The Flirt (24 page)

A
fter her bath Leticia had a long nap. Sometime in the early afternoon, she woke up to the smell of frying bacon and sausages.

Cooking?

In her house?

Throwing a dressing gown on, she staggered into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” Sam turned over the sausages. “Do you want beans as well? I’m having them.”

She watched in horror as he opened a tin of baked beans.

Leticia’s kitchen had never been used for the preparation of food; in the three years she’d lived there she’d never even turned on the oven. Her one-meal-a-day rule meant that cooking was a distant memory. In time, she’d come to regard the kitchen as a kind of quaint period feature maintained out of affection rather than necessity. It was disorientating, even disturbing, to see it in use. The hob was covered in pots and pans, bubbling and sizzling, surfaces were crowded with wrappers and soiled cutlery. My God! Even the grill was on! And food trailed across the counter: white bread, a thick slab of butter, chipolatas, mushrooms, tomatoes…

“Where did you get all this?”

He gave the pan a good shake. “From a shop, darling. A grocery
store. You had bugger all in your fridge. Half a lemon and a bottle of vodka.” He took a couple of plates out of the cupboard. “Now, scrambled or fried?”

“What?”

“Eggs? How do you like them?”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“OK, scrambled,” he guessed. “Sit down.” He popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.

Leticia sat down. Was it her imagination or did Sam look different? He seemed cleaner, less plumber-ish. If she didn’t know any better, she might almost have considered him handsome.

He put a plate piled high with sausages, bacon, eggs, beans, grilled tomato and buttered toast right in front of her.

No one had ever made her breakfast before. She felt giddy just looking at it.

“You don’t honestly expect me to eat all this!”

“God forbid.” He sat down next to her with an equally full plate and began to tuck in with relish. “So how’s that head of yours?”

“Rotten. But better.”

“Do you need anything? Paracetamol? A cold compress?”

“No. Do you know how to make a cold compress?”

He shook his head. “I’m thinking wet rag on forehead. Does that sound right to you?”

“Maybe but I’ll pass.” She picked gingerly at a bit of bacon. “So, have you always been a plumber?”

He looked at her sideways. “That’s right. I was born with a plunger in my hand.”

“You take everything I say the wrong way; it’s like you’re determined to think the worst of me.”

“I’m sorry. No, I haven’t always been a plumber. I had a dazzling career as a builder before that and when I came out of school
I enjoyed six months’ serving the Great British Public at Curry’s Electrical Appliances.”

She sampled the eggs. “I see.”

“What?” His eyes met hers.

“Nothing, I was just wondering.” She bit daintily into a slice of toast.

“And while we’re interviewing each other, what about you, Miss Vane?” He held an invisible microphone under her chin. “Have you always designed knickers for a living?” And he started to laugh, nearly choking on his beans.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know, it just suits you, you know? Lingerie! Bespoke lingerie at that!”

“What do you mean, it suits me?”

“Well, no offense, but clearly you’re a bit…how shall we put it? Rarefied, to say the least.”

“Rarefied! And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you like your tea in a silver tea ball and your knickers tailor made.”

“So I like pretty things; quality things. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all. But you haven’t got any food in the fridge. Or a sofa you can sit on. Or,” he added, “anyone to look after you.”

“I don’t need anyone to look after me,” she snapped. “And don’t call me Miss Vane!”

“What am I meant to call you?”

“Ms. not Miss.”

“Ms…. Miss…what’s the difference?”

“One is the mark of independence, the other a sign of failure.”

“No one can call you a failure.” He finished off his eggs.

“Exactly.”

“Are you going to eat your mushrooms?”

“No.” She pushed her plate away. He took not only the
mushrooms but two sausages, the rest of the bacon, and the grilled tomato as well.

She toyed with the teaspoon in the sugar bowl. Rarefied indeed!

She led a wonderful, exotic life anyone would be envious of. Why was he so difficult to impress?

“Actually,” she heard herself saying, “I have a mysterious admirer.” As soon as she’d said it, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Oh, really?” Up went an eyebrow. “And what does that entail?”

“Well, he leaves me notes and strange, magical clues…”

“Like what?”

“Like champagne in the garden…”

“Champagne. Really?”

She recrossed her legs. “Yes. Well, sort of. And little messages all over town.”

He snorted.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, you’re a bit old for a treasure hunt, don’t you think? And besides, have you ever seen this guy? Do you have any idea who he is?”

“No. But that’s the whole point; it’s part of the adventure.”

“Yeah, well.” He mopped his plate with a piece of toast and popped it in his mouth.

“Some people would think that’s romantic.” She shouldn’t have told him; now she felt stupid.

“To each his own.” He stood up, clearing the plates away.

“I think it’s charming.”

He shrugged. “Some guy wants to woo you with a bunch of, I don’t know, what is it? Little messages and party games? That’s great. No doubt it’s a real laugh. It just strikes me as kind of sad
that he’d need to, that’s all. You must know him from somewhere—he can’t be a complete stranger. So why can’t he just ask you out on a date?”

