Chapter Nineteen
Nelly
London, 1984
It was well over a year after she’d returned from her adventures in Greece before Nelly felt like smiling again. Nobody had quite been unkind enough to say, ‘Ialways thought staying in Greece was a daft idea’ when she returned, broken-hearted, to London, but you could tell that everyone thought it– her parents, her brother Richard, Lorraine. Well, what did she expect? Giving up a perfectly sensible job and a perfectly normal life. . . to mess about on a boat all summer? Itried to tell her from the off that it would never work out, but would she listen?
‘Isuppose you want to stay with us now,’ her mum had sighed, with a martyrish air, when Nelly appeared at the door with her suitcase, her face puffy from crying the whole way home. ‘Just as I’ve got the spare room set up all nice for visitors, as well!’
It was clear from her mother’s tone that Nelly didn’t qualify as one of these precious ‘visitors’. Previously she might have made some waspish comment about going to sleep in the bus station then, fine, if her mum was going to get her knickers in a twist about a stupid spare room. It was a sign of just how broken she was though that she merely mumbled, ‘Sorry, Mum’ and ‘Thanks, Mum’ instead. Then she took to her bed, where she stayed for three solid days, alternately sleeping and crying, with an occasional dreary traipse downstairs to make herself another round of cheese on toast. (‘At least have an apple with that,’ her mum fussed at her, the closest she ever came to expressing motherly love aloud. ‘Get some vitamins down you, Nell, we don’t want you getting scurvy on top of everything else.’) Who knows how long this might have continued had her dad not had his hours reduced at the factory (‘Bloody Maggie Thatcher’). The hit to the family’s financial situation meant that any remaining sympathy for weeping Nelly instantly evaporated, to be replaced by a lot of comments about it being time to pay her way now and contribute to the family coffers. Or, as her mum put it, ‘For heaven’s sake, drag yourself out of that stinking bed, wash your hair and get down the temping agency, will you? The gas bill won’t pay itself, do you hear me?’
Nelly heard her, as did most other people in the street, probably. Nonetheless, on Monday morning out she went with smart clothes, neatly brushed hair, and make-up, and dutifully picked up some temporary office work. Day after day, week after week, she typed letters, sat through boring meetings jotting down the minutes, and sweated over temperamental photocopiers in offices around London. Crammed in on the Tube, navigating unfamiliar streets, being called ‘the temp’ and ‘Oi love, what’s your name again?’, she clocked in and clocked off like a sad, pale ghost drifting through the capital’s business empires. The bright sunshine of Greece, the gloriousness of boat life seemed to slip further away with every pay packet she received; the glittering blue sea remote from the concrete and glass landscape she now found herself in. The miners went on strike, an assassination attempt was made on Gerry Adams, and police officer Yvonne Fletcher was shot dead in the space of a few weeks. Everything was grim and dirty and miserable; she felt as if she were being buried alive.
‘Cheer up,’ said Lorraine, who had just announced her engagement to Jim and was, according to her, the happiest woman alive. Nelly loved her like a sister but, even so, there was only so much relentless joy anyone with a broken heart could stomach. ‘Hey, Michael has been asking about you, by the way, Idon’t suppose you fancy—’
No , Nelly told her before Lorraine could finish her sentence, she absolutely did not fancy going for a drink with Michael Wet-Lips Rothman. Had Lorraine forgotten that she was in love with Alexander? She would always be in love with Alexander, for as long as she lived! You didn’t just move on from somebody like that, and definitely not for a pillock like Michael Eyes-Too-Close-Together Rothman.
Then in stepped Fate, with his big interfering ideas, plucking her up like a toy and dropping her into a whole new game. ‘We’ve got an exciting little job for you next week,’ Janice from the agency told her over the phone during their regular Friday catch-up. By now it was late summer in 1984, almost a year after Nelly’s return to England. She was renting a cramped basement flat in Blackheath, where the mice careered around like overlords and the condensation was so bad she had coughed that entire first winter. It was no palace but it was hers, at least, paid for by saying yes to whatever Janice and the agency staff offered her.
‘Sure,’ she replied, as ever.
‘It’s in Soho– lovely– and, get this, it’s two weeks covering reception and secretarial duties at Guy Drewers Management– you know, the talent agency?’
‘Oh great,’ said Nelly, even though she’d never heard of them. Soho was easier to get to than her current job all the way over in Plumstead at least, she was thinking.
