The Flirt (16 page)

T
hey glittered in the window of Graff: a pair of tiny, delicate, wholly unexpected heart-shaped diamond earrings.

And they were perfect. So perfect that Hughie was arrested as he walked down Bond Street the next morning; quite literally prevented from moving another inch as soon as his eye caught sight of them.

Diamonds! That’s what girls loved! They wanted diamonds and men who could afford to buy them.

He stopped, pressed his nose up against the window and examined them as closely as he could.

And now that he had a job he could be one of those men!

The debilitating malaise he’d woken with was replaced by the giddy thrill of anticipation. They’d look wonderful on Leticia! She’d be so impressed! So grateful! How could she fail to love him if he gave her diamonds?

He checked his watch.

He was due to meet Marco in a few minutes.

Marco specialized in a series of flirts known as “Sexy Foreigner.” Among his trademark personas were Racing Driver, Lost Architect, and his favorite, Roaming Photographer. Camera clicking, he had descended upon many an unsuspecting mark, transforming their entire outlook with a few shots and the promise of
slipping their photo into the next issue of Italian
Vogue
. Flick and Valentine agreed that Hughie was more
Room with a View
than
La Dolce Vita
but Marco was still drafted to teach Hughie the rudiments of his smoldering eye contact.

Still, how long could it take to inquire about the price of a pair of earrings?

Hughie rang the bell and the impeccably dressed middle-aged gentleman inside buzzed him in. The interior of the shop was furnished with all the opulence of a grand hotel lobby, only in miniature.

“Sir!” the man exclaimed, grasping Hughie’s hand and pumping it up and down. “What a pleasure, sir, to see you! Percival Bryce, at your service! What can I do for you?”

Hughie wasn’t used to being greeted with such enthusiasm. It must be the suit. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice the heart earrings in the window…”

Mr. Bryce practically exploded with glee. “An excellent choice! Tasteful! Discreet! And so reasonable! Would you like to see them, sir?”

“Yes,” Hughie decided. “Why not?”

Mr. Bryce took a formidable collection of keys from the drawer of a gold-and-mahogany Empire desk and unlocked the window.

“So when we say reasonable,” Hughie ventured, “we’re talking how much?”

Mr. Bryce placed the earrings at artful angles on a black velvet cloth. “Five thousand pounds!” The words rolled off his tongue, as if it were the most delightful sum in the world. “Come! Sit near them! Touch them if you like!” He pulled out a chair, patted the seat invitingly. “Is this your first diamond purchase?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. Or rather, it could be,” Hughie corrected himself, reeling from the price. “Actually, I was just curious.”

“Excellent! Curiosity is the most delightful of all human
characteristics. We never know where it may lead us. Ah!” he sighed dreamily. “There’s nothing like your first diamond purchase! Nothing quite like it in the world! May I get you a glass of champagne? Deirdre! Deirdre, a glass of champagne, please!”

A pretty blonde girl appeared with a champagne glass balanced on a silver tray.

“Thank you.” Hughie took it.

“Shall we see them on? What do you think? Yes, why not!” Mr. Bryce answered his own question. “Deirdre, will you do the honors?”

Deirdre put the earrings on.

“Look at the way the light catches them!” Mr. Bryce lifted her hair up. “Amazing! And the hearts! So romantic!”

“Yes. Quite.” Hughie sipped his champagne.

Mr. Bryce stood back, radiating pleasure. “Is there anything more beautiful than a woman wearing diamonds? I ask you, sir! Isn’t she a vision?”

“Very nice, no doubt about it,” Hughie agreed.

“Now,” Mr. Bryce’s brow furrowed, “I must ask you, please don’t think I’m being impertinent, but have you had anything to eat? It’s so difficult to make any big decisions on an empty stomach. Impossible, I’d say! Deirdre will gladly rustle you up something if you like. A croissant perhaps? Or a bit of toast?”

Hughie settled back into his chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a
pain au chocolat
knocking about?”

“A
pain au chocolat
!” He clapped his hands. “An excellent choice! We have here a man of taste, Deirdre!”

She smiled.

“As it comes or slightly warmed?”

“Oh, slightly warmed, I think.”

“Yes, yes, of course! A slightly warmed
pain au chocolat
at once, Deirdre!”

She picked up her tray and headed for the back room.

“Deirdre!” Mr. Bryce’s tone sharpened, as if recalling an errant dog. “The earrings, please!”

