The Flirt (19 page)

W
ell?” Leticia peered over Sam’s shoulder as he examined the pipes underneath the bathroom floorboards with a torch. “What is it?”

“A leak.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he looked up at her, “funnily enough it’s the same leak I looked at before only now it’s worse.” Sitting back on his heels, he wiped his hands with a rag. Two days’ stubble darkened his jaw; his hair, badly in need of a trim, curling almost to his shoulders. He’d been doubling up, working for private clients during the day while spending nights installing bathrooms and kitchens in a new luxury development in Willesden. All he wanted right now was a strong cup of tea. Not that he was likely to get one from her. “What did you think would happen? That it would just repair itself?”

“There’s no need to be rude.”

“I’m not being rude, just realistic.” He rummaged around in his bag, straining to see. “Look, any chance of turning the lights on?”

“Not today.” She concentrated on the floor. “No electricity.”

“If you need a good electrician…”

“No, I don’t need a good electrician!” This was all so humiliating. “It has to do…to do with the bill.”

“Miscalculated?”

“Unpaid,” she mumbled.

“Ah,” he made a face. “I don’t mind telling you that’s not the sort of information a tradesman likes to hear.” He got out his torch again. “The best thing for me to do right now is turn the water off at the mains. I don’t suppose you know where the stopcock is?”

She stared blankly at him.

“Nah, didn’t think so.”

His back smarted as he got up. Too much time curled into cramped spaces. He headed for the workroom.

Leticia trailed after him.

“So what are you going to do?” She sounded like a child.

“Fix it.” He looked under the sink.

“But…you see,” how could she put this? “I’m having something of a cash-flow crisis. Just a temporary one, but all the same…”

“Sell some more knickers.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

He scanned the room. “Why not?”

“Well, for starters,” she informed him haughtily, “they’re tailor made. Depending on the design they take days to produce.”

“That’s not very savvy, is it?”

Her eyes widened. Who was this person?

“Savvy isn’t the point!”

He located the stopcock in the boiler cupboard. “In business, savvy is the whole point. You should get a commission. Flog your stuff to one of the big chain stores.”

“I’m a designer not a businesswoman,” she corrected him.

“And it shows. Look, how you make your money or don’t make it is none of my concern. But you’ve got to do something about this leak whether you like it or not. Now I can do it, or someone else can do it; doesn’t bother me either way. But it needs to be
done. And I like to be paid for my work. I’m funny like that. So,” he twisted it to the off position, “what I propose is you make up your mind and let me know.” He turned round, twirling his wrench from finger to finger. “But as of right now, you have no water.”

“You’re blackmailing me!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Blackmailing you? Lady, I’m saving you a fortune in more damage! But fine!” He turned back to the valve. “If you want to come back tomorrow into a shop entirely flooded, be my guest.”

Leticia imagined all her beautiful French silks completely destroyed; her wonderful furniture drowning in filthy London water. “No! No! Listen, I’ll sort the finances. When can you start?”

He smiled, pushed a dark curl out of his eyes. “It just so happens I’ve begun. Now, any chance of a cup of tea?”

(Part Three)

T
he cab pulled up in front of Hermès. Henry had made them drive with both windows down to give Hughie a blast of fresh air and by the time they got out, he was feeling a bit more clear-headed. Henry was right: he’d been temporarily intoxicated and now regretted groping the girl. She was just a kid, after all. From now on he was going to do only what he was told, no more and no less.

“Right,” Henry stopped before they went in, “I’m going to show you the way it’s done. This is the classic shopping flirt, a specialty of mine. And all you have to do is watch, understood?”

Hughie nodded obediently.

“Good.” He smoothed down his hair with his hands. “This one couldn’t be simpler, Smythe. Each mark will have a particular weakness—jewelry, shoes, handbags…Let’s do scarves today. Anyway, all you have to do is pretend to be shopping for someone else, someone neutral—in my case it’s always a niece or a goddaughter but for you, I should think a sister would do nicely.” They made their way through the front door, weaving past the crowds of Japanese tourists.

“Not under any circumstances use a girlfriend, for obvious
reasons. Once you spot your mark, all you have to do is go directly to the sales assistant—try to choose a man if you can, other women can throw off a good flirt—and ask, quite loudly, to see all the most expensive, exclusive items. Remember, all we’re doing here is giving a little light lift to the ego; we’re observing, making contact and reframing.” He scanned the room. “Here’s a likely candidate,” he nodded in the direction of a woman in the corner. “Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. We’ll be in and out of here in no time. Now,” he fixed Hughie with a look, “observe my detachment. The skill of a physician, remember?”

