The Flirt (18 page)

More rich women, more designs, more work, more gowns, more money, more women…on and on and on it went without purpose or meaning. All the things she’d believed in so passionately, suddenly lost their sweetness, leaving only the dry dust of habit and duty behind.

She turned on her back.

What if Leo died? What would she have in her life that was lasting and important?

Nothing.

What was worse is that she worked very long and hard at having nothing. She took a great deal of care to have sex with men she didn’t love. She spent all her time making a shop which catered to women she didn’t rate. Even her name was false.

When Leo did die, which would happen some day, she would be alone.

Leticia closed her eyes.

And then there was Hughie. The whole scene had been so messy. Instead of walking away feeling free, she’d run away, exposed and unraveled. Did she love him? He was just a kid. Or was it that any tenderness was unfamiliar to her now?

It wasn’t a comforting train of thought. In fact, it was so discomfiting that Leticia dragged herself out of bed, got dressed and went to the shop, just to get away from her own morbid reflections.

Only when she arrived, the electricity wasn’t working.

She rang the company. Some nonsense about her not paying the bill. She tried to give them a debit card over the phone. The payment was denied.

She rang the bank. A man in deepest India explained that even her overdraft was overdrawn. She argued and swore. He remained irritatingly calm.

It was only when she hung up and sat down, in the dark, fuming, that she noticed something else.

The dripping noise was back.

(Part Two)

H
enry took Hughie to an elegant café in Sloane Square. They sat down and ordered a couple of coffees.

“That was unusual,” Hughie said after a while.

“Hummm.”

They both sipped their coffee.

“A bit of a hose-out and I expect that van will be good as new.”

“Yes, yes,” Henry agreed. “I imagine it will.”

The memory of Amy Mortimer, howling and prostrate in the back of the van, was difficult to erase.

“Has that ever happened to you before?”

“No,” Henry frowned, “no, it hasn’t. Well, I suppose,” he said, brightening, “that we can only regard it as some kind of omen—a good one, I hope!”

Hughie raised his cup. “New life and all that!”

“Exactly! Onward and upward!”

They both stared into space.

It had all been so graphic; the language alone left scars only time could heal.

Henry rallied first. “Yes, well, be that as it may.”

“Exactly.”

“Now, you’ve read about this one? She’s only young. You need to be careful, Smythe. Mind you don’t leer at her.”

“Leer! I’m a little young for leering!”

“Well, mind you don’t. OK. This one is easy,” Henry said. “All you need is a copy of
The Times
and a good-quality pen. The pen is very important,” he added, giving Hughie a stern look. “An ordinary pen won’t do at all. It needs to be an expensive, good-quality pen. Like this.” He took out a thick black Mont Blanc pen. “Nothing too garish, mind you. No diamonds or God forbid, semi-precious stones…just a well-made, handsome pen that demonstrates you have both taste and means. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“The right props, young Smythe, sorts the men from the boys. You can use this one today. Now, the premise is simple, all that’s required is that you look like a genius…”

Poor Amber Marks left the house at the same time every day.

She told her mother she was studying at the library but in reality she spent most of the time wandering up and down the King’s Road or drinking cups of tea and reading Zola in the original French at Oriel, the café on the corner of Sloane Square. It wasn’t that she liked Zola so much as she thought it made her look smart, complicated and interesting. And Poor Amber Marks was desperate to be all of these things.

The truth was, she didn’t know who or what she should be any more. Not since “the Incident” over three months ago. It happened in her first year of reading languages at Oxford. To start with, she seemed to be doing all right. Making friends proved tricky and the course work was definitely challenging, but she seemed to be holding her own. However, slowly, things grew worse. Expectation rose. The competition increased. Amber
couldn’t sleep for worry. More and more she spent time on her own. Then the full-blown panic attacks started and the tears, nonstop crying jags, day and night. Finally the college rang her parents.

Her mother referred to it as a “bit of a wobble”; her father liked to call it an “academic break.” But they all knew that it was bigger than that. Amber couldn’t cope with the rigorous demands of Oxford, only no one liked to say it out loud. It had meant so much to her parents that she got in. They had such plans for her—medicine, law, publishing; apparently there was nothing she couldn’t do.

Except survive her education.

“Poor Amber,” her mother sighed, loudly and often when they were alone. “She’s lost her confidence.”

“Yes, poor Amber,” her father agreed. “But what’s to be done?”

Taking a seat by the window, looking out onto Sloane Square, Amber ordered a cup of tea. Stirring in a packet of sugar, she stared out at the passing pedestrians. They all looked so capable. How many of them had graduated with first-class degrees?

A young man walked in and sat down at the table next to her. Amber couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was, tall with wild blond hair, dimples and a pair of striking blue eyes. He couldn’t be much older than she was. She hid behind her book. He ordered a coffee and took out a pen and a copy of
The Times
crossword. She watched as he filled it in with remarkable speed.

She was fascinated. He must be so bright!

Then he frowned. As he pushed his hair back impatiently from his face, the pen fell to the floor at her feet.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” he said.

