The Flirt (9 page)

L
eticia pressed the buzzer of Leo’s flat and readjusted the shopping bags she was carrying. She’d lugged them all the way from Goodge Street in heels.

No reply. She rang again, looking around at the enviable location. Leo lived in a small Edwardian mansion block tucked away in a narrow alley across from Covent Garden Opera House. He’d had the tremendous luck and insight to buy it back in the late seventies when living in town was still a novel idea. Now the flats above and below his were gutted, turned into sleek, loft-style apartments, and prices had soared. His, however, was still firmly rooted in all the mod cons of 1982. She teased him that if he hung on to it long enough, perhaps the avocado bathroom suite might actually come back into fashion.

“Yes?”

“I’m here!”

The door clicked open and she struggled up the three flights of stairs. Leo was standing in the doorway wearing a red silk dressing gown worthy of Noel Coward; cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other.

“At last!” he grinned.

“What do you mean at last!” She walked past him into the kitchen, dumping the bags onto the table. “I trot all over town do
ing your grocery shopping and that’s all the thanks I get?” She planted a kiss on his cheek, then frowned. “You’ve lost weight, old man. You can’t afford to lose weight. This cold is taking its toll on you, which isn’t surprising. How long have you had it? Almost a month?” She began unpacking the food. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Actually, I think I look rather well,” he said, striking a pose. “I tried a pair of trousers on the other day I haven’t been able to wear since 1983. They looked fabulous! Perry Ellis gray flannel with pleats like you wouldn’t believe! Of course you won’t remember Perry Ellis; you’re too young.” He sat down. “Did you get the fish fingers? And the pickles?”

“Yes. Since when do you eat fish fingers? Or pickles?” She opened the fridge. “Tell me straight, are you pregnant?”

He laughed. “Not this month. Juan likes them. He thinks they’re exotic. They don’t have fish fingers in Brazil. But the sweet things are all for me. Ahh! You genius!” He pulled out a tub of Belgian chocolate ice cream. “Pass me a spoon, will you? It’s at the ideal level of softness!”

She searched the draining board and handed him a teaspoon.

He took a bite. “Heaven! There go those Perry Ellis trousers for another twenty years!”

“Juan, eh?” Leticia shook her head. “You do realize you’re seventy? Thirty-five-year-old male nurses are dangerous for your health. Or has no one told you?”

“Stay near the young and a little rubs off. Are you staying for lunch?”

“What are we having? Pickles and fish fingers?”

“Well, I’m having ice cream. But we could ring Bartolli’s around the corner and pick up an order of minestrone if you like. Or spaghetti.”

Leticia filled the sugar bowl. “That’s OK. It’s a little late for
lunch; it’s gone three. God, Leo, when was the last time this floor was washed? That’s not like you.” She peeled off her coat, throwing it on top of the radiator. “Where do you keep a bucket and some bleach?”

“Under the sink, O She of the Hardened Heart.” He spooned in another mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “I adore Juan for his mind. Which reminds me, how is your young man?”

“Hughie?” Leticia filled the bucket with hot water and detergent. The smell of lemons filled the kitchen.

“Yes, Hughie.”

She smiled. “Oh, he’s all right.”

“You’re blushing!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are! Bright red!”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “It’s the steam from the water!”

“Steam, my arse!” Leo waved his spoon triumphantly. “You like him!”

“Do not!”

“Do too, you great big nanna! All I have to do is mention the boy’s name and you turn into a beetroot!” He began to cough, then to choke, clutching the side of the table.

Leticia thumped him on the back.

“Pardon me!” he gasped.

“Serves you right! Now out!” She ushered him into the living room, ice cream in hand. “Feet up, on sofa while I scrub this floor, understand? And if that cough isn’t better by tomorrow, I think we should call the doctor. You could have a chest infection.”

“Bollocks! This isn’t the last act of
La Traviata
. You’re changing the subject and you know it!”

