The Flirt (12 page)

Rose knew her father was staring at her but she found it hard to meet his gaze. After a while, he took Rory from her, turning him upside down until he giggled.

“So, I guess you’ll take it,” he said, flinging Rory onto his shoulders.

Rose nodded. “I guess I will.”

“Well, maybe Rory and I will go and have an ice cream, eh?”

“Ice cream!” Rory shouted, refreshed from his nap. “Chocolate! Banilla! Ice cream!”

“What about Islington?”

“It’ll be there tomorrow. Anyway, I think we need a break, eh, champ?”

Rory beamed up at him.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Rose gave Rory a kiss and watched as her dad strapped him into a booster seat. “Drive carefully! Please!”

As they pulled away, the parking attendant smiled shyly. “Would you mind?” he said, handing her the pad and pen.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your autograph! You’re a famous artist, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, I suppose so.”

“You never know, it might be worth something!”

“You never know,” she agreed.

And then she signed “Red Moriarty” across the page in a strange, firm hand. It glared back at her, full of sharp angles and unfamiliar shapes. She passed it back to him. He was looking at her in a different way, as if she were a completely new person from the one she had been ten minutes ago.

He walked back down the street, grinning proudly at the signed parking ticket.

Rose stood by herself on the steps of the Mount Street Gallery.

Maybe, she concluded, the whole art thing was like being a top model; you got loads of attention for doing nothing. And maybe, just like a naturally beautiful woman, she’d never be able to really see what everyone else saw or what the fuss was all about.

It was sad.

Still, there were probably worse things in life.

H
ughie spent the next morning at Gieves and Hawkes being outfitted by Jez. They bought one suit off the peg and had another two ordered. Hughie had never had a suit tailored for him. It was amazing how natural it felt to have all these people fussing about him, kneeling at his feet, measuring and recording each detail of his anatomy as if it were vital state information.

Jez, dressed in jeans, a crisp white shirt and a creamy soft leather jacket, lounged in one of the deep armchairs, drinking tea and leafing through magazines. Just when he appeared to be disinterested, he’d bark out more instructions. “No, get the lighter wool! I don’t care what season it is! You’ll be sweating like a pig from nerves most of the time. And there’s no way you’re wearing braces with anything! A plain waistline, gentlemen. More schoolboy than barrow boy, understand?”

Hughie was impressed; he watched as Jez deftly selected half a dozen daring shirt-and-tie combinations in about two minutes, and his views on socks were practically revolutionary.

“It’s like this,” he explained to Hughie, “it’s no socks or knee socks.”

“Knee socks!” A radical suggestion indeed.

But Jez remained firm. “It’s all about a clean line. No ruched-
up ankle socks with hairy legs poking out when you sit down.” He grabbed a sock and began pulling at it. “See? A knee sock, made with cotton and a bit of Lycra, guarantees you a clean line at all times.”

“They won’t fall down?”

“Fogal, man. You get them from Fogal.”

“But what about…I mean, I’ll look stupid in them!”

Jez sighed. “Shoes and socks off first. Then trousers. No one will ever know. And rethink those boxers. Baggy spoils the silhouette. We’re talking classic Calvin Klein jocks from now on. It’s all about the line, man. Line first, color second.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I used to model.” Jez poured out another cup of tea.

“Really?” Hughie imagined Jez strutting down a runway or being photographed with three or four half-naked beauties draped around him. “Why did you give it up? I mean, the girls, the locations…”

“It’s toxic, man. And the travel doesn’t suit me. You see, I have a lady in my life!” Eyes twinkling, he dug out his wallet, and handed Hughie a couple of photos. They were of an exquisite little girl, maybe four or five years old with light skin, a mop of curly dark hair and a pair of startling pale blue eyes.

“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

“Ella,” Jez said proudly. “Her mother’s Danish.”

Hughie passed the photos back. “You’re married?”

Jez’s face clouded. “Nah. She left me. Heidi was a model too. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. We met in Milan one season; we kept working the same designers. By the end of the week, that was it; I knew she was the one. But, well,” Jez stared at the ground, “the truth was, I had a habit.”

“Oh, I see. Drugs?” Hughie asked softly.

Jez shook his head. “Nah. I knit.”

“Pardon me?”

