The Flirt (4 page)

C
ome and have your evil way with me.

When Hughie got the text message from Leticia, he was busy rifling through his sister Clara’s things, looking for a stamp and already bordering on late for meeting his mother for lunch. He wanted to post his response to the ad in the
Stage
that morning, and luncheon was a standing date he and his mother had for the first Wednesday of every month at a small hotel in Victoria called the Goring. There the staff remembered Rowena Venables-Smythe and treated her like a society widow. Together they would feast on the enormous roasts, argue and gossip; his mother would try to force him into some sort of employment; Hughie would charm her and leave with whatever spare cash she had in her wallet. The meal itself was one of the highlights of Hughie’s month; he rarely slept the night before for excitement—Scottish roast beef, fluffy Yorkshire pudding, piles of crispy potatoes drenched in gravy, all washed down with something Mum had chosen to impress the wine waiter. (Lunch with Mum was early enough in the day to be manageable. By supper, she was often a bit liquid for Hughie’s taste.)

But now there was a rival invitation from Leticia. Visions of her long naked limbs, creamy white against the black velvet chaise longue, stretched out for his personal use made him swoon with lust.

Hughie found himself facing one of the most difficult dilemmas of a young man’s life: free lunch or a shag?

He tipped out one of Clara’s handbags, found a book of stamps at the bottom and took one. Then he pulled a jumper over his head and bounded out the door—ignoring Clara’s Post-it about not forgetting his keys.

Of course, it might just be possible to have the best of both these offers. Leticia’s shop was only a few blocks from the Goring. An enterprising young man like Hughie might find himself fucked, fed and funded by tea time.

All it would take was a bit of finessing.

Hughie shoved his letter into a postbox and flagged down a passing cab. “Hey, I say, you don’t take Amex, do you?”

“Fuck off,” suggested the cabby, driving away.

Hughie ran to catch the bus, dodging traffic to cross the road in time.

“Single to Victoria,” he panted to the driver.

“Two pounds.”

“Oh.” Hughie pulled out a few loose coins from his pockets. “As much as that?”

An old man pushed past him and a woman with a pram.

“What’s that? Seventy? Seventy-three, seventy-four…”

The driver glared at him. “Have you got it or haven’t you?”

“I’ll spot you.”

Hughie turned. It was Malcolm, Clara’s fiancé.

“That’s very good of you, Malc.”

“Think nothing of it! Glad to help!”

Hughie climbed to the top deck and Malcolm struggled up the steps after him.

Malcolm was pretty much the same height and build as Hughie only his center of gravity resided in his bottom, pulling at him like an undertow. (In prep school he was known as “Girlie-Arse Grit-
ton.”) As for his features, everything was just a bit too much; his lips were too thick and red, his nose too long, his eyes bugged out and were framed by strawberry-blond lashes, matching the pinky blond mane on his head. Then, too, he smelled disturbingly of violets.

He threw himself down next to Hughie, or rather almost on top of him, the seat being too snug for grown men.

“Thanks for paying my fare.”

“Think nothing of it! What are friends for, right? We are friends, you and I?” Malcolm looked at him eagerly, blinking his bug eyes.

Hughie hesitated. This wasn’t entirely accurate. If he hadn’t been engaged to his sister, Hughie would’ve preferred to avoid Malcolm. But a man down on his luck couldn’t afford to be pedantic.

“Sure,” Hughie smiled.

“Good stuff! Very good stuff. Oh, God, Hughie! I can’t tell you how difficult things are for me at the moment!”

“Really?” Hughie forced a window open. (The violet water was particularly strong today.)

“Yes! I need a break. Maybe a drink with some friends.” He stared at Hughie, who was busy eyeing up an Aston Martin that growled into view.

“Good plan,” Hughie agreed, wondering if the driver of the Aston was under or over thirty (these questions being of significance to young men who hadn’t yet made their first million).

“I was hoping you’d say that!”

“I can always be counted on to endorse a drink.”

“So, what time would you like to meet?”

“For what?”

Malcolm peered at him with an anxious smile. “Drinks, silly! You said you were my friend.”

“Yes, yes. But that’s different from…I mean, it’s not the same as having one’s own friends.”

