Читать книгу Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector - Kathleen Tessaro, Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 23

Later that afternoon, Hughie sat in Valentine’s flat in Half Moon Street.

‘Well,’ Valentine settled into a large leather chair near the fireplace. ‘My question to you, Mr Venables-Smythe, is, are you game?’

‘Yes, sir. I think I am.’

‘Good. You have a great deal to learn, young man, and very little time in which to learn it. It takes time to build up a repertoire, but I’m afraid current demand means you’re just going to have to do the best you can. Henry will look after you. Listen and follow every instruction without fail. We’re going to spend a considerable amount of money remodelling you. You need a haircut, a decent suit, a pair of proper shoes and a good watch. Here.’ He stood up and took an ebony box down from the mantel. Opening it, he selected a gold Rolex from a long row of five or six and threw it across to him. ‘Never underestimate details. Women notice them immediately.’

Hughie slipped the watch around his wrist. It was heavy, gleaming, the kind of fuck-off piece of kit which instantly reminded him of his father. ‘That’s very generous of you!’

‘Not that generous.’ Valentine pushed a button on his desk and the doors of the cabinet behind him slid away to reveal a large screen. ‘There’s a tracking device in it.’ He pressed another button and the screen flared to life, a mass of glowing points against the backdrop of a London street map. ‘I like to know what my boys are up to at all times.’

‘I see.’ He felt like James Bond, part of a secret, underground organization.

Valentine pushed a state-of-the-art customized PDA across the desk to Hughie. ‘Keep this charged at all times. It’s a phone, Internet access and most importantly sat nav. You’d be surprised how many marks wander off course.’

Hughie turned it on. ‘Brilliant!’

‘Do you smoke?’

Hughie tried to sound responsible and grave. ‘I’ve every intention of giving up.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Valentine tossed a silver lighter across to Hughie. ‘Yes, it’s a lighter but it’s also a highly effective listening device. Not absolutely essential but occasionally quite useful. And before you go, I need all your measurements. Leave them with Flick. Now down to the nitty-gritty. Your rate of pay will be £1,000 per hit. Aborted or imperfect missions will not be paid. For tax reasons, you need to file your own return and will be known as a personal consultant. And one final point, your entire career with this organization depends on your unconditional discretion. No one must know what you do or who your clients are. A single leak could fatally compromise the security of this enterprise. From now on, as far as your friends and family are concerned, you’ve got a job making corporate training videos. Failure to comply with the terms of your confidentiality agreement will result in immediate dismissal. Do you have any questions?’

Hughie stared in wonder at the mass of top-of-the-range gear he’d suddenly acquired. ‘So, you’re saying that all I have to do is chat to these women and I’ll be paid £1,000 a go?’

It was more money than he was used to making in a year.

Valentine pressed the tips of his fingers together under his chin. ‘There’s a lot more to a successful flirt than that.’

‘Why did you choose me? I mean, I thought I hadn’t done very well in my interview. It’s not as if I’m some great ladies’ man.’

Valentine regarded him closely. ‘Contrary to what you might imagine, ladies’ men do not make great flirts; their egos demand too much attention. A successful flirt is an entirely different experience than scoring with women. We don’t collect phone numbers or chalk up sexual conquests. In fact, it’s not about you at all. It’s far more subtle. And the real art of flirting is dependent upon an unselfconsciousness with women that allows you to put them at the centre of your attention. You have that quality, Hughie. You’re a natural. And I can tell you from many years’ experience, it’s extremely rare.’

Sandwiched firmly between his mother and Clara, Hughie had spent his whole life surrounded by women. He’d also spent a terrific amount of time trying to figure out how to soothe, calm and flatter them – to quiet whatever storms were raging inside them, splashing out onto the comparatively uncomplicated surface of his life. They’d bullied him, spoilt him, taken him in hand and then dropped him; but the feeling of women, the act of sitting and listening to them, of being their confidant, was second nature. He was relieved that he didn’t have to pretend to be a playboy or a lover.

‘I think I can do this,’ he said slowly. ‘I think this might be something I can do.’

Valentine smiled. ‘I think so too. Now, are you ready to begin your training?’

As if on cue, Henry appeared in the doorway, so handsome, flawlessly dressed, emanating smooth elegance.

I want to be like that, he thought. Leticia would love that. And another echo of his father resounded somewhere in his chest.

‘Oh, there is one thing I failed to mention,’ Valentine said, standing. ‘You must be single.’

‘Oh. Really?’ To his surprise, Hughie felt the bottom of his stomach disappear.

