The Flirt

Leticia firmly believed that quality was the result of quantity.

Good sex was simply a by-product of having a great deal of all sorts of sex; rough, slow, quick and to the point or dreamy and drawn out, random gropes, teasing touches, full-on oral feasts—all these things qualified as sex to her. And so, to facilitate an unconscious air of sexual susceptibility, she created heightened versions of everyday pieces; deceptively simple white nightdresses, only fashioned from such sheer material and cut so cleverly that they draped the body in a provocative, filmy gauze, accentuating the peek of nipples, hugging the curve of hips, lengthening legs; billowing beguilingly with each movement. Because they appeared so innocent and unassuming, they were undeniably erotic. Instead of shouting, ‘Fuck me!’ they whispered, ‘Take me…see…I’m not even looking!’ The cleverest bit was that, while a man couldn’t help but be hypnotized by the erotic undertones, the idea of sex would be his. The pieces compelled a man to act, and made the woman feel languid. She could lie back and lure her husband into action. And a man who initiates sex always feels more virile than one who has it thrust upon him.

Leticia had been taught this invaluable insight along with the rest of her trade by her godfather, Leo. He’d been a West End theatrical costume designer. And like Leticia, he was entirely self-created. He smoked thin, black Russian cigarettes, probably had his nose done back in the sixties and wore his beautiful silver hair loose around his shoulders. His uniform was what he called ‘an Audrey’—a black cashmere polo neck, black tailored trousers and soft, leather slippers he had specially made.

He laughed often and firmly refused to countenance any form of self-pity or pessimism.

He came from a different world—not just a theatrical one but from another age entirely—an age that had no qualms about artifice; that had no desire to appear natural, and understood that a little sleight of hand was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been a dresser to Marlene Dietrich when she used to pin her scalp back under her wig; had sewn sweat guards into Julie Andrews’s gowns in My Fair Lady and even adjusted the sleeves on Vivian Leigh’s costumes so that no one could see her hands shaking after a bad night.

Leticia slipped off her jacket, hung it up on a hook behind the door and looked round with satisfaction. Leo was retired now but he adored the shop. The slipper bath had been his idea. (It shuddered violently if you turned on the taps but it looked exquisite.) He was the only other person who really appreciated her collection of lace or the rare quality of the bolts of beautiful fabric.

If it hadn’t been for him, she might still be languishing in Hampstead Garden Suburb. He gave her a subscription to Vogue when she was eight. When she was ten, he presented Leticia with a little work table all her own in his studio. There she sat, making sketches, watching carefully as the greatest stage divas of the day were transformed from frightened, self-obsessed neurotics into creatures worthy of universal adoration. In her teens, he took her to the theatre, bought her her first cocktail in Kettner’s, showed her how to pluck her eyebrows and move in a way that commanded attention. He taught her the difference between presence, which includes everyone in its warm glow, and attitude, which keeps the whole world at bay.

There was nothing Leo couldn’t render magical. Nothing he couldn’t fix.

She opened her appointment book and examined the names. A romance novelist, a duchess and a rich American woman from Savannah. She didn’t like more than three appointments a day and nothing before 11 a.m. Early morning wasn’t sexy; once you were out of bed and dressed, the weight of the day pressed too hard on everyone’s conscience.

Her phone buzzed. She flicked it open. It was Leo.

‘Angel, how are we this morning?’ he purred, his voice tempered by thousands of cigarettes.

‘Brilliant. Are you coming in today? Please say you’re coming! I’ve got an order for a silk kimono I can’t make drape properly for love nor money. The woman has a bust like a mountain range. I promise to buy you a long, boozy lunch if you can fix it.’

‘Would love to but I can’t. Feeling a bit rough this morning. Truth is I was up late last night playing strip poker with Juan. You remember Juan, don’t you?’

‘That male nurse from Brazil?’ She riffled through the morning post. Another postcard from her parents in Israel. More brown envelopes. How boring. She tossed them unopened into the bin. ‘Didn’t you decide he was too young for you? Does he even speak English?’

‘Don’t be catty, darling. His English has come on a treat. Besides,’ she could hear him lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘we don’t waste our time on conversation.’

‘Please! I don’t want to know all your secrets!’

‘You know them all anyway’

She smiled. ‘I have one.’

