The Flirt (20 page)

S
tanding alone in the middle of the gallery, Olivia took a deep breath. She’d made it. She wasn’t sure how but somehow she’d got through the hours, minute by minute, until now, here she was, at the end of the day.

At last the show was ready.

And what’s more, it worked; there was a clear flow from one piece to another, a subtle dynamic of unexpected juxtapositions and parallels. She hadn’t believed it was possible; until the last piece was in place it had seemed nothing more than an incoherent jumble. But slowly, surely, she and Simon had worked it through.

“You never know just how they’re going to play off one another,” he assured her, as they wrestled a giant canvas of an erect penis into position. “That’s the fun of the thing!”

Olivia had had her doubts, in fact it terrified her, but he was right. What was more, she was good at it; her instinct to move the giant teddy to the foyer, for example. “Inspired!” Simon congratulated her, delighted. Now it stood like a bold, cartoon Colossus ushering the viewer into another world.

She walked on.

Here were the dustbin photographs, the human-hair tepee, the Myra Hindley Jubilee teaset, and then on into the next room: Red Moriarty’s “What’s the Point in Carrying On?”

Olivia stopped.

Here was her life: her velvet sofa, her books, her Holbein drawings…Soon people would wander in, stare at it; reach profound conclusions as to its meaning.

She had lived it; was still living it. Did she dare to read the reviews and subject herself to social dissection? Or did she already know everything she needed to know; in short that it had failed to relieve her of the terrible sense of internal weightlessness?

Only, strangely, she realized, that feeling wasn’t here now.

The room and its objects receded from her identity, ebbing away like a bad dream. Her drawing room was empty now, she reminded herself. A vacuum waiting to be filled.

So much of the house was empty now.

Walking on, she came to the last room.

There was nothing in it except for Mrs. Henderson’s brown velour chair.

“Mrs. Henderson Died in this Chair.”

Ugly, common, powerful; it refused to be anything other than what it was.

At first it had revolted her. But the more time she spent around it, the more she appreciated its uncompromising blandness. It would never be beautiful yet it possessed a horrible integrity all its own.

That in itself made it rare.

Then she noticed a pair of legs sticking out of it.

She walked round. There was Red Moriarty, asleep in Mrs. Henderson’s chair.

“Red!” She gave her shoulder a shake. “Red! Wake up!”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh! Oh, God, what time is it?”

“Late.” Olivia pulled her up.

“I’m sorry. I guess I fell asleep.” She stretched out like a cat. “I’ve got a lot on my mind and Rory’s not sleeping at the moment. It’s doing my nut in.”

They walked back through the gallery together.

“How old is Rory?” Olivia asked. “I’d like to meet him. It must be a challenge being a single parent.”

“He’s three. Yeah,” Red yawned again. “Challenge is a nice way to put it. Though to be honest, sometimes I think I have it easier. I’ve got friends who are always bitching about how their partner won’t help out, blah, blah, blah, or when they do do something, it’s wrong. They spend the whole time arguing. For me, the buck stops here,” she pointed to her chest. “If you don’t expect anything from anyone else, it’s simpler. Na, looking after Rory’s not bad. But I do get lonely.” She thought about Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe, the guy who never showed up again at the café. “You know, it would be nice to have a little attention. Someone who noticed you.”

“That would be nice,” Olivia agreed wistfully.

“I feel invisible. It’s like, ever since Rory was born, I was just the person pushing the pram.”

Olivia wanted to say the right thing; encourage her. “But you’re a beautiful young woman, with a wonderful new career!”

Red looked doubtful. “Yeah, well…”

“I think you’re brave. I don’t think I could do it,” she admitted.

“You could if you had to. You can do anything you have to, especially for your kid.”

Olivia made no answer. Unlocking the front door, she asked, “Are you all right to get home? Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“A cab?”

She made it sound as if Olivia were suggesting she be airlifted home.

