The Flirt (29 page)

C
hecking the address Mimsy had given her one more time, Olivia pushed open the door of the tiny shop and walked inside. It swung shut and the noise from the street outside receded.

It was empty.

She waited a few moments then called out.

“Hello? Hello? Anyone there?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She looked round. It didn’t feel like a shop at all; she couldn’t see any stock anywhere. It was more like a small, intimate turn-of-the-century drawing room. In fact, it looked very much like its name—Bordello. A little camp, slightly louche but intriguing all the same.

She sat down in one of the salon chairs.

Mimsy had insisted she book the appointment months ago when her whole focus had been on saving her marriage. “Sex is the most powerful weapon in your arsenal,” she’d instructed. “Get the wrapping right and who cares about the present inside!”

Who cares? She certainly didn’t.

“Hello?” she called out again, irritated.

What a waste of time! Why am I even bothering to go through all this anyway?

She was about to leave when she heard something.

Walking over to the back door, she called out again. “Hello!”

Then, her eye rested on something familiar.

A Smythson’s cream-colored card on the desk.

“Walk with me.”

She picked it up.

There, underneath it, another one.

Dream with me.

Then something truly bizarre happened.

Out of the back room came the girl with the black bob—the one who’d been at the Opera House.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she smiled. “I’m Leticia.”

Olivia’s mind reeled. What was she doing here? How did she get those cards?

“Why don’t you sit down and relax while I get you a drink? You look like you could use one.” She disappeared into the back room.

Olivia moved numbly to a chair.

Suddenly all the pieces came together.

That girl is my admirer; she’s in love with me!

Leticia returned with a tall glass of champagne.

“Here,” she handed it to Olivia and perched on the arm of the chair opposite. Olivia watched as she crossed her long legs. She was very attractive. Quite girlie. Leticia gave her a wink. “Bottoms
up! Well, have you had a chance to think about it? Do you know what you want?”

My God, she was direct!

Still, it was refreshing.

Swallowing hard, Olivia found herself nodding.

“Good!” Leticia had a low, naughty laugh. “That’s the way I like it! No beating around the bush!” She shimmied over to the window. “Well then, we might as well get straight to business in hand. Have a good glug of that and then let’s get you undressed.” She pulled the curtains shut at the front of the shop. “If you’re feeling shy we can use the bathroom. I’ve had it redone.”

Olivia just stared.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Leticia leaned in. “I’ve wanted to do you for years!”

It was difficult to speak. “Really?”

“You’ve got a wonderful figure! I can’t wait to get my hands on it. Now, what did I do with my measuring tape?”

She ducked into the back room again.

Olivia tried to unbutton her blouse but her hands were shaking. Try to be cool, she told herself. Act like you’ve done this before.

Leticia came back.

“Don’t be nervous,” her voice was like velvet. “Here, let me help you.” She began to unbutton Olivia’s blouse.

The shop was dark and warm, sweetly scented of fig. She was so close, so beautiful.

“Do you mind,” Olivia’s voice was hoarse, “if we…if we start off slowly? It’s just…I’ve never…”

Leticia’s face was only a few inches from her own; warm breath, mouth soft.

“Anything you like.” She looked up coyly. “I’ll be very gentle.”

Olivia gazed into Leticia’s deep brown eyes.

If ever she was going to do it, now was the moment.

And pulling Leticia closer, she kissed her.

It wasn’t the first time Leticia had been kissed by a woman. Any girl with as much sexual experience as Leticia was bound to have a few female entanglements in her past.

It’s just she hadn’t been expecting to be kissed by the prim wife of a world-famous billionaire in the middle of the morning.

It wasn’t unpleasant but it was surprising. For a moment, she even found herself kissing back. But when Olivia’s hands began to stray, she’d had enough.

“Look,” she pushed Olivia away, “I’m not gay.”

Olivia turned bright red. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“But…I mean…neither am I! Of course I’m not! I just thought…you see, I’ve seen you before and with the cards and seeing you at the Royal Opera House and…what I mean is, I thought that you…that is to say, I gathered that…”

The woman was babbling.

(I’m babbling, thought Olivia.)

The next thing Leticia knew she was buttoning her blouse, gathering her things together.

“I’m so sorry!” She was clearly mortified. “I beg your pardon! I most sincerely apologize! I certainly didn’t mean to…to…grab at you. I’m really terribly, terribly sorry!”

And with that, she bolted, leaving the door ajar and bumping into a lamppost as she hurried down the street.

Leticia sat down on the chaise longue.