“So what if I am?” She piled cushions at one end for him to lie down on and turned on the television. “What do you want to
watch?” She flicked through the channels. “
Richard and Judy
?
Through the Keyhole
?”

“Why are you so afraid to admit it?”

“Because there’s nothing to admit. I have a system in place, Leo. Hughie’s lovely; he’s fresh, keen, delightful. But just like milk, men go off. Of course I like him; he’s charming. But what I don’t like is sour milk.” She checked the date setting on her wristwatch. “I give him another two weeks, tops. Then I’m afraid he’s going to have to go.”

She winked at Leo.

But Leo wasn’t smiling back. “This isn’t a good look, darling.”

“Isn’t it?” She pretended to concentrate on the television. “What’s this? Reruns of
ER
?”

He sat down, took her free hand. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. You know that, don’t you?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“He was ill. That’s all. Just terribly, terribly ill.”

She pulled her hand away. “Enough. We’re not going to discuss this again, understand?”

He shook his head. “It breaks my heart to see you like this.”

“Like what? My God, Leo! I’m fine! Look at me! Running my own business, successful, cute young lover! I’ve got a life most women would kill for! Now, do you want to watch these sexy doctors, yes or no?”

He sighed, settling back onto the sofa. “Absolutely not! The costumes—so dreadful! All those white lab coats!”

“Couldn’t agree more. Oh, look! A showing of
The Red Shoes
on Channel Four. That looks like your scene.”

“Perfect.” He squinted at the television. “God, I can’t see a thing! Is that a car or a chorus girl?”

She passed him the remote. “Where are your glasses?”

“In the bedroom. Do you mind, angel? I don’t like Juan to see me wearing them.”

Leticia found his glasses on his bedside table, next to a row of unfamiliar prescription medicine bottles. She came back into the living room and handed them to him. “I see you’ve already been to the doctor. What did he say?”

“Thank you, darling. Sorry, what was that?”

“The doctor. Have you seen him already?”

“Oh, yes. Juan made me go. Complete waste of time.”

“What did he say?”

“Bed rest, liquids, the usual malarkey.”

“I see. Well, then, you’d better rest. And I’ll make you a cup of tea. After all, I need you back at the shop as soon as possible. That romance novelist wants a Barbie-pink Empire-line nightdress with purple trim.”

Leo winced. “How revolting!”

“And she’s a size twenty and only about four feet tall!”

“Fantastic! I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Something with a bit of give, I hope.”

“Me? I’m counting on you!”

He smiled up at her. “And I’m counting on you. I do love you. Do you know that?”

“I know.” She bent down and kissed his forehead. “And me you.”

Leticia went back into the kitchen.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, she looked out of the window at the beautiful façade of the Opera House across the street.

The last time she’d been there was with him;
The Marriage of Figaro
, her favorite opera. All that wonderful music; all the couples neatly paired at the end.

It was a warm summer’s evening; they’d sat in the stalls at great expense.

He’d been distant, distracted that night. He’d lost so much weight, though he still looked handsome in his white blazer, navy shirt.

She winced.

It was the details that devastated. The ice cream they’d shared at the interval; the wooden fan he’d bought her at the shop. He’d made such an effort. She thought it might signal a new beginning for them.

She couldn’t have known that he was marking time, even then, sitting in the dark theater, holding her hand; that he was just counting the days until the end.

Taking a dry mug from the draining board, she filled the kettle up, put in a fresh tea bag.

Real life goes on. Hearts are broken every second of every day. But real life marches on, regardless.

She’d survived. She thought she wouldn’t. There had been days, weeks where she’d thought she’d go insane with grief and loss; the sheer senselessness of it all.

But she hadn’t.

She’d limped until she could walk, walked until she could run and then run as hard and fast as she could ever since.

“And now I’m new and improved,” she reminded herself, pouring the boiled water into the mug, pressing the tea bag up against the side with a spoon.

The person who wasn’t new and improved was Leo.