She’d never thought of that. “I don’t know.”

“There we go.” He piled the plates in the sink, turned on the taps.

Why couldn’t he ask her out? Was she so unapproachable? Come to think of it, she’d seduced every man she’d been with in her adult life. Had anyone ever asked her out?

Leticia sat, drinking her tea-bag tea, disturbed by the vision of herself that Sam had painted. Was she really so shallow? So…prissy?

He finished the washing up. “There, all done.” He collected his coat and a worn-out black duffle bag by the door.

“You’re going?” Somehow she’d decided he was completely at her disposal. If there was one thing more irritating than having a stranger foisted upon you, it was having him leave promptly.

“I’ve got your bathroom to repair and an exhibition to go to.”

“An exhibition?”

“Yeah, a friend of mine has become an artist. I promised I’d pitch up and support her. But if you like, I’ll stop by later and see how you’re getting on.”

“Sure. Well, I mean, only if you want to.”

“Might as well. Who knows,” he grinned, opening the door, “you might have another message from your secret admirer by then!”

“Maybe I will!” she said, too loud, too fast.

The door closed.

An exhibition! The thought of him wandering around a gallery, making small talk, felt like a kind of betrayal.

Her flat was silent in a new way. Strange how quickly she’d got used to the long lope of his footsteps on her polished wood floors.
The clearing of his throat. The smell of him…what was it? She sniffed. This morning it was bacon.

Leticia set off to her linen cupboard to find a scented candle at once.

Heather and Lemon Thyme. Perfect.

It reminded her of the North; of wide open spaces. Of the kind of place a man like Sam might like.

Not her world at all.

A
fter organizing some more clues with Flick, Hughie met up with Henry late in the afternoon for a couple of quick hits, just to keep his hand in.

The first one was a classic Parking Meter job. The mark was doing some shopping in Notting Hill. Hughie and Henry waited by the car for the money to run out on her meter. Then, just as the woman came into view, flushed and out of breath, rushing back to save her car from the ticket warden, Hughie popped a few extra coins in.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he smiled as she ran up. “I know it’s a liberty but I saw you earlier and I didn’t want you to get a ticket.”

The woman, clutching a collection of bags, gaped at him. “You…you saw me earlier?”

“Yes, I was waiting for my friend. Of course, I couldn’t help but notice you.”

“Really? Me?”

Hughie laughed. “What’s so strange about that? Anyway,” he nodded, indicating her wedding band, “I can see now you’ve already been scooped up. To be honest, I feel a bit of a fool!” His cheeks glowed with his now famous blush. “I’m sure you think I’m ridiculous, stalking strangers. But there you go. Sometimes you have to take a chance, right?”

The woman was entranced. “Yes! Yes, of course!”

And Hughie strolled away, leaving her in a delightful state of shock.

The second hit was equally straightforward, known in the trade as “Café Regrets.”

This time Hughie waited outside a crowded bistro while Henry followed the mark in and ordered a coffee. She was sitting alone, reading the paper. After a few minutes, he made eye contact. She smiled and pretended to be deeply absorbed in the verities of the Dow Jones Index. Then he followed up by asking for a light. They chatted briefly, he finished his coffee and then signaled to the waiter for the bill.

Hughie saw her look up, watching a little sadly as Henry walked away.

Then, on cue, the waiter appeared with a tall glass of champagne.

“But I didn’t order this,” she frowned.

The waiter smiled. “From the gentleman,” he said, placing it gently in front of her along with a single line, written across a cocktail napkin.

“
If only you weren’t wearing a ring
,” it said.

“Oh!” she giggled in surprise, pressing her fingers over her mouth.

“Oh, indeed!” grinned the waiter.

After that, Henry and Hughie walked toward Portobello Road, stopping for a drink in a dingy pub aptly named the Last Resort.

After they’d downed a few, Henry became serious.

“Young Smythe,” Henry said, leaning forward, “I want you to be the first to know. I’m retiring.”

“Retiring! But why?”

Henry sighed. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversation we had the other day. And it’s time I faced up to facts. I’m not get-
ting any younger and this is a young man’s game. Not only that, but the thing is, Hughie, I’d never told anyone what I told you about my Peter Jones lover. I don’t even know her name!” He took another gulp of his pint. “It’s time I gave up on these ridiculous notions of finding the perfect woman. I’ve got a mark tomorrow evening who’s rich as Croesus and recently widowed. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to bite the bullet and as long as she doesn’t have two heads, I’m going to do my best to marry her. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Do you really need an old widow?”

“Well, I’m quite expensive to keep. The truth is, I’ve become used to a particular lifestyle. And I can’t flirt forever.”

“I see.” Hughie felt that bleak, cold, wet-flannel feeling that signals the end of an era coming on. “I suppose congratulations are in order. Though I wish you wouldn’t. I’m awfully fond of you.”

“And I’m fond of you, young Smythe.”