‘This isn’t a profession that sits happily next to long-term relationships. Girlfriends, partners, wives are all strictly off limits. A little jealousy can destroy the entire set-up. We’ve tried in the past; invariably it’s a disaster. Even the most self-possessed woman finds the idea of her man flirting with hundreds of women every month trying. Of course, we don’t expect you to be celibate. Have sex to your heart’s content. All we ask is that you confine yourself to sex and only sex. One-night stands, preferably. Anything more meaningful is forbidden.’

‘Oh.’

Valentine’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re single, aren’t you?’

‘Sure,’ Hughie nodded.

‘Good. Make sure it stays that way.’

Hughie stood up, caught Henry’s eye. For a moment he thought his face betrayed him. But, of course, that was stupid; what was there to betray?

Henry put an arm around his shoulder.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘Where do you live?’ Henry was walking just ahead of him, through the back streets of Mayfair. The air around them was cooling, the sky dimming to a light grey. Street lamps began to flicker as they strolled into Mount Street Gardens.

‘Kilburn.’ Hughie took out his cigarettes. ‘Want one?’

‘Thank you.’ Henry stopped and they both lit up. The dry, earthy scent of autumn leaves and crisp evening air mingled pleasantly with the acrid smoke. Henry inhaled deeply and their pace slowed. Bells began to ring, announcing evensong at the church opposite.

‘I’ll walk you to the train or bus or whatever it is you take.’

He managed to make the idea of travelling home sound alien, even passé.

‘Where do you live?’ Hughie asked.

‘I keep a room. In a hotel.’

Hughie had never heard of such a thing. ‘A hotel?’

Henry smiled. ‘It saves me having to cook. And they have an excellent laundry service.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Savoy.’ Henry kicked his way lazily through a pile of fallen leaves. ‘I’m particularly fond of the view of the river, especially at night.’

‘Wow!’ Hughie took another drag.

He pictured himself lying in bed, ringing down for room service every morning: a full English breakfast, large pot of tea and a morning paper. They probably even had phones in the bathtub and little bottles with shampoo and free soap. Imagine never having to make a bed (not that he did now) or boil a kettle!

‘Do the maids still wear those uniforms? You know, the ones with the little aprons and white hats?’

‘They do indeed,’ Henry grinned.

Hughie entertained a vision of Leticia wearing just such a uniform, bending over to make the bed.

Could there be anything more glamorous than living in a hotel?

They crossed into Grosvenor Square. The sky above was streaked with pink and orange, glowing like the embers of their cigarettes.

‘So, your girlfriend … what’s her name?’ Henry asked.

‘My what?’

Henry looked at him sideways. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he repeated.

Hughie considered lying to him, then gave up the idea as being too labour intensive in the long run. ‘Leticia. Only she’s not my girlfriend. It’s a bit looser than that. Actually, a great deal looser.’

‘Right,’ Henry nodded. ‘Been together long?’

‘A few weeks … maybe a little longer. But honestly, all we do is fuck. She won’t even let me stay over.’

‘Yes.’ Henry seemed unconvinced. ‘So you don’t care about her.’

‘Well, I mean, she’s great. Wild, sexy, beautiful …’

‘Uh hum.’ Henry shook his head.

‘But it’s not like I’m in love with her!’

‘Really.’

‘Really!’

Henry stopped, turned to face him. ‘I’ll bet she gives good head.’

Hughie’s eyes widened. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I said,’ Henry rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets, ‘that I’ll bet she gives good head.’

‘Well,’ Hughie bristled, ‘I honestly don’t see that that’s any of your business and quite frankly, I take offence at the question!’

‘Ah-ha!’ Henry pointed at him triumphantly. ‘You see! You do care! No feelings, my arse! You, sir, are in grave danger of being in love!’

Hughie was stunned. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. You’re teetering, Smythe. Dangling dangerously on the edge.’

An emotional precipice suddenly gaped before him. ‘Oh, God! Are you sure?’

‘I can tell, just by looking at you, you’re a romantic. And a romantic around love is like an alcoholic bartender – simply can’t be trusted. Put her down, Smythe. Walk away right now.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, seems a bit … rough.’

‘See! You’re dragging your feet! Very bad sign.’ He shook his head. ‘Best give her up, old man, if you want the job. Valentine’s very strict on this point and not without good reason.’

‘But you don’t understand! It’s the perfect set-up; she doesn’t even believe in love! Ours is a strictly physical affair.’

‘And yet …’ Henry paused, looking at Hughie closely, ‘I hear she’s as hot and horny as a racehorse after the Derby!’

‘Good God, man! Do you want to be punched?’

