The Flirt

Last year changed all that.

She’d wanted children so badly, for so long. Then she finally discovered she was pregnant. No longer clinging, limpet-like to Arnaud’s life, she developed poise and sureness. Best of all it endowed her husband with the one thing money couldn’t buy. He was young again, about to be a father; bursting with unassailable masculinity. Hand over her growing bump, he ferried her around London with pride. Never before had they been so close. Together they’d chosen nursery furniture, selected schools, debated names.

Then at eighteen weeks, she woke in the middle of the night. There was blood, sticky and warm, between her legs and pain, like a tightening fist, gripping her torso.

Arnaud was out of the country. She’d gone alone to the hospital. The delivery was long, painful.

She never saw her child; never held it.

Arnaud refused to mention the miscarriage. Instead, he bought her the eternity ring: flawless; gleaming; hideously expensive.

Night-time haunted her ever since.

So Olivia sat, holding the cold coffee in the beautifully decorated Regency-inspired gold-and-blue breakfast room of Chester Square. Behind her, on the mantelpiece, the ghastly ormolu clock the Comtesse had given them as a wedding present ticked loudly.

Fifteen minutes later Arnaud descended. At sixty-two, he was still tanned and trim; he was an avid tennis player and kept up to three yachts moored in Monte Carlo, depending on his mood. His black hair was thinning. He had it trimmed each morning by his valet so that it fell over any balding patches. He shook his head now, it tumbled into place.

Olivia ran her fingers over her hair; there was the familiar fear of being less than satisfactorily groomed in his presence.

Gaunt, the butler, stalked in, delivering fresh coffee and toast with grim formality.

‘Good morning, sir.’

Arnaud grunted.

Gaunt slunk away.

For a while Arnaud said nothing; tossed his toast aside, folded open the paper loudly…

Then, of course, she had to ask. ‘How did you sleep?’

His black eyes narrowed. He put the paper down. ‘How did I sleep? Let me ask you, how do you think I slept?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Badly! That’s the answer: badly!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she faltered.

‘Up and down! Up and down! What do you do all night?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Arnaud.’

‘You need a pill! You need to go to the doctor and get a pill.’

‘Yes.’ She stared hard at her plate, at the black interlocking chain design that bordered its silvery white edges.

‘I’ll have my things moved into another room if this goes on.’ He pushed away from the table. ‘I have important things to attend to. Gaunt! Gaunt!’

‘Yes, sir?’ Gaunt appeared out of thin air.

‘Get Mortimer on the phone for me! I promised Pollard supper at the Garrick tonight. We have to discuss marketing strategies.’ He tossed his napkin down.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want the car out front in forty minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Will you…’ Olivia hesitated.

He stared at her. ‘Yes? Will I what?’

She hated asking the question; her voice sounded small, plaintive. ‘Will you be home tonight?’

‘Sweetheart, what have I just said? I’m meeting Pollard at the Garrick tonight. Perhaps if you slept at night instead of wandering around like a cat I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.’

He stalked away, taking the paper and his coffee with him. Halfway up the stairs, she could hear him ranting at Kipps, the valet, who’d placed his slippers on the wrong side of the bed. Eventually a door slammed.

In the silence that followed, Olivia was aware of countless pairs of unseen eyes upon her; witnesses to their growing domestic disharmony. The months that Arnaud had spent wooing her belonged to another lifetime.

His personality was so strong, so forceful; he always knew exactly what he wanted and what to do. Then he turned the full glare of his powerful attention on her. Her initial indifference spurred him into unprecedented romantic gestures. Fresh boxes of flowers were delivered to her each morning; gifts of diamond earrings, a sapphire ring, even a rare black pearl necklace, were sent from the finest jewellers. Once he bought her a Degas sketch she’d casually admired in a Bonham’s catalogue. They’d travelled in his private jet to exotic locations all over the world where her every need was quickly catered for. She receded into the shadow of his larger-than-life persona. It was a relief to slot into a readymade life; where every decision was made for you.

But all that was gone now.

Slowly, she pushed her chair back.

Suddenly Gaunt was there again, picking up the napkin from the floor, folding it, holding the door open.

‘May I get you anything, ma’am?’

His attentiveness almost felt like kindness. The prick of tears threatened. ‘No,’ she forced a smile. ‘Breakfast was lovely. Just perfect. Thank you.’

She wandered out into the hallway. Hours stretched out before her, empty and unbearable.

‘Begging your pardon…’ Gaunt hovered like a dark shadow in the doorway.

‘Yes?’

‘The gardener would like a word about the new water feature.’

‘Oh. Of course.’

Olivia followed him outside.

It was a London garden: a small courtyard leading to a narrow patch of grass, augmented by neat rows of flower beds. A tiny fountain trickled away in one corner and there were three long, slender eucalyptus trees near the back wall for privacy.

