Little Lady Agency and The Prince by Hester Browne Read Free Book Online Page B

of the eyebrows, ‘would you give me a hand with my luggage?’
    I’d almost forgotten about the ‘word’ she’d wanted to have with me the night before, but when I’d loaded the monogrammed luggage into the tiny boot of her sports car, she took my hands and said, ‘Monday afternoon, tea at Claridge’s. I have something I need your advice on,’ and winked.
    ‘I’ll need to check my diary,’ I began. ‘I’m rather frantic right now what with working a—’
    ‘Splendid!’ said Granny. ‘Love to Nelson!’
    And she zoomed off, sending gravel and small birds flying in her wake.
    Jonathan and I spent a pleasant hour tramping through the woods around the house with Braveheart and the rest of the dogs before I was summoned back to the house to ‘sort things out’ for Emery. Maternity nursing isn’t exactly a Little Lady Agency service, but I did what I could, made some phone calls and some lists. Emery, obviously, hadn’t had a chance to lay in the normal supplies one needs when faced with a squalling infant, and so I did my best to raise a cot, steriliser, sheets, blankets, Babygros, bottles, and posset rags, while William busied himself with the vital task of researching the fastest possible buggy on the internet.
    Meanwhile, Jonathan manfully chatted to my father, then at six o’clock we escaped back to London where Jonathan had booked us into the Dorchester’s most honeymoon-y suite for the night, to save Nelson the bother of playing gooseberry in his own flat.
    ‘It has a spa,’ he said. ‘I reckoned you’d need some unwinding.’ He dumped my overnight bag on the gigantic bed, and massaged his temples as if to rub out the ringing in his ears. ‘What I really fancy is one of those hot oil body massages.’
    ‘Ooh, me too,’ I said, kicking off my shoes. ‘Should I ring reception and book?’
    Jonathan gave me his most smouldering look. ‘Who says we have to go down to the spa for that? Come here.’
    I must admit, Jonathan’s idea of room service was pretty blissful.
    In the morning, I drove him to the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo, where we had an emotional goodbye (he ignored two calls on his mobile to demonstrate his extreme reluctance to leave me), and then I headed back to the Little Lady office in Pimlico to start the week.
    As I crawled through the slow traffic, already missing Jonathan’s wry smile and his subtle aroma of Creed and maturity, I picked at a croissant and tried to think of three positive things about the day ahead.
    It was my trademark cheering-up device: find three things to be positive about, and even the most dismal situation doesn’t seem quite so bleak. I knew it worked, since I’d had to resort to it many times over the years.
    One , I had plenty of work on at the agency to fill in the hours until I joined him in Paris on Thursday evening. Condensing my usual busy week into three and a half days meant I really had to focus my attention on exactly who I was dealing with. Once or twice, my mind had still been picking at the previous client’s problem while I was sorting out the next – which had given poor Rory Douglas a shock, for one, when he came to me for advice on getting rid of a lingering house guest and I’d absentmindedly started advising him on a more flattering haircut.
    London drizzle began to obscure my view of the roadworks ahead. I flicked on the wipers and focused on my positive things.
    Two , I was seeing Granny for tea at Claridge’s this afternoon, and that was always a treat.
    So long as whatever she wants you to do won’t turn out to be something awful, nagged a little voice in my head. I pushed it to one side.
    Three – and this really cheered me up – Nelson had his wine course on Monday nights, and that usually meant half a bottle of whatever they’d been tasting, plus Nelson in a ‘relaxed’ mood. He routinely claimed that he wasn’t even remotely drunk after these things (‘We don’t actually drink it, Melissa,’ he’d slurred