familiar old mortification started to creep back into my stomach, and I wondered if that’s what they were all saying. Maybe even saying to him this weekend, over drinks at Wentworth’s country place, while I was away.
“Mel?” said Gabi. “You’re…you’re not crying, are you?”
I shook my head. “I was really excited when I flew in,” I said sadly. “Now…I’m not so much.”
Gabi got up and came to sit on the edge of the desk so she could put her arm round me. “Listen,” she said firmly. “Cindy sounds like a nightmare. But you’ve known that for ages. And Jonathan is very clearly nuts about you. Who wouldn’t be? You’re beautiful, and clever, you run your own business, and you can sew bias-cut skirts. What more could a corporate weasel like Jonathan want?”
“So why does he want me to run stupid tea party seminars?” I exploded.
There was a pause, then Gabi said, “No. Back up. You’ve lost me.”
“Oh, it’s just a conversation we had over dinner. He thinks I could set up another Little Lady Agency in New York, but organizing tea parties for brides, and new mothers, and sweet sixteens. Etiquette stuff, you know.”
“But Mel, more weddings?” asked Gabi anxiously. “I mean, Emery’s wedding was fab, but it nearly killed you.”
I shrugged. “I don’t want to do weddings. But I get the feeling that’s what Jonathan thinks I should be doing. I mean, I wouldn’t be short of work—I’ve already spent one lunch helping one of his friends organize a fortieth birthday party.” I paused. “Themed around Pride and Prejudice.”
“Well, to be fair,” said Gabi, “you are the only woman I know with her own corsets.”
I gazed helplessly at her. “But is it really awful of me not to want to do weddings and stuff all the time? Even if Jonathan wants me to? Be honest. I don’t like brides. I don’t like what all that white does to women’s brains. And I prefer dealing with men. They’re just so much more straightforward.”
Gabi gave me a “well, duh” look. “Which is probably exactly why Jonathan doesn’t want you doing it. He’s scared you’ll run off with someone better. Running off with a groom would really wreck your business.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I scoffed. “The whole point is that those men need help buying their own socks, and he’s practically perfect!”
“Maybe he doesn’t see it like that.” Gabi paused. “I mean, not being funny or anything, but maybe he’s still sore about Cindy running off with his less thrusting and dynamic brother? That’s got to hurt, when you’re Mr. Perfect.”
I ate some cake. Jonathan was obviously still sore about his marriage breakdown, but that only proved how much he still felt about Cindy. Not good.
“I just don’t understand why he’s being like this when he’s always been so gung-ho about my so-called ‘business savvy.’” I put bunny ears around it, in case Gabi thought I’d lost all remaining traces of irony.
“Has he come straight out and told you to pack in the agency here?”
I wriggled. “No. But we haven’t really discussed what’s going to happen…next. I didn’t want to look pushy. I’ve only been in New York ten minutes. But he has made it pretty clear that I’m not supposed to do anything, you know, Agencyish, while I’m over there, and it’s hard to know whether he genuinely wants me to have a rest, or whether he’s more bothered than he lets on about people finding out how we met, or whether it’s some kind of test to see if I can leave work alone, and…”
I was about to add and focus my attention on him, when I realized how selfish that made Jonathan sound. I closed my mouth on that thought. I knew that wasn’t what he meant.
Gabi peered at me closely. “And you have been working, haven’t you?”
Honestly, she could read me like a book. I really had to learn how to be more poker-faced. “Sort of. Actually, no. No! Well, yes.”
Gabi giggled. “Oh, dear, Mel. Dr. No doesn’t like being disobeyed. It’s not programmed into his circuitry.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” I protested. “I just got…niced into it.”
She wagged her finger. “And that, Melissa, is your Achilles’ heel. The nice. God Almighty. And it was a man, too, wasn’t it? Go on, tell Auntie Gabi. I have this odd feeling that Jonathan’s funny moods are about to fall into place.”
With a growing sense of panic, I confessed all about Godric, and Paige maneuvering me into looking after him, and the photo in the paper, and how I was meant to be spinning his rudeness into some kind of persona. Back in London the whole thing suddenly looked like a disaster waiting to happen. No. A disaster that was actually happening.
“And I don’t even know what she wants me to do!” I wailed. “How on earth am I meant to make him look dangerous, Gabi? I’m used to smoothing down rough edges, not roughing them up. I mean, the only bad boys I’ve been out with were bad in the ‘sometimes don’t brush my teeth for three days’ kind of bad.”
Gabi tapped her fingers against her jawline. “Well, Orlando von Borsch was bad. He had slip-on shoes. And he broke your heart.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what Paige is after.”