Reddening, she took them off.

“Now, Mr….?”

“Mr. Venables-Smythe.”

All the color drained from Mr. Percival Bryce’s unseasonably tanned face, yet his smile remained intact.

“Venables-Smythe?” he repeated.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“As in, Rowena Venables-Smythe, formerly Rowena Compton Jakes?”

“That’s my mother! Hey, that’s amazing! How do you know her?”

“I don’t. I mean, I used to see her…mind you, this was many years ago. She used to work at Tiffany’s, across the street.” He fussed with velvet. “She wouldn’t remember me, I’m sure. Please don’t mention it. No need to bring up that you saw me or popped in…Oh, look! Your
pain au chocolat
! Thank you, Deirdre. Is she well? Happy? Your mother, I mean. I imagine she is. Why wouldn’t she be? After all,” he concluded grimly, “your father is a very dashing, very well-to-do man!”

“Dad died years ago. A fishing accident off the coast of Malta. They never found him.”

Mr. Bryce’s spirits seemed to lift. “Really? I’m so sorry! How awful for you! Really? Is he quite dead?”

Hughie bit into the
pain au chocolat
; a river of warm dark chocolate filled his mouth. “Mmmm,” he nodded. “Quite. She’s never really recovered.”

“I see,” Mr. Bryce murmured to himself. “No men in her life, then?”

“Not unless you count Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker.”

Mr. Bryce drifted over to the window, looking out across the street at the grand façade of Tiffany’s. “I suspect she’s suffered from inconsolable grief. Some wounds never really heal.” He sighed. “She used to ride a bicycle to work. It was blue.”

The idea of his mother maintaining her balance on anything, let alone a moving vehicle, was shocking.

Mr. Bryce stood there for quite a while, long enough for Hughie to finish the
pain au chocolat
and drain his champagne glass. The glamor of the situation was just beginning to pall when he finally turned round.

“Perhaps, Mr. Venables-Smythe,” he sniffed, dabbing his eyes discreetly with a silk hanky, “we might be able to come to some arrangement about the earrings.”

“Really? That’s good of you! What sort of arrangement?”

“Well, diamonds are quite an investment, aren’t they? Not something one does lightly.”

“Not at five grand a pop!”

“Sometimes people like a second opinion. A female perspective, so to speak.” He traced his fingers casually along the edge of the desk. “A mother’s opinion is often invaluable in a case like this one. If I remember correctly, your mother always possessed impeccable taste.”

“Yes, well…” Hughie hadn’t intended even to tell his mother let alone ask her opinion. She’d undoubtedly object on the grounds that he should be doing something more constructive with his money, like paying his sister rent or buying food.

“If you were to bring her in, perhaps?”

Hughie frowned.

“Two thousand five hundred!” Mr. Bryce blurted out suddenly. “You can have the earrings for half their normal price, contingent, of course, on the circumstances I’ve just mentioned!”

“You mean, my mother…”

“Yes, yes, yes!” He waved his hand in front of his face, as if it pained him to hear the details repeated again. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Venables-Smythe, do we not?”

“Yes, of course.”

He really was incredibly highly strung. Hughie felt for him. Reverting to a bit of Old Harrovian charm, he inclined his head politely and extended his hand. “And I’m very sensible, Mr. Bryce, of the generosity of your extremely kind offer.”

It seemed to calm him down.

Mr. Bryce shook it gratefully. “Excellent! Excellent indeed! I will put the earrings to one side, shall I? And I look forward to seeing you in the next few days. Here,” he produced a card from his inside pocket, “take my number. I’m always available, always available!” He patted Hughie on the back, opened the door, shook his hand another three times before ejecting him from the shop.

Back on the street, Hughie imagined Leticia’s expression as she opened the dark navy box; the gasp of joy as she discovered the beautiful diamond earrings glittering inside. He could see them, framing her face, lost temporarily in the tangle of her dark hair and then emerging again, dazzling as they caught the light. And then he imagined the look in her eyes.

That was what it was all about.

Then he bumped smack into Marco, striding up Bond Street, furious.

“Hey! You’re late!” Marco shouted. “I said ten o’clock! In the morning, right! I can’t work this way, understand? Ten o’clock is ten o’clock! Not eleven, not two!” He stopped quite suddenly. “Wait a minute! You,” he waggled a finger in Hughie’s face, “you’ve been looking at jewelry! I can tell!”

