The Flirt (23 page)

W
hen Leticia opened her eyes Sam was holding her.

“Take it easy. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I don’t know.” She tried to sit up. “Ahhh!”

“Concentrate,” he commanded. “How many?”

She focused. “Three.”

“Good. Very good. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere. My head mostly.”

“Relax.” He cradled her tighter. “Don’t worry, it will be OK. There’s an ambulance coming.”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I live right across the street.” It was hard to keep her eyes open; she felt so sleepy. “Please, just take me home.”

“No. And look at me, understand? Look at my eyes.”

She was too tired; too aching to fight. So she looked into Sam’s eyes. They were green, flecked with gold; steady.

“How are you doing?” His voice sounded far away.

Everything hurt; every bit was in pain. “He’s not coming back. He’s gone.”

“Who?”

The ambulance arrived. Sam lifted her up, placed her down somewhere, yes; she was on a bed. Yes, in an ambulance.

“Are you coming?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

There was Sam, sitting next to her, holding her hand tight.

“You don’t need to do that,” Leticia murmured, closing her eyes.

“Shhhh. Don’t try to talk.”

All she remembered for a few moments was the sound of sirens. But they were her sirens.

“We’re here,” Sam said.

“Where?”

“Accident and Emergency.”

Leticia tried again to force herself upright. Swinging her legs out, she stood up; felt dangerously dizzy. She gripped the door handle hard.

“Steady on!” Sam grabbed her about the waist and flung her arm around his shoulder. “Lean on me.”

“I don’t need any help.” The ground spun under her feet. “I’m going to be sick.”

Sam and another medic veered her toward a row of low shrubs just in time. When she was done, they piled her into Accident and Emergency, where she passed out.

When she came to, she was on a trolley. Someone was holding her hand. It was a warm, solid hand. She flicked her eyes open.

It was Sam’s hand.

He smiled.

“She’s awake,” he called, searching for a doctor.

Leticia tried to turn her head but it felt as though it was made of marble. Her neck was sore and unbearably stiff. A young doctor came over.

“Well, looks like you’ve got a nasty concussion. No broken bones or internal injuries so far as we can tell. We’ll do some more tests all the same. Is there someone at home we can contact?”

“I live alone.”

“I see.” He sighed the sigh of a man fighting a losing battle. “I don’t think it’s serious but even after we release you, it’s not safe for you to be on your own. You’ll need plenty of bed rest and you’re going to have one hell of a headache. Someone needs to look after you.”

Leticia thought of Leo in St. Thomas’s hospital on the other side of town and of her parents, finally living their dream of a homecoming to Israel. Then she thought of Hughie.

“There is no one.” And, much to her shame, she began to cry.

“I’ll look after her,” Sam said quietly.

“No!” She tried to shake her head. “Oooww!”

“Excellent.” The doctor made a note on the chart. “To be released into the care of Mr….?”

“Lewis.”

“Mr. Lewis,” the physician wrote, “for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Forty-eight hours! You want me to spend forty-eight hours with…with…a stranger! You don’t understand; I’ve only just met this man!”

“I’m not offering for my own amusement,” Sam pointed out. “It’s not like I haven’t got better things to do with my time.”

“So do them!” she snapped. “I’m not some invalid!”

“Actually,” the doctor interrupted, “that’s exactly what you are.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Look, unless the CAT scan shows significant damage, we don’t have enough beds to keep you. So I suggest you accept this gentleman’s kind offer and work something out.”

“If I was really going to do you harm would I have bothered to ring an ambulance?” Sam asked.

“Exactly.” The doctor tossed her medical chart on top of her stomach. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a stabbing, a mugging, a couple of overdoses and at least four alcohol poisonings to attend to. DJ! Take this woman up to imaging, please!”

Sam sat down again, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“Great,” she muttered, as the porter, a kid with an iPod tucked into his ear, loped over and gave the trolley a shove that sent her flying halfway down the hall.

“Hey! Easy does it!” Sam shouted.

The kid reached out a long arm, stopping a head-on collision between her and a wheelchair-bound pensioner just in the nick of time before expertly wheeling her around the corner, all to the throbbing bassline of 50 Cent.

It did not suit Leticia to be handed over to the care of Sam Lewis, registered plumber.

Sullen and silent, she stared out of the window of his white Transit van. Dawn was breaking, the streets empty, cold. They pulled up in front of her flat in Pimlico.

“I’ve got it.” Sam walked round, opened her door and held out his arm. “Here.”

“No. I’m fine.” She struggled to climb out but she was so tired; the ground seemed miles away. Reluctantly, she took his arm. “Thank you.”

Opening her bag, she rummaged around. “Damn! I’ve lost my keys!”

Sam took them out of his pocket. “You left them in the shop. I was looking for you, trying to give them back, when you had the accident.”