Jez narrowed his eyes. “I like to knit, man. OK?”

“Sure.” Jez was a big guy. And fit. Not a man to be arguing with.

Jez looked across. “You want to make something of it?”

“No. Not at all. Very noble sport. Well, not a sport, is it? Hobby.”

“Actually,” Jez straightened, “it’s a craft. A highly skilled craft at that.”

“I have no doubt.” Hughie crossed his legs. “So, what are we talking about? Scarves, jumpers, the odd woolly hat?”

“You’re doing it!” Jez pointed a finger in Hughie’s face. “Don’t think I can’t tell that you’re doing it!”

“What? I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re trying to wind me up, man! I can tell!”

“Honestly!” Hughie held up his hands. “I’m curious, that’s all! I mean, it’s true—not many men knit. Not many women under the age of fifty-five knit, if we’re honest. But so what? Am I going to judge? Never! As a matter of fact, I’m willing to defend your right to knit. And I’d like to know exactly what it is that you get up to.”

“For real?”

“Absolutely.”

Jez considered. “OK. Well, take this one,” he bent down, removing a piece he was working on from his bag. He passed it across. “It’s for Ella.”

It was a small pale blue cardigan, with the most intricate design of tiny dancing ballerinas along the hem, made from the softest stuff Hughie had ever touched.

“My God!” Hughie sat up. “That’s amazing!”

Jez smiled shyly. “You’re just saying that!”

“No, I’m serious! How do you make them so small?”

“The needles, man. They’re a nightmare.”

“And these little dancers!”

“Yeah, yeah! Like, look at that one,” he leaned forward, “she’s just about to jump, then she’s jumping, now she’s landed.”

“Amazing!”

“Ella’s really into ballet.”

“And you made this by yourself?”

“Yeah. My own design too. I’ve been doing it for years. Being a model there’s a lot of waiting backstage or on sets—makeup, hair, whatever. Some people do crosswords, sit on the phone. It’s not like you can eat, right? And all the models are sixteen, seventeen, there’s nothing to talk about. Then one day I met this makeup girl and she had this scarf she was working on and I thought, hey, I could do that. So I made her show me how. And I got hooked. I mean, you end up with something, you know? It’s real. It lasts.”

“Absolutely. Jez, I’m impressed!”

“You like that? Here,” he pulled out a thick black portfolio. “Have a look at these! I’m thinking of launching my own label.”

Hughie flipped through page after page of Jez’s knitwear designs—a daring range, quite a bit of it photographed on Ella, who’d obviously inherited her parents’ ability to strike a pose.

“My God! Put a bit of wool in your hands and it’s clear you have something to say!” He passed it back. “Seems a bit rough though, Heidi walking out.”

“Some people have to be the center of attention. Beautiful women are often like that. They’re used to being looked at and if you’re not staring at them, they don’t feel like they exist.” He smiled sadly at Hughie. “If it wasn’t the knitting, it would’ve been something else.”

Hughie tried to think of something profound to say.

Nothing came.

“After she left, I couldn’t stand modeling. And I didn’t want to leave Ella. Then I got drafted by Valentine one day, waiting at a
bus stop. This work suits me.” Jez rubbed his eyes. “Anyway, keeps me busy. I mean, I couldn’t survive another relationship. All those feelings, man!”

The assistant brought their purchases. Jez stretched out his long legs and stood up.

“Come on, kid,” he patted Hughie on the back. “I didn’t mean to bring you down. I’ve got my Ella. And that’s all that matters. Now, you need a haircut. And then it’s on to Nick’s Smell Shop for some scent.”

“Nick’s what?”

“Smell Shop. Now, don’t get all arsey! Nick the Nose is the best in the business. You’ll see.”

As they headed toward Trumper’s for a haircut, Hughie looked across at Jez.

He had the profile of an Adonis, the body of an athlete, and the hobby of an eighty-seven-year-old woman.

The light changed. Jez strode on ahead.

But by gum, the man could knit!

N
ick the Nose ran a flower shop in Islington Passage. His real name was Nicolai Verbronsky. From Warsaw, Poland, Nick was about five foot six, in his early sixties. He had a weakness for the classic shell suit, rustling around the narrow space like a plastic shopping bag caught in the wind. In today’s ensemble of silver and metallic green, with his shock of red hair, he looked like an elderly evil nemesis to some second-rate comic-book hero. And true to Jez’s word, there was a sign above that read, “Nick’s Smell Shop.”

