The Flirt (17 page)

For a moment, he looked as though he might cry.

Hughie was relieved when Henry ambled up, on his way to the office.

“Hughie! Just the man I need to see! I’ve got a job for you.” He paused. “Everything OK?”

Hughie leapt to his feet. “Never been better!”

Marco just blinked.

“OK, well, we’d better get a move on. We’ve got a lot on today,” Henry said, checking his watch. “See you later, Marco! Marco?”

But Marco was in another world. When they left he was turning his espresso cup around and around on its tiny little saucer, staring into space.

“Let me guess,” Henry steered Hughie toward a white van parked across the street, “he got started on his hopeless quest for love.”

“How did you know?”

“We’ve all been there.” Henry shook his head. “Poor Marco! But more importantly, how you doing, old boy? Feeling better? I was really worried when I left you.”

“Humm…” Hughie couldn’t decide if playing the wounded lover gave him a certain tragic depth. It certainly required a lot of effort. He changed the subject instead. “I’m ready for my first real day. Where do we begin?”

“At the beginning, with flower delivery.” Henry opened the back of the van and chucked him a T-shirt and hat. “Put these on. Once we’re on the road, I’ll brief you. This job’s a good example of a classic mark; married a while, three kids, another one on the way…virtually drowning in domesticity. You’ll see.” He smiled. “The married women of this world need us, Hughie; need us more than even they know.”

(Part One)

M
eanwhile, in the less fashionable districts of South London, Amy Mortimer opened her wardrobe door. Two flights below, she could hear the dull, siren roar of her children wailing. She wavered, fighting the desire to waddle downstairs and sort everything out.

No. The nanny was there. The whole point of the nanny was so Amy could be free to bathe and dress and even sometimes leave the house. That’s what they paid her for.

Only nothing in her closet fitted any more. She stared at the clothes in front of her, half of them still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic; the only remaining evidence of her once, well-groomed, size-ten former life. It had been years since she’d been able to fit into them. They were a shrine to a self that had been completely obliterated.

Amy sighed.

“Mummy! Mummy! Muuuuuuuummmmmyyyyyy!” Angus was screaming. She could hear him flinging his little body up the stairs and then the sound of the nanny intercepting; struggling to prise his fingers off the hall banister.

“Nooooooooooooooooooo! Mummy! Noooooooooooooooo!”
He was like some tiny extra in
Schindler’s List
being dragged off by the Nazis.

Amy made herself close the bedroom door. Why had nature designed small children’s cries to tear a mother’s heart in two? In fact, the whole business of being a mother was just one long exercise in guilt and compromise. Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, she began to cry. The harder she cried, the more the baby inside her kicked.

With her luck, it was probably another boy.

Kick, kick, kick.

I’m hormonal, she told herself. This is normal. These are just buckets of hormones racing around my veins. Pull yourself together.

Exhaustion dragged at her. She wanted to lie down but that was a whole half-hour performance: the placement of pillows under the bump, between the legs, something to wrap her arm around…she hadn’t slept in years. Why start now?

So she forced herself up again, and looked around.

The windows needed to be washed. She had the vague recollection of thinking the same thing the last time she was pregnant. Nothing had been done about it then and things were probably going to go the same way now.

Opening Jonathan’s wardrobe, she selected one of his best, handmade shirts. Thank God he had a paunch. And retrieving her elastic-paneled maternity jeans from where they were crumpled on the floor, she struggled into them. There were some shoes somewhere…wait, what was this? A pair of bright orange beach flip-flops? Perfect. At least she didn’t have to bend down.

Then she picked up a small notepad she kept by her bedside table and referred to a list she’d made last night.

Amy was fond of making lists. In her heyday as an events organizer, she’d been able to plow through them, ticking off each entry
with remarkable speed. Even when she was a little girl, her world had been clean and tidy, its parameters neatly marked by lists of accomplishments. She prided herself on being able to get things done, to face the mundane tasks of everyday life head on and emerge triumphant. But lately her lists had failed to deliver the same satisfaction. Instead of getting shorter, they only seemed to grow. And their contents overwhelmed her.