“Isn’t it? Getting a gullible MP’s daughter to arrange his tax investigation while he perfects his tan on board HMS Saucy Sue or wherever he was, using the pneumatic Lady Tiziana Buckeridge as a human lounge chair…”
“Gabi! Stop it!” I glared at her. “Thank you for your sage advice. But had you met Godric Ponsonby, you’d realize how he isn’t even in Orlando’s league. Anyway,” I added, “Orlando is all in the past for me. I have more self-respect these days. Now tell me, what can I do with Godric to keep Paige happy? Just so I can get out of this mess before Jonathan really kicks off.”
She pulled her lower lip sternly over her top one. “I think you should tell this agent that your boyfriend has instructed you, in no uncertain terms, that your ingenuity is strictly off limits, and that you can have no more to do with this project of deception.”
“You think?” I sighed. “I mean, you’re right. I should. But Paige is kind of scary and—”
“Of course I don’t think you should tell her that!” roared Gabi. “Jesus! I know you never had much of a sense of irony, Mel, but are they draining it out of you, or something?” She slid off the desk and refilled our coffee cups. “If you prove to Jonathan how well you can handle this, he won’t have a leg to stand on about making you do boring wedding parties. Much better that you just do it, then pretend that it took you so little effort that you didn’t even remember to tell him about it.”
“Exactly!” I said, relieved that it had been Gabi who’d said that.
“Right. Okay, you want that kind of upmarket living, downtown connections bad boy thing, yeah? Well…” She thought. “Get him a BMW from somewhere, one of those classic old-school M ones, and some really English suits, from Oliver James or someone like that. As English as possible. Tell him to pay for everything in cash—it looks good and secretive. Has he got a ring? Great. Get a bigger one. One really big diamond ring on his little finger, and one of those big camel coats he can wear over his shoulders…”
“Gabi, it’s September?” I said faintly. “It’s still quite warm out there…”
“He needs some personal pain and suffering in his past,” she steamed on. “And some women who’ve broken his heart, but who he’d do anything for, even now. No kids though,” she added, “that just looks careless. What’s his girlfriend history?”
“Paige thinks there was one girl a while ago who dumped him,” I admitted, my mind filling with Godric’s pasty gloom. “But apart from that, I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine him with a woman.”
“Hmm. Well, find out. Then make some up.”
“Gabi, I don’t know if Godric can pull this off! He’s just not that confident. He comes across arsey, but I know he’s just shy. You know, like Roger. I can’t even see him wearing jewelry.”
Gabi looked disbelieving. “He’s an actor, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes.” I stopped as light belatedly dawned on my thick head. “But this is perfect, because he can just act the part. Ace!” I bounced up off my seat and gave her a big hug. “God, I knew you’d work it out for me! I knew it was a good idea to come back!”
Gabi squeezed me. “Well, if you’re anything like you were first thing today, then you should be flying back for weekends. Jeez.” She held me at arm’s length. “Talk about stroppy. Don’t do that again. I was scared.”
“Sorry. But, you know…” I didn’t want to admit how much better I felt after just a few hours in the office. In my own office. Being me. Not Jonathan’s girlfriend, or Cindy’s replacement, or even Braveheart’s wrangler.
“Listen to me,” said Gabi. “Don’t let Jonathan make you give up what you love doing best. And don’t let anyone make you think you’re not blond enough or skinny enough or overachieving enough. Because you’re perfect as you are.”
I hadn’t said any of that. So how on earth did she know that was what I was thinking?
“Gabi,” I said hesitantly, “do you reckon sometimes obstacles are there to make you want something more?”
Gabi’s face softened. “Within reason. There’s no point climbing and climbing over obstacles if you’re too knackered to enjoy the view, you know?”
I nodded, and we shared a long pause.
“So, anyway, how long have we got you in London for?” she asked, going over to the machine to make more coffee. “And, more to the point, how long are you staying?”
“Um, I’ll fly back after the weekend,” I said. “And I suppose I’ll be staying in New York until Nelson’s flat’s finished. How’s that coming along, by the way?”
“Erm, fine. Fine.” I noticed Gabi make a surreptitious note on the back of her hand. “I have it all under control. And,” she added, before I could speak, “I will keep a really close eye on everything here while you’re away. I promise.”
Gabi put the biscuits down and rubbed her hands together expectantly. “So, have you got a picture of this Godric lad, then?” she asked. “If you’re hanging out with film stars, I need to know what they look like.”
I turned on the office computer to find Godric’s official website, and I found RicSpencer.com, complete with his new headshots. While Gabi was swooning over them, I realized, to my shock, that it was almost time for me to leave for Daddy’s meeting.
“Mel, he’s sex on a stick!” she said. “Why did you never introduce me? He’s a fox!”
“Because I haven’t seen him since I was seventeen. Besides, you’ve got your own fox to be considering.”
“My fox who never writes, who never phones, not even a carrier pigeon,” replied Gabi mournfully.
“Well, I haven’t heard from him either, if it makes you feel any better,” I said, not feeling up to tackling the Nelson/Gabi issue just yet. “Why don’t you e-mail Godric your ideas?” I suggested. “Saves me time, and you can have a nice little correspondence.”