‘Really? What or rather who is it?’

‘Now who’s being catty? His name’s Hughie and he’s delicious!’

‘How old?’

‘Oh, I don’t know…early twenties?’

She heard him exhale. ‘You need a real man, Leticia. Not some boy’

‘This from you!’ She closed the appointment book firmly. ‘Real men don’t exist. Or haven’t you noticed? Besides, he’s only a fling.’

‘They have feelings, you know’

‘I doubt it. All men want is sex. Especially young men.’

‘And what about you? What do you want?’

Her fingers ran over a particularly exquisite and costly bolt of French blue silk organdie. ‘Who cares what I want? It’s what I can have that matters.’

‘Emily Ann…’

She winced. ‘You know I hate that name; it’s so impossibly ugly!’

‘Emily’ he repeated firmly, ‘I’m concerned. These flings are getting to be a habit with you.’

‘And why not? We live in a disposable world. There’s no point in investing yourself too heavily.’

‘You’re too young to be so cynical.’

‘Oh, please!’ She sighed. ‘Let’s not do serious today! I can’t; I’m not in the mood. I just want to have some fun. And Hughie’s fun.’

‘He’s also real.’

‘What am I now, some corrupting influence? No lectures—not today.’

‘I’m only saying that you’ve got to be careful.’

‘Stop, Leo,’ she warned.

He ignored her. ‘You pretend to be tough but we both know you’re not.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Darling, I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt.’

‘What? By Hughie?’ she laughed. ‘See, that’s the whole point! He can’t hurt me! And I can’t hurt him. We have rules, Leo. It’s strictly sex…nothing more.’

‘I’ve got news for you, sunshine. Rules or no rules, you’re not in control of your heart. No one is.’

‘Listen, I’ll call you later. I have heaps to do and if you’re not coming round I’ll have to try to sort out this kimono monstrosity by myself. Speak later? And no more hot Brazilians, understand?’

She clicked the phone shut, pressed her hand over her eyes.

He was being so difficult.

And suddenly, it was back again; the dull ache, pressing hard.

It was an ache now, but for at least a year it had been a searing, slicing pain across her whole chest, like someone performing open-heart surgery without an anaesthetic. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep…

Damn him! Why did he have to be so…so judgemental?

She took a deep breath.

It didn’t matter. It was all over now. She was on her feet again, better than ever.

In her workshop, Leticia put the kettle on and lit a cigarette. There was time between the duchess and the novelist to have Hughie come round. And leaning her back against the counter, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

Hughie was so tall, so young, so classically handsome. And so easy to control! There were no power struggles, no coy dating rituals or manipulations. She rang, he came, they fucked. And then they fucked some more.

It was a simple relationship and, in a way, beautiful. There was something different about Hughie: a freshness. No deep thoughts or dark moods interfered with his performance. Of course, he had a lot to learn; a diamond in the rough. But that was exciting. And the best part was, he was insane about her. It was only a fling, but in every relationship there was the one who adored and the one who was adored. She’d done the adoring and preferred by far when it was the other way round.

The kettle boiled. Spooning the loose leaves of Earl Grey tea carefully into a Tiffany blue pot, she poured in the hot water. The aroma of bergamot filled the room.

She stared out of the window into the small garden at the back.

Leo was wrong. No one could hurt her again; she wouldn’t let them.

Giving the tea a quick stir, she poured herself a cup. These were the hours she liked best; the day glimmered before her like a golden promise, untouched by disappointment or frustration. And sitting down at the table, she placed her teacup on a small bench well away from her work, unfolded a tissue-paper parcel full of silk and deftly threaded her needle.

The morning sun warmed her back, outside birds sang. Leticia sipped her tea.

Few things were more fragile than antique lace or the human heart.

Then she heard something.

Persistent, irritating.

Coming from the bathroom.

A dripping sound.

The kind of sound, in fact, that signalled the urgent need for a plumber.

Tea for Table Five

The waitress at Jack’s Café, Rose, paused by the window, watching as Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe sauntered away down the street through the crowds of people.

‘Order up!’ shouted Bert from the kitchen behind her.

‘I said, order up!’ he called again.