This one began brightly enough. “
Shoes for Angus, haircuts for all the boys, Dylan’s dental appointment, water filters, new nursing bras, nightgowns, and knickers…
” But then came, “
Ring garden maintenance company, ask about infestation of big, black bugs (possible health hazards of small children eating fertilizer).
” Followed by, “
Ask doctor about ADD link to fish fingers, vacuum sand from downstairs sofa, order extra-long rubber sheets for Felix and Angus, apologize to new neighbor about noise, flying dirt and Dylan kicking down lattice fence, DO LAUNDRY
,
DO LAUNDRY
,
DO LAUNDRY
!
Boys to clean their rooms
[was she deluded?]
and not to leave wet swimming trunks under beds!!!
”

And then, at the bottom of the page, just before she’d gone to bed, she’d written, “
Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.
”

The Royal Academy?

Leaning over, she grabbed her reading glasses from the bedside table.

“Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.”

It didn’t even look like her handwriting.

The phrase struck her as so blatantly out of step with the reality of her day-to-day life as to be psychotic. It smacked of the kind of fatuous promise she sometimes made to her single friends: “Oh, yes! We must see the latest show at the Royal Academy! Shall I give you a ring next week?” Of course, they both knew she was lying. But here it was, popping up, entirely independent of social artifice; the strange, forlorn desire to attend a cultural event.

She sat down again on the edge of the bed and stared at the
paper in her hand. It was the only thing on the list that was even remotely appealing.

And for a moment she imagined herself, dressed in something other than maternity jeans and orange flip-flops, walking slowly through the grand rooms.

Her breath slowed.

The baby stopped kicking.

Here was the catalogue in her hands; the satisfying weight of thick, glossy paper and years of scholarship. The smell of wooden floors and leather banquettes enveloped her, and there was space—space above and around; space between objects and people, between information and images; a luxurious sense of perspective that was so lacking in daily life. She was taking her time, moving slowly, forming opinions and feeling the gentle surge of energy as her mind contemplated something new; something beyond her narrow sphere of experience. She was peaceful, exhilarated; anonymous.

And there was something else, another quality that evaded her…

Then it came.

In her vision, she was single.

Not just single, but childless; wandering free, with no lists, no mobile phone; no presence pressing, jostling for position in her mind.

Her heart beat faster; guilt seeped through her. But her imagination bounded forward anyway.

She left the gallery, this new single self and, sitting happily by herself, took the bus home.

Now she could see the darling little one-bedroom flat she lived in, somewhere near the canal in Little Venice. Here was the tiny, bright kitchen, just right for one, always clean…the living room with a cat, curled into the seat cushion of an old armchair, basking in a square of sunshine…an unashamedly romantic
bedroom adorned with floral prints and mounds of soft pillows…A whole life unfolded before her; a peaceful, quiet, un-hurried existence.

Suddenly she was frightened.

Did she really want a cat and a clean kitchen? She’d fought so hard, so long for her filthy South London home, bad-tempered husband and brood of children.

Passing a hand over her face, she rubbed her eyes.

Hormones. It was all hormones.

She stood up. If she wanted to go so badly, she could ask Jonathan to go with her. They could easily book a babysitter and have lunch.

And then she sat down again, quickly. Her heart contracted. She felt sick.

That was exactly what she didn’t want.

Quite unwillingly, she unearthed a nugget of truth she wished she’d left buried.

It wasn’t just that Jonathan didn’t do visual art. Or that free time was at such a premium, he’d consider it a waste. But the thought of trying to jolly him along, of having to be extra bright and effervescent to weather another one of his inevitable bad moods, force-feeding him art, was unbearable. The dream had been about wandering around alone and free. And Jonathan, this man she’d pursued, won and married with the single-minded passion of a zealot, would ruin the day.

In that moment, the full horror of her situation dawned on her.

She was married to a man she couldn’t take to the Royal Academy.

Then another unwanted truth emerged; pressing into her consciousness with such violence she thought it would suffocate her.

She was lonely.

Incredibly, indescribably lonely.

Lying down on the bed, not quite sure how she would ever get up again, Amy Mortimer listened to the sound of her children being rounded up and trotted off to the park. Already she was redundant. Some day soon they would leave her. They would go to school and grow up and get girlfriends she would hate. And she would be left alone with Jonathan. She’d made a mistake; a terrible mistake! Pressing her face into the pillow, she wept, astounded by her own stupidity. How could she have been so naive; so deluded and misinformed? What on earth had given her the idea that forcing this irritable, over-weight man to marry her and produce child after child in this cramped, disgusting house would ever make her happy?

All this time, she wanted a cat and a clean kitchen and she never even knew it!

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, fuck off!” she growled.