A dark-haired young man was waiting with his back to her.

He turned as Olivia stepped forward into the sunlight; for a moment its rays blinded her. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized that he was in fact a she; a tall, tanned young woman with dark, cropped hair. She was wearing a white T-shirt, her thumbs hooked into her pockets. Her dark eyes met Olivia’s, lips parting into a slow smile.

‘This is Ricki, the gardener,’ Gaunt introduced them.

‘Hi.’ She offered a firm handshake. ‘So, you want to get rid of this fountain, is that right?’

‘Yes, it makes the most irritating dribbling sound.’

‘Humm. It’s easily done. Have you thought about what sound you want it to make?’

‘You mean I can choose?’

‘Yeah, water makes different sounds depending on the material the feature’s made of, how high the drop is, the depth of pool underneath…it’s up to you. Personally, I’d move it out of the corner, get something a bit more dramatic going, right here,’ she indicated the centre of the lawn, ‘right down the middle. Do you have any kids?’

‘No,’ Olivia replied sharply. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing. Only kids and water don’t mix; it’s dangerous.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

‘But since that’s not a problem,’ Ricki continued, ‘we could do something fantastic. An aluminium gulley maybe, running the full length of the lawn.’ She strode into the centre. ‘Water can be fed in from a tall black slate waterfall here at the back, against this wall. See, the aluminium catches the light, contrasts with the density of the slate. Really stunning! And in the summer when the grass is bright green, it’s like a silver blade, cutting the lawn in two. Placed high enough it makes the most wonderful, rolling sound, you know, no burbling or babbling brook bullshit, but something strong, soothing…What do you think?’

The vision of a blade of water slicing across the lawn intrigued Olivia. And Ricki’s enthusiasm was compelling. ‘Oh, yes! That sounds beautiful! There’s only one thing: my husband will hate it.’

Ricki laughed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘So what?’

‘You don’t know my husband,’ Olivia smiled wryly. ‘It’s safer if we go for something a little more traditional.’

‘Let me guess, a seashell bird bath with a peeing cherub on top?’

‘Yes, that sounds more like what he was expecting,’ she admitted.

Ricki shook her head, looking at her hard with those large black eyes. ‘Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is play it safe. We could do something really interesting here—something bold.’

To her surprise Olivia blushed. ‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Pardon me, madam.’

It was Gaunt again.

‘Simon Grey from the Mount Street Gallery is waiting in the drawing room. He doesn’t have an appointment but he says it’s a matter of some urgency.’

‘Of course.’ She turned back to Ricki. ‘I’m sorry, I must go.’

‘So, it’s peeing cherubs all round?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid so. Lovely to meet you.’

Ricki tilted her head. ‘And lovely to meet you.’

Heading back into the house, Olivia felt perplexed. Simon, here, at this hour? How strange.

Simon Grey was the curator of the Mount Street Gallery, which she generously helped fund for the promotion of young artists. At his urging, she’d recently become chairman. They were opening their biggest show ever in two weeks’ time: The Next Generation, featuring the work of a controversial new performance artist named Roddy Prowl.

Art was one thing that ignited Olivia’s whole being. She often regretted she had no ability herself. Not that she’d ever dared to take a drawing course. But when she first expressed a desire to paint at the age of nine, her parents steered her firmly towards the old masters.

‘This is painting,’ her mother explained, removing a bit of lint gingerly from her daughter’s otherwise immaculate school uniform. ‘So don’t even try.’

‘When a Van der Lyden attempts, a Van der Lyden succeeds!’ her father boomed in his gin-soaked voice.

They suggested art history instead. ‘So much more useful and infinitely less messy than dabbling with paint.’

Perhaps this is what inspired Olivia’s appetite for the postmodern.

She pushed open the drawing-door door. ‘Simon. Oh, dear! Simon?’

Normally fastidious and fearsomely arranged in the manner of only the truly visually gifted, Simon’s state of disarray was shocking. His sleek dark hair was all on end, his trademark Paul Smith scarf askew; he paced the floor like a caged animal. In an instant, she knew something was terribly wrong.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Olivia, it’s nothing short of a disaster! Roddy Prowls checked himself into rehab! He refuses to come back!’ Tears filled his prodigiously lashed brown eyes; his long aquiline nose flared red at the end. ‘We have no enfant terrible, Olivia! The entire show is ruined!’

Free Lunch or a Shag

Come 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 centre of gravity resided in his bottom, pulling at him like an undertow. (In prep school he was known as ‘Girlie-Arse Gritton’.) 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 smelt 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, Male’ 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, Male’

‘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 grey 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 dialling 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 Chateau 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 leant 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 towards 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.