“Right.”

“Browse a little. Stand near enough to hear but try not to be too obvious. You might want to make notes.”

Hughie watched as Henry ambled casually over to a long glass case filled with exquisite silk scarves. There, he parked himself next to a tall bony woman in her late fifties with limp brown hair, sensible lace-up shoes and an ancient Burberry mac belted around her narrow waist.

Henry smiled.

She stared back.

Clearing his throat, he caught the eye of the nearest sales assistant and signaled to him.

“I’d like to see some scarves, please!” He turned to the woman. “I hope I’m not cutting in. Were you waiting to be served?”

“No, no!” she said, her face flushing a violent shade of red. “I was just…just looking.”

The assistant proceeded to unfold a selection of scarves across the counter. “This is the new season’s line,” he informed Henry.

Henry tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. “Hummm. It’s difficult,” he sighed. “You see, it’s for my goddaughter. The truth is, I feel a bit out of touch. Pardon me,” he flashed the woman another smile, worthy of Cary Grant himself. “Would
you be so kind as to give me your opinion? I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to know a thing or two about fashion,” he nodded to her miserable apparel, “and I’d be so grateful for a woman’s insight.”

“Me? Oh, I’m not sure…they’re all so lovely!”

“Well, do you think you might be willing to try one on for me?” Henry turned to the assistant. “Would you mind?”

“Feel free,” he said.

“You see, she’s awfully young, only twenty-two—about your age, really.” Henry gazed into the woman’s sad gray eyes. “Her coloring’s not as delicate as yours; she’s pretty, of course, just not as soignée as you are. Do you mind?”

“Oh, no! If you think I’ll do. No, not at all!”

Henry draped the luxurious, cool silk scarf artfully around her shoulders then stood back.

She flushed again. “Well, what do you think?”

Henry regarded her as if she were nothing less than Botticelli’s Venus. “If only Poppy had your style!” he said at last. “Such a neck! Like a swan! And the shape of your chin!”

“My chin?” She turned to examine herself in the mirror, tilting her head. “You, you think I look nice?”

“You are nothing less than a vision!”

The assistant snorted.

Henry ignored him. “The only difficulty now is: you’ve ruined it for me. It would be a sacrilege to buy another woman that scarf after I’ve finally seen what it really should look like.”

“I don’t believe it!” she giggled, girlishly.

“It’s true.” Henry shook his head, smiling sadly. “I’m sensitive to these matters. Once I’ve seen perfection, I find it impossible to accept anything less. Poor old Poppy will have to make do with something else.”

The woman stood mesmerized by her own reflection.

“I suppose I’ll just put these away then,” the assistant snapped, bending down to reopen the case.

“It’s been an unexpected pleasure.” Henry bowed again then moved away, nodding to Hughie, who was lurking behind the umbrella display.

That’s when Hughie saw the woman shove one of the scarves into her pocket with lightning speed.

He tried to signal to Henry but Henry just glared at him.

“Oh, dear, is that the time!” She sprinted for the door.

“Allow me!” Henry, ever the gentleman, rushed to open it for her, watching as she scampered down the street.

The assistant looked up. “Oh, my God! Thief!”

There was a collective gasp.

“Where?” Henry looked round.

“There!” The assistant pointed to him. “Thief!”

Henry blinked. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding!”

“Thief! Thief!” The assistant shrieked.

Half a dozen black-suited security guards appeared, each the size of a small car.

Hughie lurched into action, bundling Henry out the door, onto Bond Street. “Run!” he shouted, grabbing him by the tie, yanking him along. “Come on, old man! Keep up!”

“Oh, bugger it to hell!” Henry cried, sprinting after him.

I
f you’ve ever held your own newborn child, you will know exactly what Jonathan Mortimer felt like, holding the tiny little girl, curled, fast asleep, in the crook of his arm. I won’t attempt to describe it, but suffice to say, it’s one of the great moments that life has to offer—a brief reprieve when all is well with the world, when mother and baby are safe, when relief and triumph mingle in a way that occurs all too rarely.

The curtains were drawn around the bed but they didn’t block out the noise of the other women and babies on the ward or the smell of the curry that the Indian woman’s mother had brought to her exhausted daughter in the bed next to Amy’s.