But as it sounded again she hauled herself upright and grabbed a tissue, blowing her nose.

Then she began the long descent to the front door, leaning heavily on the banister, her orange flips-flops sucking and flapping against the soles of her swollen feet.

“Yes?” she barked, swinging the door wide.

A young man was standing there holding a bunch of flowers. He smiled. He was so good-looking. She wished she were wearing something more attractive.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

Amy smiled back. “Oh, no!” she lied.

“Good. I wonder if I could ask you for a favor.”

“Certainly.”

“You see, these are for next door. No one’s home and I wondered if I could leave them with you.”

“Oh.” She had thought they were for her. But of course, that was stupid; her birthday wasn’t for ages yet, her anniversary had just gone,
and Jonathan wasn’t the type of man to send flowers for no reason. “Of course.” She took the flowers from him. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yes,” he looked at her thoughtfully, “though to be honest, they’re kind of ordinary, don’t you think?”

“Ordinary?”

“Yeah,” he leaned against the door frame. “Dull.”

“Really? So what would you send,” she challenged, “or perhaps you wouldn’t send anything at all?”

“Me? I’m a less-is-more kind of man.”

“Obviously you and my husband think alike, only he’s more of a ‘none is enough’ kind of guy.”

“I’m not that bad! It’s just I like smaller, more intimate gestures. Personally, I’m a fan of the single white rose.”

She laughed; it was such an odd thing for a young man to say. “Why is that?”

He shrugged his shoulders; looked at her with the most remarkable blue eyes. “It’s more romantic,” he admitted softly. “Sexier, don’t you think?” He grinned again; a cheeky, slightly naughty grin. Her heart leaped.

“Well, I wouldn’t know.” She could feel her face flushing. (Was he flirting with her? Right here on her own doorstep?) Her eyes met his. “No one’s ever done that sort of thing for me.”

“No!” He seemed genuinely shocked to hear it. “That’s criminal!”

“Criminal, maybe, but also true.”

He paused, looking at her.

She shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, anyway…”

“But don’t you agree? I mean, not that I’ve ever done it myself.” His voice faded and to her surprise, he colored slightly. “I guess I’ve never been inspired by anyone. It’s a more personal gesture, though…don’t you think?”

“It sounds lovely,” she conceded.

They stood a moment.

“I’m keeping you.”

“No, no, it’s all right.”

“Well,” he backed slowly down the steps, “thanks very much. I really appreciate you looking after those.”

“My pleasure.”

He tipped his cap at her and headed to his van.

Amy closed the door. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her in that way. It stirred up a nostalgic longing tinged by a surge of almost adolescent excitement. Putting the flowers on the hall table, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe her old self hadn’t disappeared entirely; maybe somewhere below the surface she was still visible: a naughty, sexy, hopeful woman, still capable of inspiring desire.

“Or not,” she thought, sighing heavily.

Who was she kidding? How could she inspire anyone?

She was about to climb upstairs and retreat again to her bedroom, when the doorbell rang a second time.

She opened it and there was the young flower-delivery man again.

He was smiling shyly, holding the most perfect single white long-stemmed rose she’d ever seen.

“Oh!”

“I think you’re right,” he blushed, handing it to her. “One isn’t enough—you deserve a whole armful of white roses!”

Then he bounded off the front step.

As he headed back to the van he turned.

“I hope your baby is as beautiful as you are!” he called.

For the first time in her life, Amy Mortimer was speechless.

Hughie climbed into the front seat of the van next to Henry, breathless with exhilaration.

“I think that went rather well!” he beamed.

“Yeeeeessss,” Henry was looking in the rearview mirror.

Something wasn’t quite right.

The woman was still standing in the doorway.

There was something odd about the way she was holding on to the door frame.

Suddenly she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

The white rose fell to the ground.

“Oh, dear,” Henry sighed, “I think we have a problem.”

Leticia lay in her bed, immobile, the curtains of her bedroom drawn against the late-morning light. Her limbs felt like cement; thick, inflated like a Henry Moore sculpture. She moved her head to one side; it throbbed.

Outside, London had roused itself; bathed, dressed, breakfasted and thrust itself forward once more unto the breach. But inside her narrow bedroom, Leticia dreamed of night. It wasn’t that she longed for more sleep. Sleep didn’t matter. But she pined for the hours of darkness when finally the world outside matched her interior landscape.

It was time to go to work. Time to get up.

But what was the point?