It wasn’t the first time one of her clients had got out of hand. The intimate nature of the fittings meant stiff nipples and damp
knickers were all part of a day’s work. And naturally, every once in a while, someone made a lunge for her.

Who would’ve guessed it of Little Miss Blonde Bob, though?

Olivia sat in her car, crying.

She’d sexually assaulted a shop girl!

What if Arnaud found out?

What if her mother found out?

How humiliating! Grabbing at the poor girl like that!

What was the social remedy of a situation like this? Send flowers? Write a note of apology? “
I deeply regret molesting you last Thursday…
” Were there any rules of etiquette for such a disastrous faux pas?

She stopped.

Faux pas? What a tiny, mewing little word!

If only it were a faux pas!

But it wasn’t anything so trivial. Whether she liked it or not, it was a life-defining moment. The truth was, for a few brief seconds, she’d been whole; connected to a part of her that had always been free floating and unsatisfied. That was the real torment: not that she’d wanted it, but that she still wanted it. The encounter had only whetted her appetite. Visions of kissing, sucking, licking, biting filled her brain.

I’m a lesbian, she thought.

I’m just a great big, pussy-loving dyke!

And she cried even harder.

I
t was the end of the day when the bell sounded.

Leticia was in the workroom, making some final adjustments to the nightdress she was working on: another maternity model with a unique adjustable bra. If she could only work out a way to make the cups more comfortable without adding extra padding—extra padding being the one thing nursing mothers really didn’t need. Then she might be able to send it over to Amy this evening, for a trial run.

Folding it away carefully, she paused to admire the crisp periwinkle-blue cotton again. Her regular French supplier had been only too thrilled to create a non-iron fabric in fresh color ways. She’d imagined he’d be disdainful but his enthusiasm surprised her. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who’d needed a challenge.

Turning out the light, she walked through the shop, opened the door.

It was Sam, leaning against a big black Ducati motorcycle. She almost didn’t recognize him. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair swept off his face, neatly trimmed, there was a different energy about him; a gleam in his eye.

“Hello,” he grinned, flashing a pair of dimples she hadn’t noticed before. “I was working in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

The door slammed shut behind her. She hardly noticed. “Where did you get that bike?”

“I bought it. Business is good.” His gaze was unexpectedly bold; direct. “Do you like it?”

What was he doing here, showered, shaven? Where were his tools?

She walked down the steps slowly.

“Seems a bit…what’s the word I’m looking for? Not extravagant…” she caught his eye. “Could it be rarefied?”

“Right!” he laughed, nodding. “I see! You’re not going to let me forget that one.”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

He folded his arms across his chest. (He has muscles, she thought, suddenly disorientated to be so physically aware of him.) “So,” he was all swagger and confidence, “seeing as I’m here, do you want a ride?”

Leticia had never been on a bike before. She was wary of anything fast that wasn’t under her complete control. Her face must’ve given her away.

“You’re not scared, are you?” He sounded incredulous, as if she couldn’t possibly be scared of anything.

“No. Of course not!” He wasn’t going to get the better of her.

Strolling over, she moved a little slower, a deliberate sway to her hips.

“Sure,” she shrugged lightly, as if it were so much a part of the daily grind as to be boring.

He handed her a helmet. “Have you ever been on a bike before? You’ll have to hang on tight.”

“I think I can do that,” she said, fastening it under her chin.

He got on and she climbed up behind him, hiking her dress up around her legs. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist. It had been a while since she’d been that close to a man. The muscles
of his back were strong, taut, and there was a delicious, mesmerizing smell.

“What are you wearing?”

“Something new.” He revved the motor; the engine growled into life. “Narcissus. Do you like it?”

She breathed in deeply. “Ummm.”

“If I’m going too fast, just squeeze, OK?” he called.

“OK!”

He accelerated and her stomach lurched.

They drove off. Leticia pressed against him, thighs against his. They sped, ducking through traffic, with terrifying speed.

“Are you OK?”

She swallowed hard. “Fine!” she shouted back.

Then they hit the Embankment and Sam really opened it up. The Houses of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, Downing Street, flashed past, the roar of the motor stopping people in their tracks.

She gripped tighter and closed her eyes. Suddenly they were flying, slicing through the wind; euphoria replaced fear. She was laughing, with a freedom she hadn’t felt since she was a child. It was dangerous. But she was safe. Sam wouldn’t let her fall.

All too soon they pulled back up in front of the shop, the ride was over.

He turned off the engine.

“You can let go now,” he reminded her softly.