Malcolm straightened. “For God’s sake, Hughie, I’m engaged to your sister!”

“Yes, I know. She’s a lovely girl, don’t you think?”

Malcolm winced, as if retreating from an unseen belt across the jaw. “Yes, a lovely girl.”

Hughie had an idea. “Maybe she’d like to come along?”

“Perhaps…” Malcolm agreed, slowly. “Then again, there’s also nothing to prevent us from having a quiet drink on our own.”

“I just don’t think I’ve got the time, Malc.” Hughie’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, grateful for the interruption.

It was his mother.

“Hello, Mum.”

“Yes, a large gin and tonic, please,” she was saying to the waiter. “Oh. Hello, darling, I’m here a little early. How long will you be?”

“I’m on my way. What time is it, anyway?”

“Quarter to. How close are you? Shall I order you something to drink?”

“I’m, uh, somewhere on the Edgware Road.”

“That’s miles away, Hughie! We’re meant to be meeting at one!”

“Like I said, Mum, I’m on my way. Traffic’s bad.”

“This is London, Hughie. Traffic is always bad. A little forward planning wouldn’t go amiss! Really!”

She rang off before he could reply.

(It was going to be a real trick getting any cash out of her today.)

“You’re in a bit of a pickle,” Malcolm observed.

“Oh, you know what they’re like.”

His phone rang again.

“Where are you?” Leticia purred.

“Almost there, darling. Just coming up to Marble Arch.”

“Marble Arch! Are you in a cab?”

“No, I’m on the bus, angel.”

“How quaint!” she laughed. “Is this your way of telling me you don’t fancy me any more? Taking public transport?”

“No, no! I fancy you like mad!”

“Then show me. By the way, I’m wearing nothing but double cream.”

She made a low, thoroughly filthy growl before hanging up.

“Now, there’s a place I know of in Soho where we could meet.” Malcolm was jotting down the address. “Most amusing. Members only…”

“To be honest, I don’t think I can, Malc.”

“Oh. Really.”

“I’ve got a hell of a lot on…”

“I see.”

“Tickets, please!”

Swaying in front of them was a ticket inspector, pad at the ready.

Hughie prodded Malcolm. “You’ve got my ticket.”

“Have I?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve got a hell of a lot on, Hughie. I’m not sure I can remember where I put it. Perhaps if I had something to look forward to,” he sighed, “…a drinks engagement perhaps, I might be able to recall what I did with it.”

“Tickets please, gentlemen!”

Malcolm produced his bus pass with a flourish. “Here’s mine!” He smiled sweetly at Hughie. “And you?”

Hughie wished, not for the first time, that his sister would find herself a different beau.

“You do have a ticket, young man? There’s a fine if you haven’t.” The inspector tapped his pad. “Quite a considerable fine.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Oh, dear!”

Hughie was just about to give up when there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

He twisted round to find a dashing man in his fifties behind him. He wasn’t the sort of man you’d expect to find on the top deck of a bus. Exquisitely dressed in a tailored gray wool suit and gold silk tie, he radiated authority, ease and polish. His hair was impeccable, nails trimmed, his skin had the soft golden glow of tan. But it was his eyes that were so arresting. They were a rare intensity of blue, not unlike Hughie’s own.

“I believe you dropped this,” he smiled, holding out a ticket.

Hughie hesitated, then took it. “Thank you.”

The man stood up. “My pleasure.”

Then he clasped the hand of the ticket inspector and shook it warmly. “I just want to say I think you’re doing an excellent job. I work at Head Office and rarely have I seen a servant of the people as devoted and diligent as yourself. It makes me proud, my good man! Proud to be part of this great public transport system, and I must say, proud to be British!” He looked to Hughie. “Don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely!”

The ticket inspector blushed. “I don’t know what to say! It’s so nice to be appreciated for a change. The number of people who abuse you, just for doing your job!”

The man nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a brave soldier.”

“You have to be!”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the man, taking out his mobile. “I’m putting in a call to Head Office right now and I’d like to mention you by name.”

“Really? Do you mean it? It’s Paul, sir. Paul Pullerton.”

“Mr. Pullerton, you’re a credit to your profession! I’m dialing right now. Keep up the good work!” he called as he headed down the steps and off the bus.