They looked at each other, got a bit sentimental and didn’t know what to say. So they ordered a round of shots and embarked on a series of toasts.

“Here’s to you and your new life!”

“Here’s to rich widows!”

“Here’s to Peter Jones and its excellent linen department!”

Henry began to cry.

“OK, forget about Peter Jones. Here’s to John Lewis instead!”

By now they’d had quite a lot to drink. Gravity tugged like a terrier and consonants were hard work.

Henry wrapped an arm around Hughie’s shoulders. “Promise me, young Smythe, that you won’t give up that girl you love. That’s the best advice I can give you. Woo her while you have the chance and get out of this game!”

Hughie let his head rest on Henry’s shoulder. “Actually, I have a confession. You see, I haven’t quite given her up after all.”

And he told Henry about the Cyrano and the earrings.

“Excellent plan! Buy her love!”

“There’s this chap at Graff,” Hughie explained, “he’s going to give me a deal. Wants to meet my mother for some reason.”

“When are you due to see him again?”

“On Friday, late afternoon.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Henry offered, “let me come with you. You leave him to me! We’ll have those earrings for a song, my son! No one can bargain like I can! This calls for a drink!”

“A drink!” Hughie chimed, pounding on the bar.

“To love!” they toasted.

“And never giving up!”

Henry became weepy again and eventually the landlord turned them out.

W
hat’s the Point in Carrying On?” and “Mrs. Henderson Died in this Chair” were the triumphs of the Next Generation Show.

The better papers were awash with reviews heralding the dawn of a new era, accompanied by large color photos of Red Moriarty, the Fresh Face of British Art, wearing a white T-shirt and tiny shorts. (“Don’t look like you’ve made an effort,” Simon instructed. “That would be uncool. Julian Schnabel wore a sarong and sandals under his tux jacket when he won his Oscar.” “Who?” Rose asked. “Never mind,” said Simon. “You can overdress to minor events once you’re famous, but a key to becoming famous in the first place is to underdress for anything of significance.”) And so, provided it was skimpy, Rose was allowed to wear whatever she’d pop on to do the cleaning in, disappointing her, thrilling everyone else.

Mick, Rose’s dad, was the hit of the party. Clean-shaven and out of his boiler suit, he cut something of a dash in an unstructured dark linen suit Rose had never seen before.

“Where’d you get that?” she wanted to know.

“Picked it up on Marylebone High Street. Paul Smith. Nice, huh? Got it at Cancer Research,” he winked. “Nice bits and pieces over there.”

After an evening of conquests, Rose saw him leave with a tall blonde on his arm who had a passion for property development and, Mick confided later, “certain very useful fantasies involving a bit of rough.”

Ricki put in a brief appearance, clutching an untouched glass of champagne, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Not quite my scene,” she apologized, leaning in to kiss Rose on the cheek before she left.

Even Sam showed.

He’d come straight from work and didn’t stay long. Apparently he needed to look in on a client on his way home.

“Hey, I recognize that chair from somewhere!” He concentrated. “Didn’t that belong to that old lady…you know, what’s her name?”

“Mrs. Henderson,” Rose filled in the blank.

“Yeah! My dad used to have to repair her boiler about five times each winter. She was damned if she was going to replace it. Wow.” He took another sip of his champagne. “So that’s her chair, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She could feel him searching for something enthusiastic to say.

“Hey.” He nodded up and down like one of those plastic dogs people put in the backs of their cars. “Well done you!”

“So they tell me.”

The rest of the night Rose was ferried around by Simon, being introduced to dozens of much older people, who spoke to her about her work at length in terms she couldn’t follow. It was shocking to hear how much they read into it.

“The faded doily! So moving!”

“And the smell of the piece! How did you manage that?”

“The cards—are they a specific size for a reason?”

She found that if she paused long enough, they answered their own questions.

All in all, the less she did, the more successful she became.

By the end of the week, a positive frenzy had built up around her. Almost anything she touched was regarded not only as a work of art but also as a searing social commentary. Two days after the opening, she put a tea mug down on the reception desk, only to discover that it appeared on eBay and was snapped up by an American collector for six hundred pounds that same evening.

Apparently the title of the work was “My Mug is Empty.”

From then on she drank from disposable cups.

Also, there were rumors that her opening-night shorts were being copied and knocked off for Topshop, the highest honor the British public have to offer. The fact that they came from there originally made the whole chain of events surreal.

Invitations began flooding in. She was asked to design a range of jewelry for Garrard’s. Elton John begged her to stay in his large pink villa near Monte Carlo. And it was soon rumored that she had a coke habit and was engaging in lesbian sex with Kate Moss in front of their children. Bizarrely, she was also asked to front a campaign for single mothers.

“Don’t read the press,” Simon warned her, “just inspire them.”

“But how?”

“Ignore them.”

It was excellent advice.

By doing absolutely nothing at all, Rose, aka Red Moriarty, had all the makings of a phenomenon.