‘Let me know if you hear any showbiz gossip, won’t you?’ Janice said at the end of the call, once she’d given Nelly the details. ‘And hey, don’t you go falling in love with anyone famous, now.’
Nelly gave a hollow laugh. ‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ she’d said.
Once the job started, she felt more confident than ever in her own assurances. No way would she fall in love with anyone from the telly when they all seemed so neurotic and self-obsessed. She supposed that ‘being dramatic’ was basically the job description for actors but, dear God, she wanted to bang their heads together half the time, what with all the whinging and exaggerating that went on. By the end of the first week, she’d been regaled by the most extraordinary excuses regarding lateness to auditions or missed rehearsals– and she, as the receptionist, was tasked with passing on these elaborately crafted tales to the actors’ long-suffering agents. Still, she had to hand it to them– they were extremely good at fake-coughing down the line, so those years at drama school hadn’t been completely wasted.
The agents were fun to observe, at least– sharp-eyed and fast-talking, forever vanishing off to lunch and then returning triumphantly four hours later in a rush to get contracts out and signed before the important people involved sobered up enough to change their minds. They represented all sorts of creative talents– screenwriters and authors and TV presenters as well as the actors– and there were always tickets going spare to the launch of this, the opening night of that. Plus, it was kind of exciting every morning to open envelopes containing speculative scripts or novels from writers and flick through the pages, wondering which of them, if any, might be rewarded by a nod, a handshake, a great big contract in return.
Then, one slow midweek afternoon, one of the agency’s most famous actors, Michael Cranborne, staggered into reception, reeking of booze and weaving around unsteadily. Oh no. She’d heard the agency assistants bitching in the staff kitchen about this particular client, notably about what a liability he was. ‘Somebody needs to install a Michael Cranborne panic button for every time he calls up and gives us shit,’ she remembered Cath saying while pulling a face. Cath was a die-hard New Romantic who wore frilly shirts and imitation leather trousers and claimed to have kissed two members of Spandau Ballet and one of Duran Duran (‘SO FAR,’ she liked to add.)
Now here was the man himself, and unfortunately the panic button was still only wishful thinking. Michael Cranborne was in his mid-forties and, according to the newspapers, going through a divorce that was proving both expensive and acrimonious. Perhaps it was taking its toll, because on this occasion, as he made his way towards Nelly he suddenly dropped to his knees, stared into the middle distance and then flung out an arm. ‘Doubt thou, the stars are fire,’ he cried, his voice ringing in the space like a struck bell. ‘Doubt, that the sun doth move!’
‘Um. . .’ Nelly said uncertainly, glancing around and wondering what she was supposed to do. Cath had complained at length about Cranborne’s passive-aggressive phone calls, but Nelly couldn’t remember her mentioning unprompted soliloquies before.
‘Doubt truth to be a liar, ’ he went on, bellowing this last word with such ferocity that she actually jumped in her seat. What the hell. . . ? ‘But never doubt’– here he turned his head slowly towards Nelly and locked his gaze on hers– ‘I. . .’– a long dramatic pause for good measure, then– ‘ love. ’
Cringing in embarrassment on his behalf, Nelly had to swallow back a fit of nervous giggles. What a twat, honestly. Where did the agency find these people? She was already looking forward to telling Lorraine about this absolute knobhead when she saw her tomorrow night, complete with full melodramatic impersonation. ‘Hello,’ she said politely. ‘Can Ihelp you?’
‘Help? Ahh, but Iam beyond help, they say,’ he declaimed, returning his gaze to the middle of the room, perhaps imagining an adoring audience seated there. Apparently he was in no hurry to get up from his knees again, nor, indeed, act like a normal human being.
Nelly bit her lip, uncertain of the correct protocol for dealing with drunk, weird actors. If there had been something in the handover notes, she must have missed it. Should she make a discreet call to George, one of the assistants, who was six foot two and pretty beefy with it? Or even enlist the help of Hilary, Michael Cranborne’s agent, who hadthe quietly terrifying air of a ruler-wielding headteacher? Her crisp, disapproving voice would sober up anyone in a heartbeat, surely– but then again, she might tear a strip off Nelly too, for not having the initiative to handle the situation single-handedly.