“Na, I’ll take the train. Actually,” Red lingered, pulling at a stray strand of hair, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Olivia turned, interested. “Of course.” She closed the door. Pulling up a couple of chairs, she patted a seat invitingly. “Come on. Tell me how I can help.”

“Well, it’s just that…you see,” Red stared at her hands, “the thing is, look, I’m just going to say it: I don’t know anything about art.”

“Oh!” Olivia laughed with relief. “You had me worried there for a minute! Red, you know everything there is to know about art! You’ve created two of the most accomplished pieces I’ve ever had the privilege to represent!”

“Yes, but…” Gathering her courage, she looked Olivia in the eye. “I need to come clean. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Oh, yes!” Olivia nodded. “I’ve heard that thousands of times. Real art has a life of its own. It’s like the universe is cocreating the piece with you and you’re just a witness.”

“Well…sort of. See, it’s not like I went to art school or anything.”

“Vincent van Gogh didn’t go to art school.”

“You don’t understand…”

Olivia smiled. “I think I do. Look, it’s your first show and you’re worried about what to say to the press and critics.”

“But I’m a fraud!”

“Red, I won’t hear you talk that way! That’s just nerves! You’re under a great deal of pressure. But look,” she took hold of her hands, “I’m here to help you. We’re going to do this together. You know what? This is my first show too!”

“Really?”

“I’ve never hung a show before or helped select the artists or overseen the guest list. You and I are in the same boat!”

“Do you think?”

“Absolutely! But that’s no reason for us to give up, is it?”

“I guess not.”

Olivia stood, paced the floor. “So you’ve never been to art school. Well, why should we hide it? It’s actually a selling point. ‘Red Moriarty: an utterly raw, natural British talent!’ The media
hate anyone who’s accomplished. But they love the Athena myth—the idea that people simply emerge, fully formed, without any effort. You’ll fit in perfectly! As a matter of fact, I’m going to send out a press release!” She was becoming really excited. “What’s art got to do with it? For the past century we’ve been asking the question, ‘What is art?’ And the answer has always been, ‘Whatever the artist says is art.’ Now we’ve pushed it even further. We’re asking, ‘What is an artist?’ Can’t you see, Red? It’s revolutionary!”

Red seemed unconvinced. “Well, if you think it will work.”

“It will. I promise.” Olivia gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Now, it’s time for you to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Big things are about to happen to you and I want you at your best.”

Rose walked along the underground platform, staring at her shoes.

It was like being the only one at the party who didn’t get the joke. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that it was on her.

Rose looked up. The train pulled into the station.

But she didn’t get on.

The doors opened, closed. Off it sped, into the dusty warm darkness of the tunnel.

In front of her, across from the platform, ten feet high, was a giant poster of Mrs. Henderson’s chair.

“Don’t Miss the Next Generation Show at the Mount Street Gallery!”

Rose stared at it for a long time.

“Fuck it,” she concluded, turning round.

Out of the tube station she headed, onto Regent Street, sticking her hand out.

The cab pulled up, rolled down his window. “Where to, darling?”

“Kilburn, please.”

She climbed in, settled back into the seat, looking at the shop windows full of the latest fashions. Maybe this year she could afford some of them.

“You’re working late,” the cabby said, catching her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” she smiled to herself. “We artist types keep strange hours.”

F
lick was waiting for Hughie the next day when he arrived at 111 Half Moon Street. No sooner had he walked in the door, than she took his arm, wheeling him out again.

“Come with me,” she commanded.

Once outside, she marched him across the road to a small Italian café, where they ordered coffee and Hughie took advantage of the opportunity to down a second breakfast.

“You’re in the doghouse,” Flick announced, watching as he polished off two fried eggs, sausage, bacon, tomato, mushrooms and four slices of toast slathered in butter and marmalade in the same amount of time it would take most people to break open and butter a croissant.

“Yep,” Hughie nodded unperturbed. “Never had a job yet where the doghouse didn’t have my name on it.”