“Oh, sure.”

She climbed down, legs surprisingly shaky.

“Here!” He reached out an arm to steady her. “So, what do you think?”

It was a ridiculous feeling: physical, light-headed, like a fairground ride. “Worth every penny!” She laughed again, pulling off the helmet. “Oh, God!” She fussed with her hair. “Do I look a wreck?”

“No,” his eyes fixed on hers. “You’re beautiful.”

V
alentine sat on the other side from Hughie of the vast mahogany desk in his office, hands gripped in front of him. Flick hovered nervously behind him, arms folded across her chest, lips pursed tightly together. It was an all-too-familiar scenario in Hughie’s life. He’d sat across from countless glowering headmasters and employers over the years; each major chapter in his life had drawn to a close with a variation on the scene they were about to play out now. And, a little like falling down the stairs, the trick was, he’d found, to give way and relax; the floppier and more compliant, the less bruising afterward.

Valentine exhaled through his nose like a bull. “Hughie, is it true that Henry has just become engaged to your mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that Marco has been pursuing your sister?”

“Well…”

“Do you realize he’s resigned? Says he’s in love with her?”

“My sister?” He shook his head. “That’s not possible, sir.”

“Can you spot a trend, Hughie? A common thread? Or is it necessary for me to spell it out to you?”

“Well,” Hughie was still struggling with the idea of Marco and Clara, “there’s a lot going on there.”

“No, Hughie, there’s a lot of
you
going on there. Out of four
employees, two have been completely corrupted by your presence. Two solid, dependable, extremely talented men have been, in only a few short weeks, altered beyond all recognition just by your proximity.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Valentine banged his fist on the table. “It is not a compliment, Hughie! It is a very serious charge!”

Flick touched his arm. “Valentine…”

His eyes flashed, nostrils flared.

She let go.

“You blame me for them falling in love?” Hughie asked.

“I blame you, Hughie, for introducing chaos into this organization! And love is chaos of the highest order. We do not do love. We don’t engage in it, we don’t even pretend it. We flirt. That is all. We titillate and leave. Somehow you have contrived to add, I cannot even believe I’m saying this, an unwanted depth to an industry that depends on skimming the surface of human encounters. Before you came, my men were perfectly happy. But now they all want relationships! Intimacy! Love!”

Hughie sat forward. “You think I have depth?”

Valentine stood up. “Hughie, I have come to the conclusion that you are a romantic. And romance is a deadly virus to us. Therefore, despite the initial talent you demonstrated, I find that you are constitutionally incapable of performing your duties. You are relieved of your position at once.”

Flick leaned forward. “Valentine…”

He glared at her. “Please allow me to continue, Ms. Flickering. I will require your watch and your phone immediately. You may keep the suits. However, in light of the considerable expense of outfitting you, I will deduct the costs from your pay packet.”

“Oh. And what will that leave me with?”

Valentine consulted a paper in front of him. “Very roughly, you owe us £227.50.”

“I see.”

“Of course, I’m willing to write that amount off,” Valentine added graciously.

“Thank you.”

Hughie took off the watch and passed both it and the PDA across the desk. Then he stood up. “I’d just like to say, Mr. Charles, that in spite of my deficiencies, I’ve had a cracking time as a member of your employ and feel I’ve learned a great deal. I’m sorry I led the boys astray. It wasn’t my intention. And I suppose you’re right; I am a romantic. The truth is, I believe in love. I like being around it, I like being in it.” He dug his hands into his pockets. “Maybe I am a virus. Then again, maybe, some diseases are worth catching.” He held out his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

Valentine shook it. “Good luck, Mr. Venables-Smythe, in whatever it is that you end up doing.”

Hughie looked across at Flick. “See you at the races?”

She nodded sadly. “Or cricket, perhaps.”

He smiled.

She looked down at the floor.

Then reluctantly, he left.

“Valentine…”

“Not now, Flick!” Valentine sank back into his desk chair, head in hands. “My business is in utter turmoil!”

“But it wasn’t the boy’s fault.”

“Please!” he snapped. “I cannot abide any more discussion on this subject!”

“You’re making a mistake,” she persisted.

“What I am doing is running a business which has been in my family for decades! I’m perfectly aware of what is right and wrong and the last thing I require is advice from you!”

“Yes. Of course.” She turned on her heel.

Walking back into her office, she turned off her computer, switched on the answerphone and collected her coat and bag.

Then Flick walked out of 111 Half Moon Street for the last time, closing the door firmly behind her.