Still, Jonathan was oblivious. In fact it wasn’t until he looked up, beaming with ridiculous paternal pride at his “achievement,” that he noticed Amy was unusually subdued. She was still in a way that was entirely separate from the Hallmark moment he was experiencing, and it frightened him. So he said what he always said when he didn’t know what to say.

“I love you, darling.”

“Is that so, Johnny?”

She hardly ever called him Johnny. It was a term of endearment that harked back to another life they’d shared, before the division of domestic labor forced them onto more formal terms.

He laughed like a bad actor playing the Ghost of Christmas Present. “What’s all this? Of course I do! I think someone’s got a touch of the baby blues!”

She turned away. “Maybe.”

This was not his Amy; resilient, strident, list-making Amy.

This was another version, but a version he recognized all the same. Again, it echoed back to the young woman he’d wooed and won, who used to lie next to him at night, trying on various future visions of happiness like a child trying on dressing-up clothes.

The little girl turned fretfully in her sleep, clenching and unclenching her tiny red hand. Jonathan slipped his little finger into her palm and she settled again, holding on with all her might.

And suddenly Jonathan saw what had been lost on him for many years.

It was all so fragile.

Only it wasn’t just the baby that seemed small and delicate. It was Amy and him, their whole life together.

The thread that bound them was frayed and taut, stretched to the very point of snapping.

He felt lost.

He wanted her back; the Amy who knew what to do in every situation, who refused to be bowed by the grinding unrelenting business of everyday life, whose vision of their home and family usually blinded him with the same certain, unswerving power of a lighthouse beam. And it struck him that perhaps he’d been childish in his expectations of her, that maybe he’d taken her strength for granted.

“I love you, darling,” he said again, because, of course, he didn’t know what else to say.

But also because, for the first time in a very long time, he actually meant it.

V
alentine sat across from Hughie and Henry with his hands pressed against his forehead. “Never, ever, in my entire life—” He stopped himself, unable to continue, shaking his head. “It’s been a disaster, gentlemen! A farce!”

“The thing is—” Henry began.

“No!” Valentine raised his hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear it! I am stunned, Mr. Venables-Smythe! Completely at a loss for words!”

(This didn’t stop him from elaborating further.)

“What could’ve possessed you?” He stood up, pacing the room. “After everything we told you about the dangers of touching the mark!”

“I think you’re being a bit hard on him,” Henry mumbled.

Valentine swirled round. “Do you?” His tone was lethal. “Do you really?”

Henry straightened. “Actually, I do. If it was anyone’s fault it was mine. He was shadowing me. And he did save me from being arrested.”

Hughie looked across. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“The two of you are equally irresponsible!” Valentine despaired. “I have half a mind to fire you both!”

“Please don’t.” Flick was standing in the doorway. “At least, not until you’ve heard my idea.”

Valentine glowered. This was clearly his show; he didn’t like being upstaged.

“I need some help,” she continued. “Maybe Hughie could take a break from the streets and give me a hand instead. It would allow him to take stock; get a feel for the tone of what we do.”

“Perhaps,” Valentine conceded. “But that’s an important job, for a big client. It needs a delicate touch.”

“He’ll be under my jurisdiction,” Flick promised, looking across to Hughie. “I’ll take you on but only on the understanding that you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hughie agreed. “I’m at your command.”

“Yes, well,” Valentine straightened his cuffs, “I would be lying if I said I didn’t have serious reservations about your ability to be reformed into a useful member of this organization, Hughie. But I will give you one more chance to redeem yourself. This is an extremely important assignment. If you prove trustworthy, I will review your situation.”

He crossed to the door.

Henry and Hughie stood up, awkward as two cadets in the presence of a senior officer. “But needless to say, I’m not just disappointed, gentlemen.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “I’m disgusted!”

And then he left.

(In fact, as it was his flat, he didn’t have anywhere to go, so he just stood in the bedroom for a few minutes.)

Flick flashed Hughie a look. “Make no mistake, I’ve just saved your arse,” she assured him, walking back to her office.

“Well,” Hughie slapped Henry on the back, “that went pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Oh, dear.” Henry mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Hughie had never seen him so tired or drained.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, dear,” Henry said again. “I think we’d better go home now.”

“Come on, old chap.”

And Hughie took him back to the Savoy.

What Henry referred to as keeping a room at the Savoy, was in fact an entire suite. Along with a generous bedroom, bathroom and dressing room, there was also a living room with a fireplace, dining table and even a baby grand piano near the window overlooking the Thames and the Embankment, massed with some of London’s most memorable landmarks—the London Eye, Cleopatra’s Needle; the dome of St. Paul’s was just visible and Big Ben sounded clearly when the wind was right.

