Little Lady, Big Apple

  Also by Hester Browne

  The Little Lady Agency

  LITTLE LADY, BIG APPLE

  Hester Browne

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Copyright © 2006 by Hester Browne

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  The right of Hester Browne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94799 3

  Book ISBN 978 0 34083 868 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Isabella Cooper, the most

  charming little lady I know.

  CONTENTS

  Little Lady, Big Apple

  Also by Hester Browne

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Hester Browne’s Polite Thank You Notes

  About the Author

  1

  My name is Melissa Romney-Jones, but between the hours of nine and five you can call me Honey.

  That’s when I’m at work, running the Little Lady Agency, London’s premier freelance girlfriend service – and during office hours I’m Honey Blennerhesket, queen of scruffy bachelors and scourge of slacking domestics. The Little Lady Agency, my very own business, is the first port of call for hopeless single chaps who need to borrow a woman’s expertise for the afternoon, and you’d be astounded at how many of them there are.

  It’s not, I should stress, as racy as it sounds, but it’s completely changed my outlook on men, in more ways than one.

  As it says on my business cards, I offer – or, rather, Honey offers – every girlfriend service a man could need, except sex and laundry. Aside from that, I’ll tackle anything, no matter how random or daunting, and it certainly keeps me busy. In the last year, for instance, I’ve advised on the purchase of hundreds of suits; frightened tens of broody would-be grannies into leaving well alone; helped break off five engagements and assisted nine proposals; salvaged three flats after three wild parties; bought stacks of godparental gifts; sent thousands of roses to spouses, secretaries, sisters and secret girlfriends; and generally acted as the invisible woman most men need to keep them on the straight and narrow.

  You’re probably wondering why I can’t just do all this as Melissa. Well, there are several very good reasons for that.

  First of all, if the name Romney-Jones seems familiar it’s because my father, Martin, is the only MP to have survived no fewer than four separate political scandals (two tax, one sex, and something murky involving an EU cheese producer in Luxembourg that I’ve never quite got to the bottom of). When I started my business, I didn’t want him to find out what I was up to, and now things are working out rather well I don’t want him cashing in.

  Second, if I’m being honest, in real life I’m a complete pushover – ground down by years of merciless advantage-taking by Daddy and the rest of my horrendously selfish family. So I found that creating bossy, super-groomed Honey sort of gives me permission to put my foot down where I’d normally fear to tread. Honey has much better shoes than me, for a start. Most of them are stilettos, to go with the fitted pencil skirts and devastating bombshell jumpers I wear for work, and Honey’s not afraid to stamp those stilettos when she needs to get results. Rather hard, too, if the situation demands. Sometimes I don’t even notice the blisters till I get home.

  Plus, to be honest, there’s something kind of sexy about being Honey. She never rounds her shoulders to hide her ample cleavage, or worries about how she looks from behind. And I never realised that wearing stockings for work would have such startling knock-on effects . . .

  Ahem. Anyway . . .

  Third? Well, everyone likes to be able to clock off at the end of the day, don’t they? When you’ve spent hours ironing out endless male problems, it’s nice to be able to walk away from them. And I do walk away. In dress-down Melissa’s comfortable flatties.

  Quite apart from the delicious wardrobe, I absolutely love my work. Up until I started the agency, I’d been an unthanked, frequently sacked PA, but now I positively look forward to going to work each morning. There’s something so satisfying about taking shambolic bachelors and revealing their inner fox – rather like tarting up derelict houses that no one can bear to move into, only to see them besieged with buyers the next week. Some of my clients do need an element of structural repair, as well as cosmetic improvement, but that’s even more satisfying to sort out, and the results sometimes bring a tear to my eye.

  For a while I didn’t think Melissa would ever be able to compete with Honey. She was just so much more . . . colourful than me. More confident, more dynamic, more everything, really.

  But then the weirdest thing happened. We met – I mean, I met – someone. Jonathan was tall, charming, courteous, with perfect American teeth and a very handy foxtrot: in short, a proper old-fashioned gentleman.

  The fact that he was a client made things a little complicated, but just as I was sure he was falling for Honey, he told me he’d fallen for me. Melissa! Not Honey! When I’d got over being amazed, I was very, very happy.

  And I still am. Very, very happy.

  However, being practically perfect during working hours didn’t mean I wasn’t still prone to lateness and laddered tights in the mornings. I was already seventeen minutes behind schedule, and since my best friend Gabi was meant to be helping me out on my first job of the day, I had no doubt those seventeen minutes were about to double.

  I was running late because my flatmate, Nelson, had phoned LBC to add his twopenn’orth to a heated debate about recycling, and had insisted on my hanging around to record his contribution on the kitchen radio.

  Gabi was running late because there was some sample sale on in Hampstead, for which the doors opened at 7 a.m.