‘Er. . .’ she dithered. He didn’t look at all well, she registered. Even from where she was sitting she could see the sweat shining on his forehead, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. As for his complexion, it was positively green. Just as she was thinking this, his face spasmed with a startled expression, then he vomited stupendously all over the carpet.
‘Oh my God!’ Nelly cried, jumping to her feet. ‘Mr Cran— Oh no .’ She hurried round the desk to where he had keeled over on the floor, eyes closed, his face squelching into the rancid pool of his own sick. Yuck. ‘Is anyone around to help?’ she yelled in the general direction of the office beyond, not daring to leave him in case he started choking.
‘Ican help,’ came a voice, and she swung round to see a tall dark-haired man who’d just walked in through the main door. A delivery driver, she thought in a fluster, or perhaps a tradesman. Whichever, she wasn’t about to turn him down.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘He just collapsed, Ineed to—’ She knelt down beside him, recoiling from the stench and doing her best to avoid getting her skirt in the pool of puke. (It was dry-clean only and she wasn’t made of money.) ‘Mr Cranborne, can you hear me?’ she said, gingerly patting his arm. ‘He’s still breathing,’ she added in relief.
‘Jesus, is that Michael Cranborne ?’ the man asked, with renewed interest, then, before she could reply, knelt alongside her and gave the actor’s arm a proper shake. ‘Here, Mr Cranborne, can you get up for us now, please? Come on, you can’t stay here, mate. Up you get!’
Nelly wondered if she should permit one of the agency’s highest-earning stars to be manhandled and called ‘mate’ like he was on a building site or something, but at least the actor was opening his eyes in bleary response.
‘Mr Cranborne?’ she repeated, and grimaced as he let out a putrid-smelling belch then closed his eyes once more, settling a little deeper into his own vomit. ‘Oh Lord,’ she groaned.
‘Don’t worry,’ the dark-haired man said. ‘Iwork in a pub, I’ve seen it all before. Mr Cranborne!’ he added in a louder voice, before glancing back at Nelly. ‘Do you want to get him a glass of water and maybe some cleaning stuff while Ikeep an eye on him here?’ He winked at her. ‘Ipromise Iwon’t let him die in your reception area.’
She was too grateful that he was there, unfazed and suggesting a plan, to pay much attention to the wink. ‘Are you sure that’s okay? That’s so kind of you.’
‘Not at all,’ he said as she got to her feet. ‘I’m Frank, by the way. Frank Neale. Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ she replied, so flustered by his dazzling smile that she forgot to tell him her own name. ‘I’d better. . .’ she gabbled, waving an arm in the direction of the office, before scuttling away, cheeks flaming. She couldn’t cope with the attention of a handsome stranger right now, on top of everything else.
Hurrying between desks, she headed to the area where the assistants sat. ‘Michael Cranborne has thrown up all over reception,’ she gabbled to Cath, George and the others. ‘Where can Iget a mop and some carpet cleaner?’
There was a flurry of activity as various staff members rallied to help, including scary Hilary herself, whose nearby office had its door open. ‘That fucking man, honestly, if he’s not already dead Imight just kill him myself,’ she growled before heading resignedly to reception. By the time Nelly returned with a bucket of hot soapy water, George and Hilary had wrangled Michael Cranborne into a sitting position, where he now sat meekly sipping a paper cup of water. Cath, meanwhile, was behind Nelly’s desk, answering the phone. (‘I’m sorry but this waistcoat is velvet, and you know what that’s like for hanging on to smells,’ she reasoned apologetically. ‘No way am Igetting too close to Sickboy.’)
In her new role, Cath had also thought to ask Nelly’s dark-haired rescuer who he’d arrived to see. Unfortunately for Nelly, it was none other than the agency boss himself, David Willoughby. Her whole body became hot as he appeared on the scene, looking furious upon realising that Mr Neale had become caught up in events. ‘Iam extremely sorry that you’ve been dragged into this. . . this debacle ,’ he said, shooting a glare at Nelly. He steered Frank around the carnage and towards his office, tight-lipped. ‘Iassure you that this sort of episode is absolutely not the norm here at Guy Drewers, and that Iwill be looking into how on earth you happened to be left there alone.’