Hughie rang down for some tea while Henry listlessly checked through his messages, returning phone calls while Hughie wandered from room to room, absorbing the glamor of Henry’s existence. Rows of tailor-made suits lined his wardrobes, piles of history books and biographies were neatly stacked along the windowsills of his bedroom. It was all exquisite but also strangely anonymous. Hughie tried to put his finger on what was missing. Then he realized there were no photographs anywhere; nothing from that former life Henry must’ve had. It was as if he had no origins, existing only in the present.

“Oh, dear,” Henry sighed, closing the door after the waiter had delivered their tea.

They sat across from one another on the matching silver-gray sofas.

Hughie passed him a cup. “Come on now, it wasn’t that bad!”

“Wasn’t that bad!” Henry blinked at him incredulously. “Do you realize that she never even looked at me? She was nothing! Little more than an outline of a woman! Still, she didn’t even notice me!”

Hughie wasn’t sure he followed. He’d imagined Henry was upset about the near arrest. But apparently it was something altogether more awful.

Henry put the tea down and crossed to the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. “I’m getting old!” Standing sideways, he scrutinized his chin. “Look! Sagging! Oh, God, it’s begun! I’m falling apart!”

Hughie didn’t have the heart to tell him that actually, it must have begun some time ago. Instead he tried to focus on the positive.

“You’re still a very attractive man.”

Henry turned. “Really? Then why did she do it? Why? It’s never happened before. Shopping is my specialty; I created it! Nine times out of ten a woman will leave without even buying anything—that’s how good I am! Or rather, how good I used to be. But this one…she’s so unaffected she had the presence of mind to plan and execute a robbery right under my nose!”

“You make it sound like
The Thomas Crown Affair
! It’s hardly a robbery, Henry! The old bird nicked a scarf.”

He wasn’t taking this well.

“The point is, Smythe, it’s never happened before! Never!” He turned back to his reflection. “Look at this! Do you see this? That isn’t just a line, it’s a furrow! I have a furrow the size of the M25 between my eyes!”

“It makes you look distinguished.”

“Ha!” Henry made the same sort of sarcastic laugh Hughie was used to hearing his mother make after a couple of drinks. “Don’t try to handle me, Hughie!”

“I’m not!”

(He was.)

“Really, Henry, no one would ever know you were, what…fifty?”

Hughie had never been good at guessing people’s ages. Then again, he’d also never been very good at remembering that he wasn’t very good at guessing people’s ages, until, of course, it was too late.

Henry blanched and stood there, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “You think I’m fifty?”

“No…not really…did I say that?”

“You did! You said fifty! Fifty fucking years of age!”

“I’m teasing! Come on! Lighten up, Henry! Look at this,” he groped around on the tea tray, “a shortbread finger! Mmmm! Want one?”

“No, I do not! I can’t believe you think I’m that old! I’m shattered! Really shattered!”

“Well, I’m fairly shit at that sort of thing anyway. So tell me, how old are you really?”

Henry stiffened. “Well, fifty, if you must know.”

Hughie stared at him a moment, then put his tea down. “OK, now this is stupid. I can handle a world where I have to walk on eggshells around women who are terminally insecure for no particular reason no matter what their age, weight, height, hair color—you name it! But to live in a world where men are just the same, just as ridiculous?” He stood up emphatically. “No, I say! Absolutely not! Where is the silent heroism of the lonely male? Where are the Clint Eastwoods, the Steve McQueens, the Robert Mitchums of this world? Where are the men whose whole grooming regime consisted of nothing more than a shit and shave? Who spat in the face of time and wore their wrinkles with pride? I ask you, would Bogart give a toss about plastic surgery? Would John
Wayne worry about sunscreen? Would Sean Connery think twice about a double chin? Never! I shudder to think what sort of pale, insipid existence we have to look forward to if we enter into that singular, unfortunately female state of mind that depends wholly on the approval of others before we can ever begin to see ourselves. In short, Henry, you are acting like a girl!”

He sat down again and finished his tea.

Finally Henry spoke.

“I’m…I’m so ashamed! My only excuse is that I’ve been in this profession far too long. It’s everything to me—my whole life! And I suppose I’ve gone a bit…a bit mad,” he conceded.

Hughie raised an eyebrow. “You never had another job?”

Henry said nothing.