Rose turned and delivered the two fried eggs, sausage, beans and tomato to the man at table seven before clearing away Hughie’s breakfast remains. Then she took £4.95 from her own pocket of tips and put it into the till.

‘Rose! Tea for table five!’ Bert shouted. ‘What the hell’s got into you today?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, pouring out the tea. ‘Nothing at all.’

She took it over to Sam the plumber, a regular at table five. In his late thirties, Sam had a mop of dark unruly hair, now flecked with grey, wild pale green eyes and a sardonic smile. He’d inherited his father’s floundering plumbing and heating business earlier that year; along with the same ready laugh and long, loping gait. He was poring over a catalogue of plastic U-bend pipes.

‘Thanks.’ He took a sip, frowning with concentration.

‘God, Sam, don’t you ever take a break?’

‘What for?’ he shrugged. ‘It’s my business now; no one’s going to make it a success but me.’

‘But U-bends at breakfast?’ She shook her head. ‘Your dad was always more relaxed.’

‘Yeah, well, if my old man had put as much time into the business as he did into going to the pub, he might still be with us.’ His voice was sharp.

Old Roy, Sam’s dad, had lived in the same block of council flats as Rose; she’d known both of them for years. He’d been a larger-than-life character, equally popular with men and women; a man whose cheeky good humour seemed to exempt him from the normal rules of life. Over the years he and Sam, both stubborn characters, had spent a lot of time at loggerheads. Sam was ambitious and Old Roy was usually hungover. But now that he was gone, Rose detected an edginess to Sam; a cloud of uncharacteristic seriousness coloured his personality. Lately he only had time for one thing: his career.

‘Sorry, Sam, I’m not thinking today’. She pushed a cloth absent-mindedly around the tabletop, knocking the sugar over. ‘Oh, damn!’

He glanced up; clear eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. ‘Off in your dream world again?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well,’ he put his mug down, ‘he kissed you, didn’t he, Red?’

Sam was nothing if not observant.

‘So what if he did?’ She was blushing again. Turning, she pretended to be deeply engrossed in removing a coffee stain from another table. ‘And don’t call me Red. I’m too old for nicknames. I’m nearly twenty-two, not some child.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Without looking round, she knew he was laughing.

‘You like him,’ Sam teased.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Rose tried to sound blasé and sophisticated. Unfortunately, she was too excited to keep up the pretence for long. ‘But I think he likes me. He’s coming back tomorrow!’

‘Did he pay his bill?’

‘Well, he would’ve, only we don’t take Amex.’

Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Every time he comes in, you end up out of pocket.’

‘He’s just short of cash, that’s all. A lot of people don’t get paid till the end of the month.’ She knotted her hair back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. (Now that he was gone, she could put it up again.) ‘I think he looks like Prince William.’

‘Why don’t you meet a nice normal guy?’

‘And where would I find the time for that?’ she asked, irritated. ‘Remember, I have a child to feed. Who wants to go out with a single mother?’

‘Oh, bollocks, Rose! You’re only young! There will be plenty of guys. You know, real guys—with cash instead of promises.’

Rose made a face at him.

‘Speaking of kids, how is Rory?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘He bit another kid in nursery yesterday’.

‘Well, all of them go through tricky patches when they start school.’

‘You don’t understand.’ She gathered up all the ketchup dispensers and began refilling them. ‘He bit the little boy who’s allergic to nuts, wheat and milk; this kid hardly has anything to live for! And the day before that he headbutted the teacher. She had a lump on her forehead the size of an egg!’

‘Well…’ She’d obviously stretched his bachelor experience to the limit. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him. Now,’ he shifted the subject back to more familiar ground, ‘what are we going to do with you?’

‘Me?’ Rose wiped the shiny lids clean.

‘Yes, you. You’re a smart girl. Don’t you think it’s time you did something more than waitressing?’

She smiled wryly. ‘Not all of us are business tycoons, Sam.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘What does that mean? Listen, I’ll make a going concern of this business if it kills me. If you think I’m going to live and die like my dad in a council flat in Kilburn, you’re wrong.’

‘Hey!’ She swatted him with her tea towel. ‘What’s wrong with that, I’d like to know?’

‘What’s wrong with what?’

They turned.