Nelly froze, bucket in hand, as dread took hold of her guts. Frank Neale was a client ? But how could that be when he’d just told her he worked in a pub? Oh hell. David Willoughby’s face was thunderous; surely it was only a matter of minutes before she was told in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, they didn’t want such a brainless temp working here any more. But thankfully she was still in earshot when Mr Neale replied, ‘Are you kidding me? Water off a duck’s back! In fact that pretty girl you’ve got on reception handled everything very well.’ This was said with a cheeky look over his shoulder at Nelly, who was still standing there like a muppet.
Eventually Michael was dispatched, calm was restored, and Nelly was able to return to her desk amidst a cloud of strong air freshener. Roll on six o’clock and the chance to get out of here, she thought darkly. Famous people were such dicks. No sooner had her equilibrium returned, though, than her dark-haired rescuer reappeared in the reception area, along with David Willoughby, who– thank goodness– was all smiles. Feeling self-conscious, Nelly pretended to be jotting down a phone message as the two men shook hands.
‘Ithink this could be the start of something extremely promising,’ David Willoughby said warmly.
‘Cheers, Dave,’ Mr Neale replied. ‘Good to talk.’
Dave! thought Nelly, trying not to giggle as she stared fixedly down at the notepad in front of her. Nobody ever shortened the boss’s name like that. Her phone rang in the next moment and she answered it, feeling not a little disappointed as the mysterious Mr Neale said goodbye to David Willoughby, and left the building. Despite the circumstances of their meeting, despite him being a client and out of bounds to the likes of her, she was intrigued about who he was, why he’d come into the agency and if he really worked at a pub, as he’d claimed. Was he penning soulful poetry between pulling pints, perhaps? Had he written a tub-thumping polemic about the state of the hospitality industry? She was already planning to get chatting to Madeline, David’s secretary, and see what she could find out.
But there was no need because, practically the second she replaced the receiver after her phone call, there he was, strolling back into the building. Her heart stepped up a gear as he walked over to her desk and leaned an elbow on it.
‘Hi again,’ he said. She had time to look at him properly now, taking in his sweep of dark hair, his amused-looking grey eyes, the stubble just starting to show around his jaw. He was about the same height as Alexander, although skinnier and a little gangly with it, and there was an air of mischief about him that was hard to dislike.
‘Hello,’ she said, trying to keep her cool. ‘Here for another meeting with “Dave”, are you? Ithought you had a pub to run.’
‘I’m here for a meeting with you,’ he replied, ignoring her question. ‘What time do you finish? I’m taking you out for a drink.’
‘Oh, are you now?’ she asked archly. Despite her best efforts to sound detached and impervious to his charm, she was pretty sure her cheeks were betraying her with a rush of heat. ‘You seem very confident about that.’
‘That’s because I am confident. I’m the love of your life,’ he told her assuredly, then, imitating David Willoughby’s plummy tones, added, ‘And Ithink this could be the start of something extremely promising.’
‘Is that so?’ she replied deadpan, but his charm must have been working on her nevertheless, because when he added, ‘You didn’t tell me your name earlier. Let me guess. Angie? Susie?’ she found herself answering, ‘No, Leonora. Leonora Maguire.’ She was drowning in those eyes by that point, she must have been, because then she heard herself say, ‘And Ifinish at six.’
He whistled. ‘Leo nora ! That’s posh,’ he teased. ‘Should Icall you Nora for short?’
‘Not unless you want me to ig-Nora you,’ she told him, and he grinned at her.
‘Idefinitely don’t want that,’ he replied. ‘Go on, then, what should Icall you? Princess? Gorgeous One? Future Wife?’
‘Give over,’ she said, before relenting. ‘Everyone calls me Nelly.’
‘Nelly Neale! Sounds good, right?’ He had dimples when he smiled, she noticed, and it was hard not to smile back.
‘It sounds like a cabaret act,’ she reproved him, shaking her head.
‘Ahh, you’ll get used to it. And you can be Leonora Neale for best. So– do you know The Cambridge? Of course you do. I’ll see you at six, Nelly Neale. Don’t be late.’
Even if she’d wanted to argue, it would have been impossible, because he was already putting up a hand in farewell and walking jauntily away, whistling as if he was pleased with himself.
‘Nelly Neale indeed,’ she muttered under her breath, but she was smiling nonetheless, and her heart was skittering with the memory of how it felt to experience a burst of attraction for someone. How life could seem. . . interesting again. Fun.
Job done, thought Fate in satisfaction, moving on to interfere with somebody else’s life.