“You couldn’t have lived all your life in hotels! Why don’t you have any photos? What happened to your family?”

Henry closed his eyes. “I have no family. You see, I’m a fraud, Hughie. A terrible old fraud. I should retire; give it all up. I’m done with this game. Finished!”

Crossing, he opened the cabinet that housed a bar.

“Let’s have a real drink,” he said, taking out a bottle of Scotch. He poured out two glasses, handed one to Hughie then sat down again. “I’ll tell you why I have no photos, no family.” He paused, as if he were gathering the strength to go on, then smiled wryly. “Life is odd, young Smythe.”

“That’s a fair assessment.”

“It happened like this,” Henry began. “When I was very new to the game, some twenty-odd years ago, I was hired to flirt with a young wife. Her husband arranged it; he was a bit of a cad, always getting caught with his pants down, and wanted to cheer her up. And in those days, it was all a bit more rough and ready. Flick didn’t prepare reports—she wasn’t even with us then. Valentine just used to give us a photo and an intercept point and you had to wing it.”
He took a slug of Scotch. “Well, I was a bit cocky—young, good-looking, money in my pocket. I thought I’d seen it, done it all! The intercept point was Peter Jones and there was my mark, looking at towels.” He paused. A dreamy look filled his eyes. “The photo didn’t do her justice. I’m telling you, from the moment I laid eyes on her, I was smitten! And when I went to speak to her, I was completely tongue-tied. I can’t tell you what an ass I made out of myself!” He looked across at Hughie. “She never bought the towels, young Smythe.”

“What happened?”

“I spent the entire day with her. I took her to lunch, we walked through the park. Valentine went mad. I’d missed so many appointments. I lied—told him I was ill. And the next day we met again. Only we spent it in a hotel.”

“Henry!”

“I know!” He leaned forward. “You see, I loved her! I’d never really been in love before, but I loved her.”

“And did she love you?”

“Yes, I think she did. But nothing came of it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m almost too embarrassed to tell you.”

“Go on!”

“I never knew her name! She wouldn’t tell me; terribly worried about getting found out. And in those days Valentine thought we didn’t need to know things like that. Better for client confidentiality. I couldn’t very well ask him without arousing his suspicions. We saw each other a few more times; the last rendezvous we spent here, in this very room. And I told her that if she ever wanted to find me, I’d be here, at the Savoy. It was a bit over the top—I was trying to impress her. But, you see, I like it here. It reminds me of the happiest hours of my life.”

“And you’ve been waiting for her to contact you ever since?”

Henry sat back. “I know it seems silly. I should really be looking for some old rich widow so I can retire in peace. But I can’t help myself. A man can dream, can’t he?”

“She’s bound to be a bit rough now,” Hughie warned.

Henry just smiled. “I’m sorry I made you break up with Leticia. I’m not much of an example to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t your idea, was it?” Hughie felt relaxed and peaceful; it was nice to share confidences with Henry. He kicked his shoes off, stretching out on the sofa. “You’re only human, Henry. Hey, do you mind if I kip here for the night? It’s a lot more comfortable than at my sister’s.”

“Be my guest,” Henry said, finishing off his Scotch.

He got him a spare pillow and a blanket.

“She might still come,” Hughie said.

“She might.”

“And you’ll be here.”

“Yes.” Henry paused by the door. “Oh, she was lovely, Smythe! Blue, sort of greenish eyes…actually, maybe they were brown…hard to remember now. They were pretty, whatever color they were.”

Hughie rolled over onto his side. “So you believe in true love?”

“Absolutely! Without a doubt. Don’t you?”

“Utterly.”

Pause.

“So…why do you think, I mean, if true love exists, why are we so busy?”

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Henry concentrated. “Well,” he decided, “I think it’s that they, you know, the rest of them, don’t try hard enough.”

“That must be it.”

“Lazy.”

“Unlucky?”

“Much lower standards.”

“Exactly!”

“It’s all about staying true to the dream, my boy.”

“Never letting go!”

“Precisely.” Henry turned off the light. “Goodnight.”

Hughie snuggled down. “Goodnight.”

Outside, the view of the Embankment and South Bank dazzled. The Millennium Wheel turned almost imperceptibly, Big Ben chimed, the inky black waters of the Thames curved into the distance, reflecting every glowing detail in duplicate.

“She’ll be back,” Hughie whispered.

Henry wavered, a dark silhouette by the door. “Of course she will.”

But for a man who’d waited so long, he sounded oddly unconvinced.