Nick only sold flowers with scent. Banks of roses, buckets of freesias, baskets crammed with hyacinths, tuberose, verbena and lavender; delicate camellias and violets were stored in the cool darkness at the back of the shop; the perfume was overwhelming.

“It’s a smell shop!” Nick enthused, when they arrived. “Anything you want, I have it! As long as it smells good!”

Hughie looked round. “My mother likes lilies.”

“Lilies!” Nick spat on the floor. “I hate lilies! Anything except lilies! They are vulgar; for the dead! I hate them!”

“Look, Nick,” Jez intervened, “we’re actually here for something a bit more bespoke.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

“We’ll make it worth your while.”

“I don’t know,” Nick shifted a pile of eucalyptus away from some bunches of sweet peas. “I don’t need to do that kind of thing any more. I’ve mixed my last scent! Things are good. I’m even expanding the business.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you tell me. But I don’t see any gardenias, Nick. Business can’t be that great. You used to be rolling in them in the good old days.”

“Gardenias,” Nick’s voice softened and his eyes glazed over. “The queens of flowers! It’s true. I haven’t smelled a gardenia in a long time.”

“Come on, Nick. Do the job right and you can fill the shop top to bottom with gardenias if you like!”

Nick weighed up the offer.

“I haven’t done it in a long time,” he warned.

“You’re the king! You’ll never lose your touch! I’ll never forget the first one you did for me,” Jez laughed. “Remember, we actually had to tone it down because it was so potent! I couldn’t move an inch without some woman accosting me!”

“All right! All right! Just this once!” Nick shut the shop door and turned the sign around to read “Closed.” “But I’m charging double,” he added, pushing them both toward a steep staircase at the back. “Quick, before Ricki gets back.”

“Who’s that?” Jez asked.

“My assistant. Does landscaping; a very talented gardener. She’ll kill me if she knows I’m mixing scent on the side. You have no idea how it takes over your life. It’s an obsession!”

Downstairs, past the piles of ribbons, wrapping paper and refrigerators filled with fresh blooms, there was a small, lopsided blue door. Nick pushed it open and turned on the light. As they stepped inside, Hughie could see it was a sort of laboratory, with a long wooden work table covered in test tubes, bottles and Bunsen
burners; its walls filled with narrow shelves upon which hundreds of tiny vials were stored in alphabetical order.

He scanned the rows. “Amber, ground,” “Apple Peel: Green,” “Armpit: Female.” “Baby hair: blond,” “Burned matches,” “Butter-scotch: cheap”…on and on they went.

“I see you’ve been stocking up,” Jez observed.

Nick sniffed. “A man’s got a right to keep his cabinets full if he wants to. Sit down, you two.” He pointed to a couple of stools. “You great big louts take up all the air!”

Jez winked at Hughie, who balanced uneasily, clutching his packages. This was hardly what he’d imagined when Jez said they were going to get him some scent and he found it more than a little disconcerting to be in the hands of a man who collected baby hair.

First Nick scrubbed his hands with scalding water and a wire brush. It was painful to watch. Afterward, he put on his glasses and asked Hughie to lean over. Then he buried his nose in the back of Hughie’s neck (an event which traumatized Hughie for months afterward) and inhaled.

“Ah! The boy eats almost entirely red meat! Has the digestion of an ox! Young, healthy, and very, very virile!” he smiled, tilting his chin down to peer over the top of his glasses. “Hummm…an interesting mix…much more intriguing than I’d guessed!”

Then he began pulling down various vials, lining them up on the work top. “Sand: Indian Ocean,” “Moss: Amazon,” “Black Earth: Yorkshire,” “Licorice,” “Icing Sugar,” “Pomegranate,” “Pavement: Cleveland, Ohio,” “Pavement: Paris,” “Fresh Fig,” “Lime Flower,” “Old Cashmere Coat,” “Coffee Bean: Venice”…

He tutted slightly and put “Coffee Bean: Venice” back, replacing it with “Coffee Grounds: Brooklyn.”