‘See! Inability to tolerate locker-room banter is a dead giveaway. Only with the woman we care about, is that sort of talk offensive.’

‘Oh, God!’ It was true. Henry was right. Hughie hadn’t noticed it before, but somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention (which could’ve been any time), he’d apparently crossed an invisible line. How could he have fallen so far without even noticing it? It wasn’t like him. Normally he only realized he was in love when the girl he was seeing told him so. There was usually a moment, and an awkward one at that, when they’d gaze up at him, bat their lashes, look all soft and melting. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ they’d murmur.

And a bloke had to say yes. Anything else was just rude. Besides, if you didn’t, they’d batter it out of you anyway.

‘What about you? Do you mean to say you haven’t had a girlfriend this whole time?’

Henry’s gaze was far off, on some distant landmark. ‘I loved a girl. Once,’ he added wistfully.

‘What happened?’

But Henry didn’t answer.

Instead he patted Hughie on the back. ‘Some day you’ll understand. See, being a flirt is a vocation. A calling. We flirt, young Smythe, because others cannot. And we have the ability to foster love only because we’re above it ourselves. But like all true vocations, it involves sacrifice and discipline.’

It sounded so noble. Hughie had never had a purpose in life. Henry’s words seeped through to his very core. Could it be that he was destined for a higher calling?

They walked on.

After a while Hughie asked, ‘So. How do you do it? What’s the trick?’

‘Do what?’ Henry paused to let a woman thunder past in her high heels, swinging her handbag violently to and fro like a weapon.

‘Flirt.’

‘The thing about flirting is not to think of it as flirting. The minute you do, it becomes contrived and false. The trick, if there is a trick, is just about noticing. Paying attention. What you say is secondary. And forget poetry. Simple things are best. Specific is good; it shows you’re really paying attention: “I’ve never seen such green eyes,” but not, “Your eyes are like two shining emeralds.” Women don’t want to be endlessly flattered. They want to feel as if you find it a pleasure to be with them.’

‘OK,’ Hughie’s brow knit. ‘So to flirt you try not to flirt but pay attention instead.’

‘There are three stages to any successful flirt; observing, making contact and re-framing … taking who they think they are and shaking it up a little. The matron wants to be told she’s sexy or avant-garde. The new mother wants to be told she’s handling it all seamlessly and hasn’t changed. The sophisticate wants to be told she’s delightfully unaffected, even charming. Your job is to see beyond the surface.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘You’re keen!’ Henry laughed. ‘All right, then. The easiest way is to show you.’ And he led Hughie down Brook Street and into the grand lobby of Claridge’s Hotel.

They sat at one of the small round tables in the foyer, buzzing with the sudden rush of early-evening activity that tourists generate upon arriving back from a long day’s sightseeing. A string quartet was playing Mozart and the exotic ritual of high tea was just drawing to a close; hotels being the only place left where it was enacted in its entirety, like small historical dramas for people who had only read about it in books. Henry ordered them both a drink and then sat back, surveying the scene around him.

‘There,’ he said presently, pointing to a woman sitting with two young children at a table well away from the other guests. ‘What can you tell me about her?’

Hughie looked across the foyer. The woman was about forty-two, with dark shoulder-length hair, wearing a pair of tailored trousers and a stiff white shirt. Her hands were covered in rings; gold bracelets dangled from her wrists, a thick gold chain around her neck and a pair of matching, large earrings. Her face was carefully made up, too heavily for Hughie’s taste. She sat listlessly while the little girl and boy ducked in and around the table, arguing over a small electronic Game Boy. The table was set for high tea but, although the children’s plates bore the remains of half-eaten cakes, the woman’s was empty. A cup of black tea sat cooling in front of her and a pile of shopping bags from exclusive designer boutiques was stacked at her feet. The children, who were maybe five and seven, were dressed like two Ralph Lauren models, in pristine, almost Victorian children’s clothes. As the argument over the Game Boy became more animated, she winced and whispered something to them Hughie couldn’t hear. They looked up at her anxiously. Then the girl berated the boy, gave her brother a shove, and they both settled back sullenly into their seats.

‘Well, she’s married …’ Hughie began. ‘She’s got two children. She must be rich; she’s done a lot of shopping …’

‘How do you think she feels?’ Henry pressed.

Hughie narrowed his eyes. ‘Tired?’

Henry took another sip of his whisky and soda. ‘Is that all?’

‘I don’t know. Hungry?’

‘I’d say starving. But not just for food.’ He leant forward. ‘First off, she’s American. Probably from somewhere provincial, like the Midwest; definitely not from New York or LA. That’s why the children are dressed like extras from Mary Poppins and her make-up is ten, no, more like fifteen years, behind the times.’