Hughie started. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong!”

Was he psychic?

“I’ve got it all wrong, eh? Look, what’s that?” He brushed a
few crumbs from Hughie’s lapel. “And this?” He jabbed at a bit of chocolate on Hughie’s chin. “And is that champagne I smell? You don’t get that at McDonald’s, do you? You’ve got a woman, Smith! I know it!”

“Smythe! Venables-Smythe!”

“Smith, Smythe, whatever you’re called, you’re in big trouble!”

“I was just looking! Browsing, that’s all.”

Marco snorted. “Men don’t browse for jewelry!”

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong! I’ve just been dumped. Ask Henry if you don’t believe me. I’m a dedicated flirt. One hundred percent.”

Marco looked unconvinced.

“It’s for my sister,” Hughie lied.

“You’re lying!”

“Maybe.”

“You’re playing with fire. Love is not a toy!”

“Oh, please! All of you go on about it as if it were the Plague! So, I was looking at earrings. So what? You act as if I were mainlining heroin!”

“Ahhh! Now I see! You’ve never been in love. That’s why you’re so cocklike!”

“Cocky.”

“Whatever! You have no experience of the madness; no respect for the danger! You, Smith,” he poked Hughie firmly in the chest, “are arrogant!”

Hughie took exception. “Well, you, sir,” he poked Marco back, “are obviously frigid!”

“Frigid!” A wild look flared in Marco’s eyes. “You accuse me, Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol—the King of Love—of being frigid?”

“Yes.”

“You are mad! Insane! I am a master flirt! The finest in London!”

“Ah, yes! But for all your flirting, Marco, have you ever once dared to fall in love?”

“Love?” Marco snorted. “Love!”

“Yes, love!”

Marco hesitated and in that moment, his Italian bravado deflated before Hughie’s eyes. His shoulders fell forward beneath his impeccable black wool Prada suit; his eyes dimmed by melancholy. Even his lustrous dark curls sagged around his face.

“No,” he answered quietly.

This wasn’t quite what Hughie was expecting. “Really?”

“Ah, Smith! I have never known the joy of love.” And he sighed, staring dejectedly at the ground.

“I see.”

Somehow their argument had derailed, plunging into dark, unexpected and intimate waters. The Marco he knew—the bold, flamboyant master of both Lost Architect and Racing Driver, disappeared. In his place a rather lonely, tired-looking man remained.

A hot cup of tea was probably in order.

“Listen,” Hughie gestured to a small outdoor café, “how about I buy you a drink?”

Soon they were sitting at a table and the sad, ironic history of Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol came to light.

“You see, Smith, the difficulty is I am so handsome,” Marco explained sadly. “It’s a curse really. From the moment I was born, I’ve always been irresistible to women. When I was a baby, my mother had to push me with a blanket over the carriage…what is it?”

“Pram?”

“Yes, pram! Even in the height of summer so that I was hidden from strangers trying to kiss me. And when I was a little boy, at school, I had to sit next to a different little girl every day of the week so that they wouldn’t fight with one another.”

“Good God!”

Marco sighed heavily. “All my life I could have any woman I wanted. And I have. But it’s so empty, Smith! You see, the world has no meaning for me. I’ve known beautiful women, successful women, talented women, models, actresses, athletes but I’ve never known a woman who was my match. All the time, I hear, ‘I love you, Marco!’ but I can never really say, ‘I love you,’ in return.”

“But what are you looking for?”

“Fire! Passion!” He banged his fist on the table. “Resistance, Smith! What I want is a woman who doesn’t want me! But look at me: I’m thirty-four now and more handsome than ever! I’m starting to think maybe the woman of my dreams doesn’t exist.”

They sat a while.

For the first time, Hughie concentrated on the admiring glances of the women who walked by. He liked to think that some of them were for him, but he had to concede that Marco got more than his fair share.

“This is the only job I can do,” Marco continued, downing his coffee in one go. “In and out; no contact. If I work in a normal profession, I leave a trail of broken hearts. Here, at least I do the world a little bit of good. Waitress! Another espresso, please.”

The girl fluttered her lashes. “It’s on the house!”

“See?” Marco groaned miserably. “It’s hopeless!” He held up a teaspoon, examining his reflection. “If only my nose were larger or my jaw weaker…”