“You were?” she asked awkwardly.

“Let me get that.” He opened the front door and helped her up the stairs.

“Great. OK. Thanks for all your help.” She stopped on the hall landing, held out her hand. “I can take it from here.”

“Oh, really?” he smiled. “This from the woman who walked into the dustbins in the hospital car park.” He reached around her and unlocked the door.

“A momentary lapse of direction.”

“You apologized to them. Very polite, you are.” He nudged her inside. “I don’t mind telling you, you could do with a bath. Now, where’s the kettle?”

“Oh, please!” she snapped. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

He looked around the living room with its marble fireplace, polished parquet floor and dainty matching cornflower-blue Empire chairs. “Thanks, Marie Antoinette. I’ll do my best.”

“Look, I’m not having you staying here, do you understand?”

“You haven’t even got a sofa. What am I meant to do? Curl up like a cat in one of those chairs? This may come as a surprise to you but I actually own a home of my own.”

“I just want to be clear about what I won’t accept.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looked amused. Leaning against the mantelpiece, he folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s have it then. What are your requirements for someone who’s willing to help you?”

He was wrong-footing her deliberately.

“Look, there’s no need to be like that! I’m just trying to set some boundaries.”

“How about this: you rest and recover and I’ll look in on you, make sure you have food to eat, that you’re doing OK; not passed out on the living room floor, etc.” He frowned, suddenly subdued. “Is that clear enough?”

She couldn’t make him out. He seemed genuinely concerned. For some reason that frightened her.

She tried to put her hands on her hips, set him on guard, but it required more energy than she had. In fact, she needed to sit down. “See, that’s what I don’t get! What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why do it?”

“You need help.”

This was not a logical response. It infuriated her. Or rather, confused her.

“But why you? You’re not related or married to me; it’s not your job.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Life isn’t all about jobs.” He surprised himself. “I mean, there’s more to it. Maybe.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You fancy your chances, do you?”

He seemed to think this was hilarious. “For your information, you have vomit on your collar, your hair looks like the wrong end of a broom, and just for the record you’re one of the most bad-tempered people I’ve ever met in my life! Hate to break the news, but you’re hardly the woman of my dreams.”

“Oh, really?” This was the last straw.

“Really. Now, shall I run that bath or will you?”

“I will,” she mumbled, making her way into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Turning on the taps, she looked in the mirror. He was right; she had sick down her front, two great mascara-panda eyes and a full-blown scarecrow head.

Fuck.

How had her life come to this?

A little while later, there was a knock. “You decent?”

Cracking open the door, he passed her a steaming mug of tea. “First thing I’m buying is tea bags. Tins of loose tea in a bloody tea ball! You don’t half make life hard for yourself.”

The door shut.

Leticia sat, clutching the mug of tea.

Maybe he had a point.

M
arco was so impressed and, quite frankly, surprised by his generous offer that he decided to make Clara Venables-Smythe the first hit of the day. The sooner he did her, the sooner he could regale everyone with tales of his munificence.

So, armed with nothing but her work address and a brief description, he pitched up at Blare and Boom Public Relations Company in the City and proceeded to flirt with the receptionist. He convinced her to point Clara out under the pretense of having a blind date with her that evening and as lunchtime rolled around, the receptionist slyly indicated a tall, hearty-looking girl with a sandy-colored bob, dressed like a 1970s airline hostess in a navy suit and pumps.

Marco followed her out of the building and around the corner, where she stopped to buy a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea and then on to the newsagent’s for a copy of the
Evening Standard
. After that, she crossed over and down the block, moving at really quite a lick, before locating a secluded bench in the garden of Finsbury Circus to eat her lunch.

That’s when Marco made his move.

“
Scusi
?” he grinned, flicking his wonderful black curls out of his eyes. “I wonder if you could help me.”

Clara looked up.

Marco gazed longingly at her.

Time itself seemed to stand still.

That is, until Clara rolled her eyes. “Yes, what do you want?”

Marco smiled even harder. “You see,
bella
, I’m a little bit lost. I’m looking for Roehampton Street. I have a very important appointment…”

“It’s over there,” she said, pointing to the left.

“Ah!
Bravo!
I knew you’d be the right person to ask!” he laughed. “You are like my guardian angel!”

She winced.

This shook Marco. No woman had ever winced at him before.

“You see,” he tossed his hair again and thrust his handsome chin into the air, “I’m an…an international polo player and…”

“What are you doing here?”

“
Scusi
?”

“If you’re a polo player, what are you doing in the middle of the City?”

Marco hadn’t thought of this. It had been a while since he’d done Polo Player. Its success in the past had depended largely on the fact that most marks would’ve been thrilled to meet a real live polo player anywhere.

“I have a very important appointment,” he asserted.

“I see.”