  At 8.33 a.m. we were both scuttling down the street towards the agency, knowing full well that Tristram Hart-Mossop would be waiting for us outside Selfridges at 9 a.m. on the dot, and I wasn’t anywhere near ready for that.

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t just go straight to Oxford Street!’ panted Gabi.

  ‘Because I need to get changed! Come on, we’re nearly here now.’ I walked briskly down Ebury Street. I went to the kind of school that encouraged brisk walking.

  ‘Jesus, Mel, you move fast for a big girl. What kept you, anyway?’ she gasped. ‘A m
orning quickie with Dr No?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ I should explain that Gabi worked part-time in the estate agency that Jonathan managed and she had great trouble seeing him in a non-managerial role. He had a rather ‘result-focused’ management style. While Nelson tended to refer to him sarcastically as Remington Steele, on account of his all-American clean-cut jawline, the girls in the office – apparently – liked to call him Dr No.

  Jonathan, I might add, rarely said no to me.

  ‘He likes to get off quickly in the mornings,’ I added. ‘He’s usually ready to go by seven.’

  Gabi snorted dirtily. ‘That’s what I meant.’

  I looked at her, baffled. ‘No, I thought you were asking me if we’d—’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘Get back in your Enid Blyton box.’

  Gabi and Nelson were always baiting me with double entendres. I never got them. With a family like mine, one grows up habitually looking the other way.

  ‘Nothing wrong with having an innocent mind,’ I said, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

  There was the usual stack of interesting-looking post, but I didn’t have time to check through it. Instead, we bounded up the stairs two at a time, past the very discreet beauty salon on the ground floor, where Chelsea wives snuck off for their Botox and electro-whatsits, and into my office.

  I threw my huge handbag on the leather sofa, and handed Gabi the bunch of ranunculas I’d bought on the way.

  ‘Right,’ I said, peeling off my cardigan. ‘I’m going to get changed. Stick these flowers in water, would you?’

  ‘OK,’ said Gabi, looking round for a vase. ‘God, this place is comfy. I’m surprised half your clients don’t try moving in.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  My office was a little second-floor flat: the main room was my lilac-walled, calming consultation space, with a tiny bathroom, an even tinier kitchen alcove and a small second room, in which I kept spare clothes, supplies and a fold-out bed, in case of emergency.

  Leaving the door open so I could chat to Gabi, I slipped out of my floaty summer skirt, and hunted about for my suspender belt. There weren’t that many businesses where you could spend hundreds of pounds on Agent Provocateur underwear and charge it to office furniture. As I slid the first crisp new stocking over my toes, and carefully smoothed it up and over my leg, I started to feel, as I always did, that little bit more confident. More put together. More in charge.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ yelled Gabi.

  ‘Please!’ I fixed the stocking in place, and quickly rolled on the other. I’d got quite adept at this. There was a knack to it, a little flick of the finger and thumb, which was really rather satisfying to acquire. I could imagine Jane Russell doing it. After my stockings came the black pencil skirt, which skimmed over the curve of my tummy. It was a high suspender belt, with a decent flattening capacity, but it could only do so much.

  Something about stockings made me stand up straighter. I hunted through the rails to find a clean blouse.

  ‘Biscuits?’ yelled Gabi.

  ‘In the barrel. Home-made. Nelson knocked some up for me.’

  Gabi let out a gusty sigh of admiration for Nelson’s shortbread.

  I slipped into a fresh black shirt, and buttoned it over my rose satin balconette bra. Not that clients ever got to see my spectacularly glam underpinnings, obviously, but it made me feel better, knowing they were there. My fingers hesitated over the third button, parting precariously close to the delicate lace of my bra. I left it undone.

  It promised to be a warm day, after all.

  Finally, I wriggled my stockinged feet into a pair of high-heeled court shoes and I was ready.

  Honey Blennerhesket. Five feet eleven inches of woman.

  Out of habit, my hand reached for the finishing touch, the final piece of the Melissa to Honey transformation: Honey’s long blonde wig, currently sitting on top of the filing cabinet like a religious icon, its caramel curls spooling lusciously around the antique porcelain head.

  I stopped. No. That was the one thing that Jonathan had said no to. No more wearing the wig, as part of the ‘stand-in girlfriend’ service. The wig had only been a disguise, but somehow it had unleashed a whole side of me that I’d never really known was there.

  Still, it was so lovely. And it made me look so glamorous. Quite spectacular, in fact.

  I took a step nearer, and stroked the real hair.

  I never felt as gorgeous as I did when I was a slinky blonde. Would it hurt, just to try it on for a moment, just to get me in the—

  ‘Here you go, milk, no sugar . . . Jesus Christ!’ blurted Gabi as she stepped into the room with the coffees.

  I sprang back from the wig guiltily.

  ‘I never get used to how different you look in the whole Honey get-up,’ she marvelled. ‘Look at that tiny waist! You sex bomb, you.’