“Can I?” she asked, eyes lighting up.
“Yes, but let me see your e-mail first, okay?” I insisted. “Now I don’t know where Allegra’s gone to, but I want that apology out of her, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Leave it to me,” said Gabi.
Crossing London after being in New York felt rather odd. The streets were winding, for a start, and weren’t laid out logically. The meeting was taking place at the antediluvian members’ club my father belonged to, and as I walked down Piccadilly, en route to Pall Mall, I was struck as never before by the ornamentation on the building facades. Fortnum and Mason nearly brought me out in a proud patriotic rash. It was all so…old!
Daddy was lurking in the fusty reception area, ready to pluck me from the disapproving eyes of the doorman. It was not an establishment that readily welcomed women, or indeed any aspect of the twenty-first century, which was why my father liked it so much.
“She’s my secretary,” he explained, hustling me past the front desk.
“You could just have said I was your daughter,” I protested, under my breath. “There’s no shame in that!”
“For the purposes of today, you are my secretary. Got that?” he hissed, as he propelled me past an oak door and into a paneled meeting room, where two besuited men in very minimalist European spectacles were sitting in stunned silence in front of a presentation plate of cheese in various shades of orange, while Allegra regarded them with her steeliest gaze. She had changed, I noticed, into a sharp black pencil skirt and matching jacket, accessorized with a lapel brooch that looked like a stainless-steel chrysanthemum. Her long black hair hung in a shiny curtain down her back, and her lips were exactly the same color as a red Ferrari. She looked like a wildly sexed up Goth version of Honey.
The anti-Honey.
I shuddered, as the thunder clapped in my head.
Before I could say Why are you here? Daddy moved swiftly to cut me off.
“Always late, eh? These women! What can one do?” he tutted blokishly to the first of the two men, and Allegra snarled something in what might have been Swedish but could easily have been her clearing her throat.
“Anyway, now that my assistant has finally laid her hands on that vital paperwork, let’s get down to business! As you know, gentlemen, there will be a significant tender for cheese at the Games—we’ll need that plastic stuff for the Continental breakfasts, plus regional specialities for lunch buffets, as well as a selection of quality cheeses for the formal dinners,” he rolled on.
Then he paused, while Allegra cackled away in tongues. “Melissa, take it down, take it down!”
“But my shorthand is rubbish!” I whispered. “I failed my exams twice.”
He leaned very close to me, so close I could smell the Jarlsberg on his breath. “Just pretend then. And do try to smile. You might at least look authentic.”
And so this bizarre meeting passed. Since Daddy had spent the best part of his parliamentary life chasing various EU cheese freebies round the five-star hotels of Europe, I should have known he’d find a way to shoehorn his cheese interests into his new line of work. Sadly, the delights of Cheddar weren’t enough to stave off the jet lag creeping up on me. I literally had three functioning minutes left on my brain meter when Daddy abruptly drew things to a close, swept Sven and Ullick off to a boys-only drinking session, and unceremoniously booted me and Allegra out into Pall Mall. It was drizzling, but warm at the same time—a meteorological treat only London could offer. Like a monsoon without the excitement factor.
“What was that about?” I demanded as we walked in the direction of Green Park tube.
“Oh, I don’t ask,” said Allegra. “I think we had to make an appearance at some point. For the sake of his invoices.”
I stopped walking and stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Allegra didn’t stop. “Oh, I expect he’s putting us on his expenses. Two secretaries, three secretaries…every little bit counts.”
Was this a scam, after all? That cash going into my account for Allegra’s salary—was that Daddy’s money? But surely I’d be getting more than twenty percent of it, if that had been true. I batted the thought away.
Allegra was some way off now, and I had to hurry to catch up with her.
“How’s Lars?” I asked, panting slightly. “I hear things are moving on with the investigation? I meant to ask earlier, but…”
Allegra turned to me with a disgusted expression. “Do you think I care? That little shit. He sent me flowers, you know. From the police station! Like I would be impressed!”
I decided I didn’t want to go down that road either. Allegra didn’t offer many conversational avenues in this sort of mood. “Well, just so long as you know what you’re doing. And you’re okay.”
She didn’t even dignify that with a response.
I steeled myself. “Allegra, you will speak to Mrs. Kendall, won’t you? Those toys were…most unsuitable for the poor little chap.”
“Are you going home for the weekend?” she demanded, ignoring me.
“Um, yes, I suppose so. It’s Mummy and Daddy’s—”
“I know! Give them this from me,” she said, reaching into her bag and shoving a small giftbox at me. I recognized it as one of the emergency scented candles I kept in my office present drawer. “If they’re still together by the weekend. I’ve seen Daddy’s real secretary.” She pulled a very descriptive face. “Apparently, she used to be a rhythmic gymnast. Still is, by the look of her. I had to make an appointment for Daddy with his chiropractor before you arrived.”
And she stalked off toward Cork Street without a backward glance.