The Flirt (25 page)

L
eticia looked at the kitchen clock, furious.

Then she walked over to the window and checked again. Outside, a thin drizzle muted the evening sky, forcing the heads of passersby downward; quickening their pace. In one corner, black clouds gathered ominously. Staring out onto the street, she tried to discern the identities of people who were little more than outlines, hurrying toward her.

Nothing.

He wasn’t coming. Sam said he would but clearly he wasn’t.

She paced the floor. Her rage intensified. What was she doing sitting around here like an idiot, for some man she hardly knew?

It was pathetic!

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d mooned about like this. It had been years since she’d waited for anyone.

Not since…

She stopped.

Rain thudded dully against the window.

Leticia sat down hard in one of the blue chairs. The room was suddenly cold, dark; the interior tired, even vulgar in the half-light.

After a while, she got up and put on her coat.

The wind had risen. It struck her face like a hand when she opened the front door; bitter, sobering. Figures scuttled past her, ducking toward the nearest shelter as lightning seared across the sky. Halfway down the street, the heavens erupted. She didn’t care. Head bowed, she walked on toward St. George’s Square. Huge raindrops pelted the pavement. Thunder growled. Gutters filled and in minutes overflowed.

Wet hair clinging to her head, Leticia trudged on, past the square, to the abandoned shores of the Embankment. There she sat down on one of the uncomfortable Victorian benches that lined its borders, staring out at the slate-gray waters of the Thames.

The first time she had seen him, was at university. She was twenty and he was twenty-one, studying mathematics. Pale, tall and very slender, he had a mass of wild, thick brown hair that defied gravity, radiating out from his head in all directions, like a child’s drawing of the sun. It looked as if he dressed in the dark, from his father’s wardrobe rather than his own, in shirts that hung off his shoulders and trousers that bagged and threatened to slide down his hips, despite the belt he wore. But he had a face like a Victorian postcard of an angel with fine, delicate features, large gray eyes and a high forehead. His lips were curved into a permanent half-smile; like a saint in ecstasy.

She’d never seen anyone so beautiful; never known anyone so clever.

All the signs were there, right from the beginning, if she’d only known to look for them. The way he spoke, as if it were a race to articulate one thought before another one overtook; the fact that he never remembered to eat or sleep or pay his rent.

The way he declared his love for her on their third date.

No one had ever loved her before.

They were inseparable for seven years.

Leticia took a packet of cigarettes from her coat pocket, doubled over, cupping her hand around the flame of her lighter, and lit one, inhaling deeply.

She would’ve done anything to protect him. She just never imagined he’d need protection from himself.

The worst of the storm was over. Pulling her coat more tightly, she got up and leaned out over the edge of the railing, staring down into the murky, black water of the Thames.

For months afterward, she’d looked out of windows, scanned streets, listened for the sound of his car or his footsteps.

For months afterward, she’d waited.

As she approached, crossing the square in the gathering darkness, she hardly recognized Sam. He was standing in the portico of her building, leaning against the door frame, holding a blue plastic bag. Washed and freshly shaven, he had on black leather jacket, clean jeans. The long dark hair didn’t seem as unruly as usual. It curled gently around his face, framing his eyes. Then he saw her. His face hardened. “Where have you been?” He walked down the steps, into the soft rain, stopping under the pale ring of light from the street lamp in front of the house.

She stopped too. “You came.”

“Yeah. Where have you been?”

He was angry.

He’d been waiting.

“Jesus, look at the state of you! What have you been doing?” He took her arm. “You’re drenched!”

She pulled away. “You’re shouting at me!”

“Yes, I’m shouting at you!” His eyes flashed. “I’ve been here,
standing around like a fool for an hour, ringing your bloody bell! I didn’t know what had happened to you! You could be passed out upstairs for all I know!”

“Would it matter?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He shook his head. “Here.” He thrust the blue plastic bag at her.

“What’s that?”

“Supper. Cold fish and chips.”

He walked away, took out his keys.

She turned: “Where are you going?”

“Home. You’re obviously fine, obviously you can look after yourself. And I think,” he opened the door of his van, “that my services here are no longer required.”

“So I’m fixed, am I?” She hurled the question out, surprised by her own bitterness.