It was Ricki, Rose’s cousin. Ricki worked as a landscape gardener for a company in Islington. With her cropped hair, tanned muscular frame and uniform of heavy work boots, a fitted T-shirt and jeans slung low across her hipbones, showing off her firm, flat belly, she looked handsome rather than pretty. Every day she stopped in on her way to work for a takeaway coffee and toast. Hands thrust deep into her pockets she strolled over, grinning slyly at Sam.

‘He’s not banging on about conquering the world with his plunger again, is he?’ She gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘How many times do we have to tell you? It’s OK that you’re insane and power crazy. We support you.’

‘Thanks. I feel a lot better.’

‘How’s it going anyway?’ She slid in across from him, picked up the catalogue. ‘Wow Fascinating. You know, you ought to get out more.’

‘I know, I know,’ he admitted, running his long fingers through his shaggy curls. ‘But if I can get the business to turn a profit this year, then pretty soon I’ll be able to expand, take on a few more guys. I mean, my old man left it in a real state. Everything was about flying by the seat of your pants with him. You want to know what his filing system was? A cardboard box shoved under the kitchen sink.’

Ricki stole a slice of toast from his plate. ‘You could do with a bit more flying by the seat of your pants.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means,’ she tore off a bite, ‘that you’re too bloody serious. When was the last time you went out?’

‘You don’t get it.’

Ricki looked at him. ‘I do get it. You miss him.’

Sam shifted, stared out the window. ‘Yeah. Well…actually,’ he changed the subject, ‘I was picking on Rose for a change.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Ricki grabbed Rose’s hand, pulled her down onto her knee. ‘I’ll take some of that action. So what are we picking on her for today?’

‘Piss off!’ Rose squirmed but Ricki was strong and held her fast.

‘I’m thinking she can do better than Jack’s Café, what do you think?’

‘I agree. Two thousand per cent.’

‘And that blond guy she likes gave her a kiss today!’ Sam added.

‘No way? Posh Pants?’

‘Enough!’ Rose managed to wriggle free. ‘I don’t need career or love advice from you two losers! Besides,’ she straightened her apron imperiously, ‘I’ve got plans.’

Sam and Ricki looked at each other. ‘Ooooooooo-ooowwwww!’

‘Like what?’ Sam wanted to know.

‘They’re private,’ Rose sniffed, heading back to the kitchen to get Ricki’s coffee. ‘But rest assured, it doesn’t involve pouring you idiots cups of tea all day long!’

‘Good. Glad to hear it,’ Ricki called after her. She looked at Sam, shook her head. ‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah, that about sums it up,’ he agreed. ‘You OK?’

‘Just tired,’ Ricki yawned. ‘And lonely. And tired of being lonely’.

Sam finished off his tea. ‘So get a girlfriend.’

‘Yeah, right. If it were that easy, even you would have one by now.’

‘Hey I’m not lonely!’ he objected. ‘I’m just too fascinating and busy and…’

‘Old?’

‘Yeah, old. You could always lower your standards.’

Ricki snorted. ‘I will if you will.’

‘Actually,’ he considered, ‘I’d rather be alone.’

‘Me too.’

Rose came back with her order and, handing her a fiver, Ricki stood up. ‘Well, I’d better get my skates on; I’ve got a new client today.’ She kissed Rose on the cheek. ‘Give me a ring if you need a hand with Rory this week, OK?’

‘OK. Thanks.’

‘And you,’ Ricki turned to Sam, ‘take care of yourself. Don’t get too obsessed about work. Take it easy.’

‘I’ll take it easy when I’ve retired early to my holiday home in Tuscany.’

‘Yeah, well, ciao, baby!’

Sam picked up the catalogue again.

Rose replaced the ketchup dispensers.

The breakfast rush was over.

Straightening a few chairs, Rose propped open the door. Fresh air rushed in. She closed her eyes; it felt cool and refreshing on her face.

Her luck was turning; she could feel it. Not only had the man she’d had a crush on for two weeks finally noticed her but she also had a job interview; the first real interview of her life. And wasn’t just any job; it was prestigious—for the position of junior assistant to the acting assistant household manager of a grand house in Belgravia.

Number 45 Chester Square.

Belgravia.

Even the name had poetry!