Flick took a dainty sip of latte. “Well, let’s see what we can do to get you out. I’ve never asked any of the other boys to help me with a project like this one, Hughie, for the simple reason that it requires a certain lightness of touch; an almost magical belief in the power of romance. Flirting is one thing, but this is quite another. I think you have that unique sensibility so I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself—to me, to Valentine, but also to yourself.” She placed her cup back on its saucer. “Now, let’s start with
the basics. What do you think the most potent, erotic part of a woman is?”

Hughie concentrated. “It’s a toughie,” he conceded, “but I’m going to have to say the tits.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Damn! Well, it was between the two—”

“It’s the imagination,” Flick quickly cut in, “the imagination, Hughie. If you can capture a woman’s imagination, then you will have her. But imagination is a strange creature. It needs time and distance to function properly.”

Hughie nodded.

“Do you understand what that means?”

He shook his head.

“It means that a seduction that takes place slowly, with only the most exquisite images and experiences for the imagination to work on and grab hold of, will yield powerful results. This is our challenge: to stimulate the senses, evoke love and inspire lust without ever being seen.”

“Tricky.”

She considered. “Not as tricky as one might think. In any good seduction, the person being seduced does most of the work anyway. And remember, I use the words ‘love’ and ‘lust’ but what I’m really referring to is romance.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, there’s a huge difference!” she laughed. “Romantic love is an illusion, Hughie. It can be manipulated, twisted, piled up like a bunch of fun-house mirrors. The very nature of it is deceptive. It promises closeness but the only thing it ever really reveals is the dreams and fears of the person with the obsession. That’s why it’s so easy to control.”

“Hey, that’s a bit harsh! You don’t really believe that, do you?” he laughed nervously. She painted an altogether darker picture of
his noble new profession. “I mean, what about love at first sight? Romeo and Juliet and all that?”

“This is why I chose you, Hughie,” she winked. “Because you’re young and fresh and still believe Santa Claus is going to shimmy down your chimney come Christmas Eve. That’s going to come in handy.” She signaled for the bill. “This is a business. We provide a service. And like most service-orientated professions, we exploit a basic human need. In our case that need is the desire to be loved. Most people want to be adored but they don’t want to do anything to get it. They simply want some attractive stranger to come along out of the blue and find them irresistible. If it were any more complicated than that, we’d be out of a job.”

It sounded a bit too familiar; Leticia was a beautiful stranger who’d seduced him on a bus. One minute he was single, lonely; the next head over heels. But was all the intensity love or something else entirely?

The question frightened him. He pushed it out of his mind.

“Now,” she continued briskly, “we’ve received a commission for a woman in Chester Square—a wealthy, elegant, sophisticated and very well-known woman named Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray.”

“Married to that tennis-ball chap, right?”

“Exactly.” She took out her wallet.

“Oh, please! Allow me!”

Flick looked at him. “Do you actually have any money, Hughie?”

“Well, not as such. But I’ve got an Amex card.”

“Why don’t I take a rain check?” She took a tenner from her wallet, handed it to the waiter. “Come on.”

They strolled out into the sun.

She slipped her arm through his. “You see, the truth is no one ever really falls in love with anyone but themselves. Love is a mirror; a reflective surface projecting who we wish we were. What
we’re all waiting for is someone to come along who will show us something new about ourselves that we can adore. And then, because someone loves us, in turn, we love ourselves. Does that make sense?”

Hughie grunted. It was all getting a bit philosophical. Besides, some lucky sod had just driven by in a new TVR.

Flick took his grunt as a sign of admiration for her powers of perception. “Now, a good Cyrano,” she continued, “is a combination of boldness and unavailability. But the beginning is always simple.” She linked her arm through his. “And so our first stop is Smythson’s.”

“What’s a Cyrano?”

“Ah,” she smiled, “I thought you’d never ask!”