“Fixed?” He slammed the door shut so hard the whole van shuddered. “Lady, you’re broken in ways that I couldn’t even begin to repair!”

“How dare you!” She threw the blue plastic bag at him but he dodged it, its contents exploding onto the wet pavement. “Who the fuck are you to tell me I’m broken? I’m not some household project for you to tinker with! Why don’t you get your own life instead of trying to insinuate yourself into mine!”

“Are you mad? Do you think I want anything to do with your life?”

“At least I have one! I haven’t got to wait for someone else’s to fall apart just so I can have a purpose!”

He grabbed her arm. “You spoiled brat!”

“You’re hurting me!” She twisted away but he held fast.

He pulled her close, his face inches from hers. “I only helped you because there was no one else to do it!”

“I know. Let go.”

He didn’t let go. Instead he held her tighter. “I wanted to help you. Do you understand? I wanted to!” The expression in his wild, celadon eyes had an intensity she couldn’t read, had never seen.

She shook her head, numbly; anger draining away. “No.” Her head fell forward, resting on his shoulder; it smelled of leather, rain, the warmth of his skin. “I don’t understand anything.”

Leticia lay on her bed staring at the ceiling rose, at the slow ebb of light as night closed in.

Sam sat on the floor next to her.

They’d been there some time.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.”

A few more minutes passed; the room got darker.

“Where did you go?”

She blinked; above, the ceiling rose blurred, melted.

“To the river.”

Tears ran down her face, into her ear, cold and wet. “I was engaged once.” She turned her face away. “But he was unwell.”

“He died,” he concluded softly.

A silvery shadow cut across the floor; the outline of the tree outside the window.

“He killed himself.”

“Jesus.”

Night had fallen. The room was bathed in cold blue moonlight.

“I hate love,” she whispered. “I wish I’d never known it; that it didn’t exist.”

Outside, the storm was over, the streets deserted; puddles sparkling in the moonlight.

No one noticed the rattle of something coming through the letter box downstairs.

Or the telltale squeak of a rusty wheel as a shadowy figure cycled unsteadily across the empty square.

G
aunt delivered the cream-colored envelope to Olivia first thing in the morning.

“For you, madame. By hand.”

“Thank you. And these,” she indicated a round vase brimming with fragrant, delicately colored sweet peas. “Who sent these?”

“The gardener brought them.”

“How beautiful!” Her fingers brushed the thin, papery petals. How had she managed to get them at this time of year? What good taste she had!

“Thank you, Gaunt.”

Gaunt left.

Olivia sat down and opened the card.

“
Dream with me
,” it read.

She turned it over. On the back there was an address.

The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden,
eight o’clock tonight.

Smiling, she pressed the card to her lips.

Someone in this vast, unknowable city was seducing her.

Leticia was soaking in a hot bath when Juan’s call came through.

“Hello?”

“He’s awake.”

Standing up, she grabbed a towel. “I’m on my way.”

She was in such a rush that she didn’t even open the card she found on the mat, but stuffed it straight into her coat pocket on her way to the hospital.

Leo was sitting up in bed when Leticia arrived, propped up on pillows. Juan was there, they were laughing about something. There was a palpable look of relief in Juan’s eyes. She paused a moment, before they caught sight of her, to watch them together. There was an unmistakable warmth and ease between them.

Then Leo saw her, waved. She came over and began unpacking the goodies she’d brought from her local deli.

“Here we go! Fresh fruit salad, sesame chicken with stir-fried vegetables and noodles, a generous slice of double chocolate cake. Nothing gray or lumpy or in the least bit puréed.”

Leo clapped his hands in glee. “At last! A reason to live! Cake first, I think.”

She passed it to him with a plastic fork. He was frail but the old glint was back in his eye.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you looking so well,” she smiled. It was a lie; he looked pale and wan and dreadfully thin. But he was awake and moving and that’s what mattered.

“I second that!” Juan leaned over and kissed Leo on the forehead. “Off to work. All I do is go from one hospital to the other these days. See you later.”

As he passed, he clasped Leticia’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You OK?”

He was so thoughtful; she regretted all the times she’d dismissed him as some Brazilian toyboy.

“I’m fine,” she nodded. “Just a bit of a headache.”

“OK.” He seemed unconvinced. “But look after yourself, right?”

He headed off.