She bent to pick it up. It wasn’t an ordinary pen, but heavy, smooth, elegant; nicely weighted in her hand. It was the pen of someone who’d made it in this world but didn’t need to shout about it or hide it.

She passed it back. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” he smiled.

“It’s nothing,” she said quietly, taking up her book.

“Look, I know it’s cheeky but there’s one clue I just can’t get. Would you mind having a look? I hate to leave a crossword unfinished.” He tilted his head slightly and smiled at her in such a way that she found herself smiling back.

“OK, but I can’t make any guarantees,” she warned.

“You star! It’s this one,” he leaned in close, pointing to the clue. “French for…”

It had been a long time since Amber had allowed anyone, let alone a handsome man, so close to her. The stranger’s shoulder rubbed against hers as she examined the paper. The air around him was charged with a subtle sexual energy and he smelled so lovely, warm and fresh.

It was an easy clue; she could see he’d got most of the really tricky ones straight off. But even though she knew the answer instantly, she lingered, enjoying the proximity of him.

“Hummm…” she pretended to think. “It might be…un coup de foudre.”

“But of course! You clever girl! That’s er…isn’t it?”

“
RE
,” she corrected him.

“Of course!” He nodded, filling it in. “I should’ve asked you straight away; here you are reading, what is it?” He peered at her book. “Zola! Genius girl! Might have saved myself half the morning!”

“I’m hardly a genius!” She could feel her face growing warm. “Just good at French, that’s all.”

“Well,” he settled back, “it’s more than I could do.”

“But you got all the rest,” she reminded him. “And so quickly!”

He made a face. “What’s left of my education…such as it was.”

“Such as it was?” She was intrigued.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, I’m curious. What do you mean?”

“Well, I never graduated,” he confessed, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re talking to a dropout. I went to Cambridge to study English but it just wasn’t for me. I know it’s meant to be a big deal and my parents were upset but it doesn’t suit everyone. Maybe you think that’s stupid,” he added quickly. “But I wanted to travel, work, find my own feet.”

Amber stared at him. “You just left?” The idea hadn’t occurred to her. She’d imagined having another breakdown, being sent away or having to leave (probably in an ambulance) but she never thought of just walking away and doing something different.

“Yeah. I thought, so what if everyone else thinks this is the be all and end all—I just felt like I was suffocating.”

She couldn’t quite believe it. “And what do you do now?”

He laughed. “You’ll never believe it—I’ve got an interview in ten minutes next door at the Royal Court!”

“Oh, you’re an actor.” No wonder he was talking to her; they were all such extroverts.

“A director,” he said. “We’re going to discuss a new play I’d like to do. But listen, I’m prattling. That’s the trouble with pretty girls, I babble like an idiot when I’m around them!”

She giggled.

“Hey,” he leaned in again, “I don’t suppose you’re an actress, are you? Looking for some young director to cast you in a hot new play?”

“Me! Never!”

“But you’d be perfect!”

“Really? For what part?” she asked eagerly.

“Any part! Look at you—bright, beautiful!” He shrugged his
shoulders. “You’d just be perfect, full stop! Damn!” He looked at his watch. “I’m on the verge of losing this job before I’ve even got it.”

He stood, leaving a five-pound note on the table, and Amber felt a sudden wave of panic. Normally she hated talking to strangers but now she didn’t want him to leave. On an impulse, she stood too.

“It was lovely to meet you. It’s weird, I can’t explain how much it’s helped me to talk to you…I mean…oh, I don’t know how to put it…” I’m gushing, she thought. I have to stop gushing! “Anyway, I hope it all works out well for you. I’m sure it will.” She thrust her hand out awkwardly. “Good luck!”

He was looking at her, smiling, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Then he shook his head slowly. “No, no, this won’t do at all,” he said softly.

Hughie gazed down at Amber, at her open face and large brown eyes.

He’d never been responsible for anything or anyone before and now here he was, holding, for one brief moment, this girl in the palm of his hand. She was so fragile. He felt powerful; more masculine than he’d ever felt in his life. Already she was changed, lively, more confident. But he wanted to do more; he wanted to transform her, to crack her wide open. It wouldn’t take much. She was so malleable, staring into his eyes, lips parted, body tilting forward…

Hughie pulled her to him. She melted beneath him, her mouth warm and soft against his, her whole frame sighing with the release of…

Something hard sent him reeling into the sweet trolley.

“Hey!” Amber cried.

When he looked up, Henry was pulling him off the floor. “Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” he growled, “you’re late!”

Before Hughie could say anything, Henry pushed him out the door and dragged him another hundred yards into an alleyway behind the café.

“What were you thinking of!” He cuffed Hughie around the ear.

“Ow!”

“Weren’t you listening at all? No physical contact!”

“I’m sorry.” Hughie rubbed the side of his head. “I don’t know what came over me!”

“You were blinded! Blinded by power. It happens to all of us at one time or the other but I’ve never seen it quite so badly or quite so soon!” He shook his head.