“Now there’s a gentleman!” the inspector declared to anyone who would listen. “Last of a dying breed!”

“He didn’t have to show his ticket!” Malcolm pointed out.

But the inspector ignored him. “A dying breed,” he repeated and moved down the aisle.

Hughie looked out of the window. The man had disappeared.

Surely he’d given him his ticket. But why had he bothered to save a complete stranger?

Halfway down Park Lane, the bus shuddered violently. Clouds of black smoke billowed from its engine. The driver pulled over and rang the bell. “Everyone off! Everyone off the bus!”

Hughie climbed off and managed to lose Malcolm in the outraged throng of pensioners and pushchairs. Traffic had ground to a halt.

There was nothing for it. So he ran down Park Lane.

At Hyde Park Corner, his phone rang again.

“I’m ordering without you,” his mother said. “You forget that not everyone is unemployed and can laze about all day like you.”

“Mum…I can explain…”

“You have so little respect for other people. Time is more than money, Hughie, it’s the stuff of life. You are wasting my life! Why are you panting? Is something wrong with you? Are you ill? How is it that any child of mine could be so badly brought up as to think…”

Another call was coming through. It was Leticia.

“After all the money I’ve spent trying to give you the best possible start—yes, I’ll have the lamb please and a bottle of Château Margaux…”

“Sorry, Mum…”

“Hughie, don’t interrupt! What have I just been telling you about respect?”

“Mum, if you could just hold a minute…”

“Hold! I will certainly not hold!”

Leticia rang off.

“My God, Hughie, you really take the biscuit!”

“Mum! This is a very important call!”

He put his mother on hold and rang Leticia.

“The Vane home for very, very wayward women,” she answered.

Then Hughie’s credit ran out and the line went dead.

By the time he arrived at Leticia’s shop, her next client was already there. He rang the bell anyway.

“Can’t you read the sign?” she said, opening the door. “No soliciting.”

He pushed his hair, damp from all the running, back from his face. “I’m here to pick up the samples, Miss Vane. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“And what samples might those be?”

“The ones for Mr…. Mr…. Mr. Licktitslowly.”

“Mr. Licktitslowly,” she repeated.

“That’s right, Mr. Licktitslowly and the Reverend Hardascanbee.”

She sighed. “Those samples have been put away. I don’t have time to get them out now.”

Hughie leaned in. “I’m afraid the Reverend in particular is most insistent.”

She smiled, brushing her fingers softly against his thigh. He stiffened. “Tell the good Reverend Hardascanbee that another time, I’ll personally ensure he samples everything.”

She shut the door.

Hughie waited a moment for his erection to go down, then bolted across to the Goring. He was just in time to see his mother climbing unsteadily into a cab and it pulling away.

“Bugger!”

By now, breakfast had worn off. He went into the Goring
anyway, lifting a copy of
The Times
from the front desk as he passed. There was no point attempting the dining room. And the bar was heaving. Instead, he squeezed into the lounge which was full of people lunching on sandwiches. He scanned the busy room until he found a table where a middle-aged couple were just paying the bill.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” He flashed his most charming grin. “It’s so crowded, is this seat taken?”

Hughie’s Harrow education was useful for the accent alone.

“Oh! No, please!” the man gestured to the spare chair. “We were about to leave anyway.”

“That’s very good of you. Here.” Hughie held out the woman’s coat for her.

“Thank you,” she smiled.

“No, thank you!” Hughie waved as they made their way toward the door.

Then he settled down, folded out his paper and disappeared into the general throng. The woman had left half her crab-and-avocado sandwich and most of her crisps. There was a small bowl of olives and even a bit of wine left in the bottle. He’d chosen well.

Wiping the lipstick off the woman’s glass, he poured out the rest of the wine. Not a bad year, he thought, settling back.

At least the letter was off, winging its way across London. He was in with a chance. Today, he was scrambling for spare change but tomorrow? Who knows? He popped a crisp into his mouth. After all, it was difficult to keep a Venables-Smythe down.

He made a note of the time on the clock by the front door, then turned to the sports page and checked the cricket score.

Sooner or later, Leticia’s client would leave.

And sooner or later, the Reverend Hardascanbee would have his evil way.