Читать книгу Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector - Kathleen Tessaro, Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 45

At Smythson’s stationery shop, Flick purchased several dozen excruciatingly expensive thick, cream-coloured cards and envelopes.

‘Note the quality of the paper,’ she pointed out to Hughie. ‘Everything you use must be of the best possible pedigree, do you understand? Remember, these notes will be the only tangible evidence the subject will have. They’ll be read over and over again, shown to close confidantes, discussed, debated. In short, Hughie, they must be perfect. Always choose cream. Other colours look pedestrian. Never choose distinctive designs. They should be anonymous, so while she should be able to trace the fact that they come from Smythson’s – which, in itself, is always reassuring – she shouldn’t be able to discern anything further.’

They walked back to the office, where Flick referred to a small Rolodex full of cards, each filled with a few lines of text gleaned from poems, lyrics, even fragments overheard in conversation. Here she’d stored hundreds of clues for future use. Finally, she paused and smiled.

‘Perfect!’

Then, unpacking the cards, she slipped on a pair of thin white cotton gloves before taking up a fountain pen.

‘Gosh!’ Hughie observed.

‘You may think I’m being paranoid,’ she said, ‘but you’d be surprised at how many times a woman has resorted to having these notes dusted for fingerprints! Gloves are essential.’

Then in a large, firm hand, not too flowery, not too plain, she wrote across the middle of a blank card.

Blowing on it, she waited for it to dry before slipping it into an envelope and sealing it. Then she addressed it to ‘Olivia.’

‘Just Olivia?’ Hughie asked.

Flick paused thoughtfully. ‘The truth is, you could easily go either way. But I have a feeling that most people are quite deferential to her; that everyone calls her by her full title. I’m chancing that not many strangers would call her by her first name only. She might find that a bit provocative. Now, can you ride a bike?’

Hughie hadn’t been on a bike for quite some time – not since he was a child. So cycling across town had been a harrowing experience. By the time he finally pulled up in front of 45 Chester Square, he was little more than a collection of raw nerves, and sweating profusely, having spent the last quarter of a mile with a growling black Jaguar firmly up his backside.

On shaky legs, he climbed down, leaning the bike against the metal railings and doubling over to catch his breath. He tried to block out the all-too-vivid memory of Hyde Park Corner; pedalling for all he was worth only to find himself sandwiched in by huge, red buses, leaning on their horns, veering across lanes, sweeping him into fresh flows of speeding cars. Hughie had an epiphany: he might easily die at the hands of this woman in the Range Rover on her way to nothing more pressing than a hair appointment and, as long as he didn’t stop the flow of traffic, no one would care or, in fact, blame her.

The door of the house opened.

‘You may not leave that here,’ a haughty voice informed him. ‘Please remove it at once!’

Hughie looked up.

The butler had the knack shared by good domestic staff and public-school masters of instantly rendering those around them inadequate, before they’ve done or said a thing.

Of course, being a public-school boy, this made Hughie feel right at home.

‘Hello!’ He bounded up the steps. ‘Special delivery. By hand, as they say.’

The butler took the envelope, shuddering as he read it out loud. ‘For “Olivia”. Indeed. And who are you?’

‘Just a courier,’ Hughie said. ‘I mean, if anyone asks.’

‘I see. You’re not dressed like a typical courier.’

Hughie looked down at his jeans. ‘All my spandex is in the wash.’

The man sniffed. ‘Yes, spandex can be difficult.’

‘A devil!’

‘Best to air-dry it, don’t you find?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘It’s the same with all the synthetics. And lurex especially. Plastics are the worst.’

Hughie blinked. ‘Definitely.’ He backed down the steps. ‘Well, OK. Thanks.’

Gaunt watched in satisfaction as Hughie quickly wheeled the bike around the corner and out of sight.

Young people were so easily disturbed. It was as if God had created them for his amusement alone.