“I’ve never felt so…so,” Hughie wanted to giggle, “you know…”

“Yes, excited,” Henry sighed, pressing his hand across his eyes. “Flirting can be very erotic, very intense. But you’ve got to learn to control yourself! Now, we’ve got to get out of here!” Henry hailed a cab. “Bond Street,” he shouted to the driver. And he climbed in, pulling Hughie after him.

F
lick sat alone in her office, cutting out yet another photo of Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray for her file. This was no ordinary mark. Here was one case where preparation was crucial.

Flick’s particular talent, groomed by Valentine, was to read between the lines of women’s lives, to excavate with all the instinctive wisdom of a white witch, what would touch them, stir them most.

Only Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray was proving difficult.

It should’ve been easy. Her life was extremely well documented. Although she didn’t appear to seek out media attention, she naturally attracted it. And miraculously, it was mostly confined to her public appearances. Either she did nothing to excite speculation in her private life or she’d managed that almost impossible task of taming the British press.

However, there was an impenetrable quality about her; as if she were protected by a haze of steely perfection.

What was this woman lacking?

Flick snipped the last bit of paper away and added the photo to the already bulging brief.

She wasn’t making much progress.

Yawning, she leaned back in her chair. The flat was quiet. Late-
afternoon sun filtered in through the window behind her desk, warming her back.

Valentine was out. All the boys busy; even young Hughie.

She smiled. He was a strange, rare talent; a bit like a child behind the wheel of a Ferrari; he’d be either brilliant or a disaster. Careful cultivation was needed. But he couldn’t be in better hands than Henry’s.

How many young men had she auditioned, trained, watched as they struggled to find their feet in this strange half-world of flirting? Few had the necessary ability or self-control. If truth be known, it took a young man with a tragic history to be successful in this game. To flirt with the intention of seduction, intimacy, romance was one thing. But to flirt and leave, again and again and again, six, seven times a day, required an altogether different sensibility.

Sometimes Flick wondered who was lonelier—the women they flirted with or the flirts themselves?

And where did that put her, at the center of this web of fragile human transactions? Were they really helping to heal the rifts which separated couples or were they, in fact, simply distracting them, dangling a shiny object in front of crying children to stem their tears?

She looked around her office—at the wooden filing cabinets, the crowded bookcases, her desk piled high with client files and finally, at the backs of her hands, holding the newspaper clippings.

There was no denying it: they were old-lady hands, wrinkled and worn. No amount of hand cream would hold back time.

“You’re getting cynical, old girl,” she said out loud. “Remember, it’s just a job.”

Then something caught her attention. Picking up another photo, she looked hard.

No, she wasn’t just imagining it: there was an unmistakable sadness in Olivia’s eyes; a kind of helpless resignation.

Sadness?

Flick pulled out a few more recent clippings and lined them up one next to the other.

There it was—the same forlorn quality, which had eluded her at first, was now instantly apparent in each one of them.

What did Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray have to be unhappy about? Her life was charmed! Flick concentrated harder.

Again she looked at Olivia’s clean, coiffed, blonde hair, trim neat figure, elegant, impeccable clothes. Then she spotted her smile; the gritted teeth, tension running along the whole length of the jawline, grinding the back molars together. She could practically feel the strength of will that kept Olivia together; a thick, cold terror of exposing herself in any way, shape or form.

Sitting back in her chair, Flick pressed her hands together under her chin.

What was she so afraid of?

Suddenly it came. “She has a secret!”

But what?

A lover?

An addiction?

A child?

Again, she examined Olivia’s face for clues.

Then, looking into the frightened eyes of one of the richest women in the world, Flick recognized something from her own modest childhood: Olivia was ashamed.

As a good Irish Catholic, Flick had been raised with shame, like a cucumber pickled in vinegar and spice. She knew what it was like to be saturated by it so completely that it was almost impossible to tell where you ended and guilt began. In fact, her childhood had been filled with large, powerful, creative women, all pretending to
be small, cheerful and uncomplicated—frightened of what might happen if they let themselves go. And it was shame that had accomplished this feat so effectively—binding them like corsets. Shame for being strong, shame for being interesting, shame for being human. It had baffled and frustrated her as a little girl but it infuriated her now.

Then Flick thought over the long, painful years she’d spent posing as a likely, sanitized version of herself and of how lonely and empty it had been—even, or perhaps especially, during her marriage. She’d always told herself that one day soon, when she felt better about herself, more comfortable, she’d be a bit freer with her husband, a bit more willing to show him who she really was. But he’d died before she ever dared to try. In fact, it was only in her solitude and through her strange association with Valentine that she came to know herself at all.

Such a waste!

Flick had never been particularly ambitious, never had any grand dreams of conquering the world. But here, in the quiet of 111 Half Moon Street, she saw an opportunity to accomplish something of real and lasting importance. Perhaps there was a way of liberating this woman from herself. Of freeing her from whatever secret it was that held her so tightly in its grasp.

Was it possible that something as slight as a flirt could succeed in so great a task? Could a woman be seduced into a freer, more daring version of herself?

She wasn’t sure. And it wouldn’t be easy: she’d need help, inspiration.

One thing was certain: the fragile future of Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray now rested firmly in her old-lady hands.