Hughie was amazed. ‘How can you tell?’

‘You get a feel for these things. It’s easy to tell she’s not European; there’s nothing at all natural about her.’

‘Oh.’

‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘she’s married a wealthy man but doesn’t have a job of her own. It’s unlikely the money is hers. Independently wealthy women don’t spend money in such an obvious way. They buy things, of course. But what you see here is revenge shopping. She’s spending her husband’s money, piling up as many bags as she can in order to take what she can from him.’

‘She could have a job,’ Hughie felt a sudden desire to defend her against Henry’s razor-sharp evaluation.

‘See how her hair doesn’t move with her head? That’s because it’s been blow-dried every other day. Working women don’t have time for that, or for the freshly manicured nails.’

‘I see.’ Hughie felt suitably chastened.

‘She’s bored, depressed and, if I’m not mistaken, hasn’t even seen her husband recently let alone had any romantic attention from him.’ He leant forward. ‘See how she’s wearing half of the Bulgari collection? A sure sign of low self-esteem. Too much jewellery, too much make-up; these things are like armour for women. She obviously thinks she has something to hide. So, what does she need?’

Hughie smiled wanly. ‘A good therapist?’

Henry sighed. ‘From you.’

Hughie looked at her again. A waiter tried to clear the plates and she snapped at him, like a small dog whose tail had been stepped upon. The young man retreated and for a while she just sat, her fingers pressed over her eyes.

Something about her reminded him of his own mother, of the overwhelming sense of failure that seemed to follow her about like a cloud when he was small.

‘She needs to be told she’s good at something,’ Hughie said quietly.

Henry smiled. ‘That’s good. Very good. How do you think you might do that?’

Hughie took another gulp of his drink.

This was the best job he’d had in his entire life. But he was hopelessly out of his depth.

The little boy looked up and caught his eye. And before he knew quite what he was doing, Hughie stuck his tongue out at him.

The boy giggled.

Hughie pretended to ignore him and then glanced over again. This time the boy made a face and his sister squealed in delight.

Very slowly the dark-haired woman turned round.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a soft drawl. ‘Are my children disturbing you?’

Hughie thought he caught a thin thread of fear in her voice. ‘No, not at all,’ he smiled. ‘Except for that one,’ he added, winking at the little boy. The child giggled again, squirming in his seat with glee.

‘Oh, he’s a terror!’ his mother agreed. And as she smiled, her eyes settled upon her son’s face. There was unmistakable tenderness in her expression.

She loves him, Hughie thought. Henry’s right: she’s just not that fond of herself.

‘Are you in town long?’ Henry asked, leaning in.

‘No, we go to Paris tomorrow and then Rome. I wanted the children to see Europe.’ She sounded wistful. ‘You know, Americans abroad,’ she added, almost apologetically.

‘Ah! A Grand Tour!’ Henry grinned. ‘There’s nothing like it!’

‘A Grand Tour?’

The little boy had wriggled off the chair and moved as close to Hughie as he dared, waiting for him to do something naughty.

Hughie stuck a sugar cube up his nose.

‘Oh, yes! An age-old English tradition; the invaluable education that comes from immersing yourself in the very bosom of Western civilization; inundating the youthful sensibility with the rich history and extraordinary aesthetics of the great cities of Europe … It’s the stuff of Henry James and Edith Wharton … of Fielding …’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I read Edith Wharton once! Ethan Frome. But I don’t think anyone went to Paris. It was all about these invalids on a sled.’

‘Yes, well …’

‘But I like the idea of a Grand Tour,’ she said quickly. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘It’s a noble tradition,’ Henry assured her. ‘Are you travelling alone?’

‘Well,’ her face clouded, ‘my husband was going to come but he was detained in Chicago. And New York. Business, you see. But Daddy may join us in Rome, isn’t that right?’ she said brightly. The children nodded obediently. ‘On our Grand Tour,’ she added, smiling at Henry.

Henry leant back. ‘You know, I admire you.’

‘Me?’ She laughed incredulously. Her daughter wrapped herself protectively around her mother’s chair.

‘It’s quite an unusual thing for small children to be given the chance to have such an adventure. Imagine,’ his voice lowered, gentle and intimate, ‘wandering around the great capitals of Europe with a lovely, determined young mother leading the way … mothers, especially, have the knack of making almost anything fun.’

She stared at Henry.

This was clearly not the scenario she had been living.

Hughie took the sugar cube out of his nose. ‘Not a lot of parents would do what you’re doing. Especially on their own.’