Last Saturday afternoon, she’d taken Rory there on the bus, just to make certain she knew where she was going. They’d stopped in front of number 45, with its tiers of neat window boxes and round bay trees bordering the front door. The brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head gleamed against the lustrous black paint. The windows sparkled in the sun. Everything was even, balanced; pleasing to the eye.

Nothing bad could ever happen in a house as beautiful as this. A longing filled Rose’s chest. She wanted to have her own front-door key. She’d step inside and find a world marked by ease and elegance, a world completely removed from the one she inhabited now.

Perched behind the till, Rose took out a copy of Hello! magazine, losing herself in the glossy pages of celebrity photos.

The café was peaceful; quiet.

Then Sam’s phone rang.

‘Yes? Yes, that’s right. A drip? What kind of drip? Oh. A gush, eh? Yeah, well,’ he checked his watch, ‘I could come by now but I may not be able to fix the whole thing today.’ He collected his things. ‘What’s the address?’

A pack of off-duty dustmen piled through the door. Sam pushed past them, waving to Rose as he went.

Rose nodded back.

In a few short days, life was bound to become very interesting indeed. But until then, there were tables to serve.

45 Chester Square

Olivia Elizabeth Annabelle Bourgalt du Coudray sat in the gold-and-blue breakfast room of number 45 Chester Square, twisting the enormous diamond eternity ring round on her finger, waiting for her husband’s wrath to begin.

She’d made the mistake of getting up in the night, waking her husband. So he’d spent the entire night tossing round as violently as he could, whipping the sheets on and then kicking them off again, pulling at the pillow and sighing in frustration. And now, sick with nerves, Olivia sat holding her cup of coffee, knowing that as soon as he came down he’d lecture her and accuse her of keeping him up.

Her husband, Arnaud, liked to get angry. Along with Cuban cigars, and being recognized in public, it was one of his favourite things. There was nothing like a good rant to start the day off; his eyes lit up and his skin glowed. It didn’t matter that he owned half of the world’s tennis-ball factories or that his family wealth was such that he was regarded as a political figure in France (his views were petitioned on everything from the future of the European Union to cheese production). Even billionaires could have their peace destroyed by an insomniac wife.

As one of six daughters of the famous Boston Van der Lydens, Olivia had spent her youth gliding between New York, the Hamptons and the French Riviera, lingering in Boston only so long as it took to scrape together a degree in Art History. She’d been privileged, emulated; photographed regularly for Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. When Arnaud began his rigorous courtship of her, the American press greeted it as a union between two shining stars in the international social firmament. But here in England she was virtually invisible. And in Paris with Arnaud’s family, she felt positively gauche. It didn’t help that Arnaud’s mother, the fearsome Comtesse Honorée Bourgalt du Coudray, followed her around her own wedding reception at the Paris Opéra correcting her French and apologizing for the state of her new daughter-in-law’s hair.

Olivia glanced up, catching sight of her reflection in the oval mirror that hung across the room. She possessed the wholesome American glamour that inspires Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; athletic good cheer coupled with classical features. Her blonde hair was thick and even, her blue eyes large, her cheekbones high, but, as she’d heard her mother-in-law declare loudly one evening to Arnaud, ‘She’s unremarkable, bland, no cachet.’ Then she’d uttered the damning verdict that had obsessed Olivia ever since. ‘Why choose fromage frais when you could easily afford camembert?’

Even now, the spectre of her mother-in-law haunted her; a constant front-row critic in her head.

Bland. Unremarkable. The Comtesse had only articulated what she had suspected all along: she was a fraud; a pale imitation of a person with no real talents or original thoughts, no tangible purpose in life. Her beauty and breeding had been sufficient for so many years. And now that she was forty, even those were fading.

Olivia was Arnaud’s second wife. By the time she married him, he already had two grown-up children, a huge social network spanning several continents, a daunting diary of engagements, houses all over the world, a variety of businesses, and armies of staff. He also had a reputation as an incurable playboy. At the time, she’d been foolish enough to think she could influence him. But after ten years of marriage, the opposite had happened.

And she’d failed in the one role nature might have provided.

No wonder Arnaud had grown so indifferent.

She sipped her coffee.

It was cold.

He had always been difficult, dictatorial. But before, she’d occupied a privileged position in his psyche; she was the prized object, perfect, unassailable.