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really didn’t have a clue, did he? ‘Dickie Roland is only the most famous stylist in London at the moment,’ she said. ‘He’s a superstar! I think his name is actually Georges, but in the fashion world he’s just known as Dickie after his trademark bow tie. He’s worn it ever since he came to London from Paris, and it’s hard to imagine him without one now.’
‘I hope you’re not planning to ask me to wear a bow tie!’
‘No, no, that’s Dickie’s “thing”. He’ll just make you look fabulous.’ Allegra sighed. Max clearly had no idea what an honour it was to be styled by Dickie. ‘But you have to promise to be nice to him. Dickie’s brilliant, but he can be a bit...temperamental.’
Max pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually discussing being styled!’ he muttered.
‘You’d want to look nice for Darcy, wouldn’t you?’
‘I haven’t said yes yet,’ he warned quickly. ‘What else is involved in this assignment of yours? It’s got to be more than putting on a shirt and slurping a cocktail.’
‘Once you’ve got through the cocktails, the next task is to cook Darcy dinner—and no ordering in a pizza. You have to cook it yourself.’ Darcy was a vegetarian and the meal had to be a romantic one, but Allegra would break that to Max later. For now she just had to get him to agree in principle. There would be time enough to talk him through the pesky details once he’d agreed.
Max grunted. ‘I could probably manage a meal, as long as she’s not expecting anything fancy.’
‘The whole point is to make an effort to cook something Darcy would like,’ said Allegra, smoothing impatience from her voice. It wouldn’t do to put his back up now, just when she had him nibbling at her hook! ‘When you’re having a drink, you’ll have to talk to her and find out what sort of food she prefers, and if she likes fancy, then you’re going to have to cook fancy. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she likes things simple,’ she added hastily as Max’s brows drew together.
‘Okay. So cocktail, cooking...what else?’
Best to take the next bit in a rush. ‘You’d need to do something cultural without looking bored—we’re thinking the theatre, perhaps, or the opening of an art exhibition—and that’s it, really. Then it’s just the ball,’ Allegra finished breezily and put on a bright smile, hoping that Max might have missed the last task.
No such luck. ‘Please tell me you’re thinking about a round thing that you kick around a field!’
‘Not exactly...’
‘Come on, Legs, there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
‘All right, it’s a costume ball being held for charity. You’ll have to dress up—and learn to waltz.’
There, it was out, but, as expected, Max had started shaking his head at ‘costume’. ‘No way,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t mind having a go at the other stuff, but dressing up? And dancing? I’d rather stick pins in my eyes!’
‘Oh, Max, please! We have to have the ball. Darcy’s really looking forward to it, and learning how to dance would be such a great gesture. It would be so...romantic.’
‘What’s romantic about making a tit of yourself on the dance floor?’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to a ball like that. Not just a dinner dance bash but a real ball, with proper ball gowns and waltzing...’ Allegra’s eyes were dreamy at the mere thought of it, and she pressed a hand to the base of her throat as she sighed.
She had grown up in a house full of books, but Flick’s shelves were lined with heavyweight biographies and award-winning literary novels. Flick was dismissive of commercial fiction, and as a child Allegra’s books had been uniformly worthy. It had been a revelation to go and stay with Libby’s family, where the house was full of dog-eared paperbacks with broken spines and yellowing pages.
Best of all, Max’s mother had a collection of Regency romances and Allegra had devoured them every time she went. She loved the ordered world they portrayed with those rakish dukes and spirited governesses. She loved the dashing way the heroes drove their curricles, their curling lips, their codes of honour.
And their tight breeches, of course.
Best of all were the ball scenes, which were charged with sexual tension as the hero and heroine clasped hands and danced, oblivious to anyone but each other.
A wistful sigh leaked out of her. ‘I’d love to waltz,’ she told Max, who was predictably unimpressed. ‘It’s my fantasy to be swept masterfully around a ballroom by a dashing hero, who knows just how to dance me unobtrusively out onto a terrace where it’s dark and warm and the air is sweet with the scent of summer flowers and he’s dancing with me along the terrace but he’s overcome by passion and he presses me up against the balustrade and tells me he loves me madly and can’t live without me and he’s begging me to marry him—’
Running out of breath, she broke off to find Max watching her quizzically.
‘I’m glad you stopped,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if I should throw a glass of water at you to stop you hyperventilating.’
‘You’ve got to admit it would be romantic,’ Allegra insisted.
Max showed no sign of admitting any such thing. He got back to the business in hand.
‘Why not get that boyfriend of yours to take you if you want to go so much? What’s his name? Jerry?’
‘Jeremy.’
‘That’s right. Of course he’s a Jeremy,’ said Max dismissively. ‘I bet he knows how to dance. I only met him once but he struck me as a guy who knows how to do everything.’
Jeremy had been very accomplished, that was for sure, but he was much too serious to go dancing. He was interested in politics and the economy. He could talk about the arts and international relations. He had been well-dressed and charming. Not the most practical guy in the world perhaps, but Allegra couldn’t imagine him ever needing to assemble any flat packs in any case.
‘In fact, why not get him to do your whole assignment?’ Max said and Allegra sighed and tucked her legs more comfortably beneath her.
‘It wouldn’t be much of a transformation story,’ she said. ‘Besides, I haven’t seen him for a while. He wasn’t really my boyfriend.’
She had tried to be upset when Jeremy stopped calling, but honestly, it had been a relief not to have to try quite so hard for a while. Jeremy’s conversation might be impressive but it was light on humour and, in spite of growing up with Flick Fielding as a mother, the sad truth was that Allegra’s interests veered more towards celebrity gossip and shoes than political intrigue. Flick would be appalled if she had guessed, and Allegra did her best not to disappoint her mother, but sometimes it was hard to keep up.
‘We only went out a couple of times,’ she said. ‘Jeremy was just...someone Flick introduced me to.’
That would be right, thought Max. Allegra’s mother liked to keep her daughter toeing the line and would soon veto any unsuitable boyfriends. Tricky Flicky, as she was known by those unfortunate enough to have been subjected to one of her gruelling interviews, was a media heavyweight, famous as much for her style as for her incisive questioning. Much as they might squirm under the lash of her tongue and steely-eyed gaze, politicians lobbied to be interviewed by Flick Fielding. Flick had gravitas, they all agreed that.
Whereas Allegra...Allegra was warm and funny and creative and kind, but gravitas? No.
Max had never understood why Flick, with all her brains, didn’t just accept that rather than trying to force Allegra into her own mould.
‘So, you’re not heartbroken?’ he asked Allegra cautiously. Because he had learnt that with women you never could tell.
‘No.’