Leticia turned back to Leo, who was slowly but steadily making his way through the chocolate cake. She was so relieved to see him sitting up, alive and safe, she could cry. At the same time she wanted to hit him.

“I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you too.”

“I missed you.”

“I was in a coma but I’m sure I missed you too.”

She cut to the chase.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so sick?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“You make it sound as if I were a child; someone to be protected from the rude facts of life. I could have helped you; looked after you.”

He looked at her. “You weren’t even looking after yourself.”

“Yes, but…”

“Darling,” he put his fork down, “reality hasn’t been your strong point recently.”

This was unusually blunt; not like Leo at all. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve watched you, over the past few years, build this life, this persona, your wonderful business, which I’m so proud of…” He stopped, searching for the words. “I know it’s strange coming from me, and I don’t mean it as a criticism but I could only guess at how much pain you had to be in to create such a fantastical existence.”

It was as if a bucket of iced water had been thrown over her head.

“Fantastical?”

“It’s like you’ve being playing a part; a bit of every diva we’ve ever dressed. You never eat, you smoke all day, you work yourself stupid and then have these unsuitable young lovers. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you could cope,” he continued. “The last blow life dealt you seemed to wound you too deeply.” His expression was so sad she thought he might cry. “And I’ve been frightened for you, Emily Ann.”

“Frightened?” How could her actions have so much impact? “But I don’t understand! What have I done wrong?”

“Oh, angel! You haven’t done anything wrong—please don’t misunderstand me. I haven’t got a lot of reprieves in me, so forgive me. But this matters; it matters to me very much. It’s like you’ve been frozen in a world of make-believe, where real life can’t touch you, ever since Michael died.”

“Why do we always say he died?” she asked bitterly. “He killed himself! It was a choice!”

“He was ill.”

“What does that mean? Ill. What is that supposed to mean?” She wiped the tears away; furious to be crying again. “He left me! But you know what’s worse than that? I believed, Leo, I really believed that when I found someone I loved and when he loved me, then I’d be safe.” She wanted to laugh with the stupidity of it.

“I thought love was supposed to conquer all!”

But she wasn’t laughing; she was sobbing now. It was more than she could take: the relief of Leo being safe; the pain of hearing his disappointment in her.

“Come here.” He held out a thin arm and she tucked herself underneath it, into the warm hollow of his chest. His heart beat reassuringly against her ear. “You’ve lost your innocence, that’s all.” He stroked her hair gently. “It’s agony, I know. But it’s a good thing. Innocence is attractive in children but it makes brittle, disappointed adults.”

She closed her eyes, and clung to him.

“There are all sorts of things that love can’t conquer,” he went on. “Natural disasters, for example, and illness; cruel twists of fate; even simple human nature can very easily trump it every time. It wasn’t meant to provide immunity from fate or grief or pain. In fact, so often it’s the cause, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“But what it does is throw us into the midst of life with the best intentions possible; give us courage, passion, hope; make wonderful fools of us—always pushing us to be more than we would normally be. More than any other experience love carves away at us, like great lumps of marble sculpted into works of art. That, I think, is what they mean by ‘love conquers all.’ It doesn’t transcend life. But it gives it integrity, a noble aim, no matter what the result.”

Leticia sat up and blew her nose. “You…you think I’m fantastical?”

“I think you’ve suffered a great loss and, in your grief, you’ve tried to control what is beyond your control.”

He was talking in riddles.

“Which is?”

“Your heart, your nature, the very person you are. It’s as if you’ve created a great big cardboard cut-out to hide behind.”

His words sliced through her.

She stared at the floor, at the ugly blue-laminate speckled tiles. “I was just trying…trying to…I don’t know.”

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She didn’t want to but she forced her gaze upward.

“You were meant for better things, Emily Ann Fink. For much better things than one-night stands and knickers. And I’ve got news for you: there’s more love where that came from.”

“Yeah, but what kind of idiot signs up to be annihilated all over again?”

Leo grinned and put his hand up. “Clap if you believe in fairies!”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t. I don’t want to!”

“It’s the way of the world; the nature of the thing. To sit out on love because you’ve been devastated is just bad manners. It’s like refusing to play any party games because it’s not your birthday and you don’t get to keep the presents. And I know for a fact, young lady, that you’ve got more courage than that.”