One

My name is Melissa Romney-Jones, but you can call me Honey. In the past, when people asked me to describe myself, I used to say I was one of nature's organizers. Reliable. Sensible. A bit, you know, shy. My friend Gabi would have said I was a domestic goddess in practical shoes, but then she always took a positive view of my hips. My flatmate Nelson would have said I was too bloody nice for my own good, and then would have been unable to resist making some crack about my clueless taste in lounge-lizard men.

Ask about Honey, though, and you get a much more interesting description.

Honey is a superchanged whirlwind, Mary Poppins in silk stockings. I've dated more than fifty men this year alone, seven of whom were gay; I've been married temporarily to another fifteen; I've sent seventy Mother's Day cards, all to different mothers, and dispatched armfuls of flowers to sisters, secretaries, and secret amours; I've been a live-in girlfriend to twenty-one bachelors and a vengeful ex-girlfriend to another three men keen to return to bachelorhood; I've transformed forty-three frogs into princes by dragging them round the shops and into barbers' chairs; I've cured nine men of nail-biting, found gifts for fifteen godchildren, and arranged no fewer than thirty-one very successful parties.

I've also attended five weddings. Three as Honey, one as Melissa, and one, very confusingly, as both Honey and Melissa at the same time.

How I got myself out of that particular tangle is a tribute to the magical powers of feminine charm and good manners. How I got myself into it is rather more complicated….

My golden rule has always been to look on the bright side, no matter what. With all the complications in my life, I've had to. Notorious father, unsupportive sisters, constant cash-flow dramas, multiple schools… But if you can find three good things about any given situation, no matter how dire, I guarantee you'll forget the rotten stuff.

The three best things about my job with the Dean & Daniels estate agency were as follows: First, it was highly satisfying to know I was helping people to find somewhere perfect to live. Second, the hours weren't too long. And third, the office was terribly convenient for the shops, on the rare occasions that I had any money to spend.

I won't go into the rotten stuff. You can probably guess it for yourself.

According to my job description, which I wrote myself since no one else had ever bothered to sort it out, I was personal assistant to Hughy, who sold two- and three-bedroom houses, and Charles, who specialized in mews. It was my job to calm them both down and smooth everything over, and, although I say it myself, they only believed they were efficient because I left no trace.

"No shopping bags, Melissa?" simpered Carolyn, the office manager, when I bowled in after lunch—on time, I might add. "Your credit card lives to fight another day?"

"My credit card is just fine right now," I said with as much dignity as I could muster. And then, because I'm pretty hopeless at lying, even when I'm trying to be dignified, I added, "Anyway, nothing fitted. I'm just not the right shape for modern clothes."

"Fashion is a cruel mistress." Carolyn folded her arms over her flat chest and gave me one of her smug looks. She wore a lot of sleeveless Joseph tops, just to prove she had money to chuck around and didn't need a bra.

"Mel's an hourglass," said Gabi, adding, "whereas you're just ghaaaastly" under her breath in a mocking Sloane accent.

I mouthed a "thank-you" at her over my monitor. I wished I had Gabi's cheerful confidence. Particularly in my figure: She thought I should embrace my billowing curves and wiggle around in skintight Capri pants and straining blouses, like Gina Lollobrigida or Jayne Mansfield. In my head, I did entertain the idea, honestly. But out in the real world, I didn't have the nerve to go the whole hog.

Gabi was my best friend at Dean & Daniels. We were united in our loathing of Carolyn and our mutual desire for a real Kelly bag. That's about all we had in common, but we got on like a house on fire, despite the fact that she claimed to hate posh girls (the office is packed with them) and stupid horse-faced men (who made up the other half of the staff).

"It's nice of you to see it like that," I said, and automatically checked my e-mails in case there was any communication from Orlando, the on-off love of my life. We had been off for a few months now, but I lived in hope that he might change his mind. Still nothing. My heart broke a little, yet again, but I rallied myself before Gabi's eagle eyes could register any signs of weakness. A big sigh slipped out.

"Oh, come on," she said. "Ignore the numbers on the labels—they don't mean anything."

"Don't they? Good job I'm handy with a needle and thread or I'd never have a thing to wear."

"Mel, I would kill for your figure," said Gabi sternly. "Your tiny waist." She grimaced. "Your proper lady's bosom."

Copyright © 2005 by Hester Browne