(Another Digression)

D
uring the dark days of the Second World War, when London was a smoldering shadow of its former imperious self, the Charleses’ shop in St. James’s was badly bombed. Celia and the Baron were older now; frailer, living off rations, renting rooms above a bookshop in Curzon Street. Their staff of flirts had all been drafted, some wounded, some killed, serving in Europe, Africa, even Japan. For a while a very handsome Polish refugee named Milos filled in. He had a limp and his English was confusing. But eventually even he was rounded up and sent to work in a munitions factory in Yorkshire. Of course the hairdressing side of the business failed completely; not many women had the money or need for elaborate hairstyles and for those who could afford it, sitting in a front room above a bookshop wouldn’t do. Besides, times moved on. Permanent waves were all the rage.

In short, the world was ending. Hitler was invading; London destroyed. And all that was beautiful, was gone.

The Baron took it badly. He’d once pulled himself up by his bootstraps, known greatness; inspired love. Now he was left to sort through dusty secondhand books all day in the shop below while his wife Celia, a woman of property and social standing,
scoured the streets for anything of value left in the bomb wreckage.

But life wants love. It demands it.

And so it came to pass that on a dark moonless evening, during the bitterest of winter months, in the middle of a blackout with sirens wailing, a young man rang the bell in Curzon Street.

Cursing, the Baron stumbled down the narrow stairs and opened the door.

It was a soldier, a young captain, beside himself with anxiety, clutching a photograph of the girl he loved. You see, he explained, breathless, his father had told him about the Baron, recommended he find him; said, in fact, that he was the only man in England who could possibly help.

As you can imagine, this bolstered the Baron’s ego no end. In a flash the young man was upstairs, drinking a hot cup of tea, explaining to both Celia and the Baron his terrible predicament. He loved this girl. And he was quite sure she loved him, only she had a rather fickle nature. The thing was, he just didn’t think he could bear to go off to war, to possible death, without knowing for certain that she would remain faithful.

They nodded.

It was an unusual commission, still, something might be done.

And where could they find her?

“Well,” he smiled nervously, “only in the most beautiful village in Wales!”

Ah.

Wales.

How could they influence a girl so far away?

Celia looked at the Baron. And he at her.

Then they both looked at the fresh face of the man before them, twenty-one if he was a day, eyes wide with terror. He was to set sail for Normandy in the morning. The photo he was holding,
its edges worn from too much tender handling, trembled in his hands.

“She will wait for you.” The Baron clasped his shoulder. “I promise.”

“But how will you manage it?” he wanted to know.

“Well…”

“We have our methods,” Celia assured him, tucking the last bit of not-too-stale bread into his rucksack. “Trust us.”

Off the young man went, swallowed up into the cold waiting darkness; brave, hopeful again.

And thus began a long series of sleepless nights while the Charleses racked their brains; what could they possibly do to help him?

Not long afterward, picking through a bombed-out house in Lisson Grove, Celia happened across a slip of paper; nothing more than a single line, written across the back of a calling card.

If I tried to kiss you, would you let me?

The sentiment thrilled of illicit love; just reading it made Celia’s heart race. Tucking it into her pocket, her mind tangled with it; stories, images unfolding. There was a play somewhere, in French…a man who seduces a woman through letters…sexy…teasing…charming.

Somewhere between Marylebone station and Grosvenor Square it came to her—distance was no obstacle if you never saw the lover! What if they seduced the girl through a series of anonymous notes? If they could focus her romantic imagination on a mysterious stranger, perhaps she’d be too distracted to take up a real lover.

The very next day, an assault was launched on the fickle young woman in Wales. She couldn’t imagine who in London was so besotted with her, but the sparse, bold, often poetic sentiments
fluttering in her letter box kept her intrigued; too consumed, in fact, to be interested in anyone else.

She had quite a collection by the time the war was over.

And I’m pleased to say that, despite a heady influx of American soldiers, she remained faithful to her noble captain, whose own letters had abruptly stopped after three weeks.

Who never returned.

Who died, in a frozen marsh, under a sky black with the wings of enemy planes, dreaming of a future happiness.

Certain that someone loved him.