“With a potential sponsor,” he added, proud of his ingenuity.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Which one?”

Like many beautiful people, Marco was used to getting by on his looks. He hadn’t bothered to keep up with the polo scene at all. One of the big champagne names would have been perfect but, desperate for inspiration, he said the first name he saw, on a billboard across the street.

“Potato Poppers.”

“Potato Poppers?” Her expression was deadpan. “As in ‘Potato Poppers, the crisp in a can’?”

“Yes, exactly!” He straightened. “We’re trying to bring polo to the masses!”

“How noble.” She bent over her paper again. “Well, then. You’d better get going, hadn’t you?”

“Grazie.”

He wandered off for a few yards then stopped.

Never had he suffered such a total lack of response. No woman had ever survived the devastating double whammy of his riveting smile and molten, lingering eye contact! How could she fail to be impressed by an international polo player? Could it be that he’d failed?

What madness! He’d never failed!

She obviously hadn’t understood him.

He went back.

“Sorry,
bella
…”

“It’s you again.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Well?”

Marco laughed. “You know, I like your style! You’re very direct! It’s really very charming!”

She stared at him.

“OK, so what I was going to say is, I’m here from Rome and I’m not familiar with London and I wonder if you, being a gorgeous, accomplished young woman,” he paused to give her another patented Marco look, “could recommend some places to visit while I’m here.”

“You need a guide book. The newsagent will have one.”

He laughed again, more desperate this time. “Ah, but that’s not the same, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

She took another bite of her sandwich.

A sick feeling took root in the pit of Marco’s stomach. How could this be so difficult? What was wrong with this woman?

“I’m only asking because—”

“Look, I don’t want to recommend places for you to see. I don’t want to chat. I just want to read my paper and eat my lunch, OK?”

Marco couldn’t believe it. “But…but why?”

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you want to talk to me? Is there something wrong with me?”

“Yes.”

How offensive! “What?”

She put down her paper. “You’re lying, for starters. You’re not a polo player and you don’t have an appointment.”

“How do you know?”

“I know because your hands are completely uncallused and there is no Roehampton Street.”

“But you said it was to the left!”

She unwrapped the other half of her bacon sandwich. “I lied too. Now bugger off.”

“But…”

She waggled her mobile phone in the air. “I’m calling the police now.”

Marco stormed across the park.

This was outrageous! A complete and utter fiasco! Not only that, Smith was expecting him to charm her; he couldn’t possibly go back with his tail between his legs and admit that he’d failed.

When he reached the other side of the park, he realized his hands were shaking. How was he going to manage his three o’clock or four fifteen in this state! No, this girl had to be sorted out, here and now! His honor depended on it.

He went back again.

“Hello.”

“You’re mentally ill, aren’t you?”

“Why would you say such a thing? That’s just rude! I say hello and you say, ‘You’re mentally ill’! Really, you’re not even giving me a chance!”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Marco tried a different tack. “I came back to say I was sorry. You’re right, I’m not a polo player.”

“I knew that already.”

“The truth is, I’m an architect. I’m here working on a big project for the City of London.”

“What project?”

He wasn’t going to fall for that one again. “It’s top secret.”

“I see,” she smiled.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No.”

This was too infuriating!

“All right,” he flicked back his hair again (he had a habit of flicking his hair when he was nervous), “well, I’ll tell you but you must promise to keep it a secret. We’re building a huge…a huge…” Marco’s mind raced. Dome? Wheel? “Actually, we’re building an enormous pyramid!”

“Really?” At last she seemed impressed.

“Yes, that’s right.” He leaned casually against the bench. “In the center of Hyde Park. I’m using only glass and aluminium. Daring but effective. It’s going to be magnificent!”

She nodded. “I’m only asking because I’m in public relations and handle media inquiries for the Royal Parks Press Office from time to time. I’m sure someone would’ve mentioned to me if they were building an enormous pyramid in Hyde Park.” She stood up, folded the paper under her arm and threw away the rest of her
lunch. “It’s been fascinating meeting you, Mentally Ill Italian Man. Now might be a good time to take your meds. Ciao!”

She loped off with long, heavy strides.

Never, in his entire career, had he met with such defiance, such stubbornness, such ridicule! It was unheard of! Impossible!

Could it be that this perfectly ordinary creature was immune to his charms?

Suddenly a painful, burning sensation radiated out from his ribcage.

Marco collapsed onto the bench, clutching his chest.

Was he having a heart attack?

No—the sensation deepened, filling his whole body with the delicious pain of pure animal longing.

Here was the feeling he’d dreamt of all his life—the thrill of the chase; the elusive ache of unrequited love! At last, a woman he could pursue!

“My God!” he gasped, euphoric with long-lost hope. “She does exist! Here she is! My perfect woman lives!”

If only she wasn’t convinced he was insane.