Hughie was uncertain if he should be offended or not.

And then he began mixing.

Jez leaned back. “Mind if I smoke?”

Nick glared at him.

“Only joking!” Jez laughed. “God, these divas! Hey, I’ll bet you didn’t know you were in the presence of the greatest perfume nose in history, did you? Nicolai the Nose Verbronsky! The toast of Paris, Moscow, New York, Rome! The undisputed king of the fragrance world for nearly thirty years.”

“So why are you selling flowers in Islington?” Hughie asked.

“Yes,” Nick measured out a single drop of “Pavement: Paris” into a glass beaker. “Yes, you might well wonder such a thing! I do!”

“Oh, how the mighty are fallen! Tell him, Nick. I’ll bet he’s too young to remember.”

Nick winced as if the memory pained him. But all the while he spoke, he continued mixing. “It happened at the height of my powers. I was experimenting a lot with odors at the time.” He gave Hughie a look. “I’m assuming you know the difference between a scent and an odor; an odor is stronger, unpleasant.”

Hughie nodded.

“Well, I was working for a certain house in Paris—this was in the early eighties. They were desperate for something revolutionary. Pass the ‘Sand,’ please.”

Jez obliged.

“And they happened upon my experiments. I wanted to see if you could take an essentially offensive smell and mix it in such a way that it would become irresistible. Well, they took one sniff and went insane!”

He stopped a moment, tilted the beaker on its side, poured half its contents down the drain, and continued.

“Of course, it was only a test; it wasn’t meant to be quite so strong. But they stole it from me before it was ready. We argued and they kicked me out; disowned me.” Tears welled up in his gray
eyes. Taking off his glasses, he dabbed them with a bit of paper towel.

“Hey, take it easy, man.” Jez patted him on the shoulder. “It’s over now.”

Nick shrugged him off. “It was one of the worst perfume crimes in history! For nearly a decade every female on the face of the planet reeked of the stuff. It was overwhelming! Unbearable! A dark time. A very dark time!”

For a while he sat very still, staring at the table.

“You’ve heard of the perfume Venom,” Jez explained softly.

Hughie couldn’t help himself. “Oh, dear!”

“Yes, I’m responsible!” Nick turned on him. “It was me, OK? And from that day on I vowed I’d never mix another perfume again!”

“But old habits die hard,” Jez said soothingly. “And let’s face it, you’re still the best.”

“Yes,” Nick mixed in a touch of “Pomegranate” and a drop of “Lime Flower.” “I’m still the best. It’s a curse, really.” He spun the glass beaker between his fingers and handed the mixture to Hughie.

“Really?” Hughie stood up. “Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it! What did you expect? A three-week gestation period?”

Hughie gingerly sniffed the beaker.

“Try it on! You won’t be able to tell what it smells like from there.”

Hughie dipped a finger in, dabbed the scent on his wrist and inhaled.

It was the most extraordinary thing. It smelled warm, familiar; like him only more so.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in again. Instantly he was calmer, happier, more secure; a vision floated to the surface of his memory:
a summer afternoon, napping in the sun, his head resting on his father’s chest and the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat lulling him to sleep…

“Not bad, huh?” Nick laughed. “Watch out! You’ll fall in love with yourself! We should call it ‘Narcissus’!”

“I can’t believe it!” Hughie said.

“Here, give us a go.” Jez grabbed his wrist and sniffed. “Fuck me, that’s good!”

Nick glowed with pride. “Very few people can wear ‘Parisian Pavement.’ It has a far greater percentage of cigarette butts and bodily fluids than your average pavement. But on the right person, what a base!”

“But I don’t get it. How can you mix all these disgusting things together and get something so, so,” Hughie pressed his wrist to his nose again, “so amazing!”

Nick cocked his head to one side. “This I will tell you for nothing: without exception it’s always too much sweetness that kills a good perfume. There should be space between the different notes; gaps that only the imagination can fill. And just like in life, young man, it’s the shit that adds depth. Now, to the real test.” He clapped his hands and a small King Charles spaniel came racing down the shop steps and into the room.

“Chanel here is a female. The feminine sense of smell is the most refined. Now,” he picked her up, “if the dog bites you it’s a bad brew. But if she doesn’t, we’re really on to something.”