‘That’s true,’ Henry agreed. ‘You have spirit.’

‘It’s funny,’ she paused, registering their words, ‘I’ve never thought of it quite that way. Of course, I hadn’t intended to do it on my own …’

‘It’s an opportunity!’ Henry insisted. ‘A wonderful, rare chance to be alone with you that your children will remember for the rest of their lives.’

The little boy had shoved sugar cubes in both his nostrils and was making faces at Hughie. Hughie grabbed him and tickled him until they fell out.

‘Do you really think so?’ she murmured.

‘Without fail!’ Henry pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Well, we were just admiring this lovely family portrait. I wish you luck in your travels. May I make one last suggestion?’

‘Please.’

He clapped Hughie on the back. ‘When I took my son here to Paris for the first time, some fifteen years ago now …’ he gazed adoringly down at Hughie. ‘Can that be true? Was it really as long ago as that?’

Hughie blinked up at him.

‘Seems like yesterday,’ Henry sighed, ruffling his hair. ‘Anyway, we didn’t bother with things like the Louvre or Notre Dame. We just explored. There’s a wonderful merry-go-round in Les Tuileries and Les Deux Magots make a marvellous hot chocolate. And now of course he speaks impeccable French.’

‘Really?’

They both turned to Hughie.

‘La voiture est rouge,’ Hughie observed sagely. ‘Charles ressemble á un sange. Où est la bibliothèque?’

The woman giggled nervously. ‘Did he say Charles looks like a monkey?’

‘He’s mentally ill,’ Henry explained. ‘But his pronunciation is impeccable.’

Out on the pavement, Henry clapped Hughie on the back. ‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? And all we did was observe, make contact and re-frame her experience a little. Easy as pie.’

‘Easy as pie,’ Hughie repeated. ‘Only …’

‘Only what?’

‘Only, it doesn’t quite seem enough.’

‘Really?’ Hughie frowned. ‘What more is there?’

‘I don’t know … some grand gesture … something she won’t forget.’

Henry thought a moment. ‘You’re right! No point settling for half-measures. Let’s push the old girl right over the edge, shall we?’

‘Yes, let’s!’

‘Wait here.’ Henry ducked back into the hotel.

Hughie shoved his hands deep into his pockets to look nonchalant. But his heart was thumping against his ribcage, adrenalin surging through his veins. Taxis pulled up, disgorging well-dressed passengers. Hughie was conscious of trying to look a part, and at the same time, feeling a fraud. He grinned, at no one in particular, nodded to the doorman who moved away.

Then, quite suddenly, he was giggling. He tried to control it. His shoulders shuddered and his eyes watered. The doorman stared straight ahead. And Hughie was reminded of the kind of hysterical relief of performing a ridiculous schoolboy dare.

When Henry came back, it was all Hughie could do to pull himself together and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

‘Travis, Taylor! Come on!’

She stood, gathering the handles of all her shopping bags together; the pile of gold bracelets falling forward on her wrists. ‘Children! Please!’

Taylor and Travis danced around her as they made their way across the lobby and into the lift. As the doors opened again on the fifth floor, they spilt out, racing each other down the long corridor. Rummaging in her handbag, she pulled out the credit-card-shaped room key and swiped it, forcing the door of the suite open. The children bounced into the master bedroom and, giggling, flung themselves onto the bed.

‘Mommy, look!’ Taylor shouted, pointing to the dressing table.

‘What is it?’ She turned, let go of the packages; her handbag slid to the floor. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

An exquisite bouquet of creamy white roses interspersed with fresh, fragrant stalks of eucalyptus, was massed in front of the dressing-table mirror. Buried deep within the blooms was a small card.

She took it out.

‘Are they from Daddy?’ Taylor pressed herself around her mother’s leg. ‘What does it say, Mommy?’

‘No,’ she said in wonder. ‘They’re not from Daddy.’

‘Who are they from?’

‘Yes, Mommy!’ Travis jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Who sent you flowers?’

Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused.

Then she smiled.

Grabbing Taylor’s hands, she spun her round and round until they collapsed on top of the massive bed. Pillows went flying. Shrieks filled the air. Travis clambered eagerly on top of them and she pressed them both to her, these two tiny wriggling bodies, smelling of warmth and youth and cake. She tickled them, covering them in kisses, blowing raspberries on the backs of their necks until they squirmed with delight. The perfectly made bed crumpled and creased as she threw them into the soft pile of pillows, until one of them exploded, sending a cloud of white feathers shooting into the air, drifting slowly, weightlessly to the ground. They were laughing so hard they never even noticed the tears she quickly brushed away.