  I flapped my hand. ‘It’s all tailoring. You should—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Gabi preferred a lower-maintenance style. She nodded towards the wig. ‘So, you going to put that on?’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t wear this any more.’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘No. Jonathan and I agreed that I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Not even at home?’ Gabi twinkled naughtily. She was shameless sometimes. If you asked me, she got away with a good deal under the guise of straight talking. ‘He doesn’t ask you to do any . . . role-playing?’

  I blushed. ‘No.’

  Between you and me, I still liked to put it on now and again. When no one was around. Just swishing all that hair about was so sexy and confidence-inspiring. Nelson, who never tires of taking the mickey out of me, claimed it had voodoo powers like something out of a spooky novel. The Wig That Flounced on Its Own.

  Actually, in my middle-of-the-night panic moments I sometimes wondered if Jonathan secretly preferred me when I was Honey the blonde. He was a very successful estate agent. He drove a Mercedes that cost more than Nelson paid for his flat. And his ex-wife Cindy was a real blonde, who probably wasn’t drummed out of the Pony Club for over-feeding her horse (out of love, not carelessness).

  There was something about the thought of Cindy that put the fear of God in me, on many levels. I suppressed a shudder.

  I reminded myself that I hadn’t actually met her, and so probably shouldn’t be drawing unfair conclusions. Of course if I had met her then maybe I wouldn’t be haunted by my vivid imagination.

  ‘No,’ I said, more firmly. ‘He doesn’t like me wearing it full stop. Says he’s had his fill of blondes for now.’

  ‘More fool him then,’ said Gabi, offering me the mug and gulping from her own. ‘Come on! We’ve got three minutes and that’s if we can find a cab.’ She blew on her coffee, then added, ‘Mind, dressed like that, I doubt you’ll have a problem on that front. Not that you ever do.’

  ‘Don’t rush,’ I said. ‘No point in scalding yourself.’

  She thrust her watch in my face. ‘Look!’

  A strange calm had descended over me. ‘Tristram can just wait. We’ll get there when we get there.’

  Gabi looked at me with something approaching admiration. ‘Blimey. What a difference a dress makes.’

  ‘I think better in high heels,’ I said serenely. ‘You’ve got the camcorder?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  We made it to Selfridges by five minutes past. That was the beauty of Honey: she was never exactly late, but she knew the value in keeping men waiting for a minute or two.

  Tristram Hart-Mossop looked less than thrilled to see us, nonetheless, and I hurried him up to the menswear department as fast as possible, trying to keep Gabi away from the lure of the perfume hall. With the benefit of hindsight, she might not have been the ideal choice of sidekick for this particular job.

  When the three of us were safely upstairs, I took a deep breath, marshalled my thoughts like a midget gymnast about to perform a complicated series of flick-flacks and p
iked what-nots, and launched into full Honey mode.

  ‘So, you see, Tristram,’ I trilled, with an expansive wave of the hand, ‘you’ve got one thousand pounds to spend on clothes, and I’m going to help you spend it!’

  Then I turned to Gabi, who was filming me on my office camcorder, and added, with a smile so broad it made my cheeks hurt, ‘Because I’m Honey Blennerhesket and I’m “Making You Over”!’

  Gabi, to give her credit, didn’t laugh when I said this. Which was good of her, because I heard some passing shopper snigger behind me and someone else say, quite distinctly, ‘Who?’

  ‘Tristram,’ hissed Gabi. ‘Say something!’

  Tristram Hart-Mossop, the textbook illustration of ‘awkward teenager’, shuffled self-consciously, but with the camera readiness of an adolescent brought up on Big Brother and Wife Swap. ‘That’s great!’ he managed, in response to my discreet prodding. ‘Um, Honey. Um, yuh, cheers.’

  ‘So,’ I finished, with another chuckling smile, ‘without further ado, let’s get on and make you over!’

  ‘And cut!’ said Gabi. ‘That was great. You’re very good on camera, you know, Tristram.’

  I gave her a quick ‘don’t build your part up’ warning look and she raised her eyebrows in fake innocence. It wasn’t, I must say, very convincing. Innocence wasn’t one of Gabi’s natural expressions.

  ‘Still don’t remember entering this competition,’ Tristram mumbled poshly as I strode into the lambswool sweaters, hustling him ahead of me like a sheepdog. ‘And, y’know, I don’t remember seeing this programme on MTV, like you said . . .’

  ‘That’s because your mum entered you, as a surprise!’ I carolled gaily, and slid my arm into his. ‘And you won’t have seen it before, because this is a pilot. Isn’t that exciting? You’re the first one! Now, let’s go and find you some new clothes . . .’

  Tristram I don’t think even considered that I might not really be called Honey. The good thing about sounding quite posh is that you can have the most ridiculous name and no one seems to bat an eyelid. I mean, I know a Bobsy, a Troll and a Muffet, all from one year at school. Muffet, come to think of it, was actually christened Muffet.