He was getting old. She tried to ignore it but lately every time she saw him, he seemed a little more fragile than the last time. And it frightened her. Glasses frightened her, medicine bottles frightened her, a dirty kitchen floor frightened her. And there was nothing she could do about it which frightened her most of all.

What was that sound?

She looked down.

Her hands were shaking; the teaspoon rattling against the side of the mug.

Tossing the spoon into the sink, she pressed her palms together. “Stop it!” she said out loud. “Just stop!”

“What?” Leo called from the other room. “Did you want me?”

Leticia took a deep breath. “No. It’s nothing,” she called back.

It’s nothing, she repeated in her head. It’s over. All over now.

Leo was right, this wasn’t
La Traviata
. All she had to do was brew the tea, wash the floor, make the fat woman her nightdress.

Then she stopped.

What about Hughie? Was Leo right? Was she allowing herself to care about some boy who would no doubt leave her too? That was the last thing she needed. She couldn’t risk falling apart over some kid.

She took the tea in to Leo, put it gently down on the table next to him.

He smiled up at her.

She smiled back.

I can’t lose him, she thought, suddenly terrified. Please, God, not him.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Fine,” she nodded. “Just fine.”

Heading back into the kitchen, she stacked the chairs on top of the table and took off her shoes. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her impeccable white silk blouse, took the bucket of scalding water and got down on her hands and knees.

Leticia scrubbed.

She scrubbed until the floor was spotless, until her hands were red and sore, until her shoulders ached.

And then she scrubbed harder, until her mind went numb.

L
ater that afternoon, Hughie sat in Valentine’s flat in Half Moon Street.

“Well,” Valentine settled into a large leather chair near the fireplace. “My question to you, Mr. Venables-Smythe, is, are you game?”

“Yes, sir. I think I am.”

“Good. You have a great deal to learn, young man, and very little time in which to learn it. It takes time to build up a repertoire, but I’m afraid current demand means you’re just going to have to do the best you can. Henry will look after you. Listen and follow every instruction without fail. We’re going to spend a considerable amount of money remodeling you. You need a haircut, a decent suit, a pair of proper shoes and a good watch. Here.” He stood up and took an ebony box down from the mantel. Opening it, he selected a gold Rolex from a long row of five or six and threw it across to him. “Never underestimate details. Women notice them immediately.”

Hughie slipped the watch around his wrist. It was heavy, gleaming, the kind of fuck-off piece of kit which instantly reminded him of his father. “That’s very generous of you!”

“Not that generous.” Valentine pushed a button on his desk and the doors of the cabinet behind him slid away to reveal a large
screen. “There’s a tracking device in it.” He pressed another button and the screen flared to life, a mass of glowing points against the backdrop of a London street map. “I like to know what my boys are up to at all times.”

“I see.” He felt like James Bond, part of a secret, underground organization.

Valentine pushed a state-of-the-art customized PDA across the desk to Hughie. “Keep this charged at all times. It’s a phone, Internet access and most importantly sat nav. You’d be surprised how many marks wander off course.”

Hughie turned it on. “Brilliant!”

“Do you smoke?”

Hughie tried to sound responsible and grave. “I’ve every intention of giving up.”

“Well, don’t.” Valentine tossed a silver lighter across to Hughie. “Yes, it’s a lighter but it’s also a highly effective listening device. Not absolutely essential but occasionally quite useful. And before you go, I need all your measurements. Leave them with Flick. Now down to the nitty-gritty. Your rate of pay will be £1,000 per hit. Aborted or imperfect missions will not be paid. For tax reasons, you need to file your own return and will be known as a personal consultant. And one final point, your entire career with this organization depends on your unconditional discretion. No one must know what you do or who your clients are. A single leak could fatally compromise the security of this enterprise. From now on, as far as your friends and family are concerned, you’ve got a job making corporate training videos. Failure to comply with the terms of your confidentiality agreement will result in immediate dismissal. Do you have any questions?”

Hughie stared in wonder at the mass of top-of-the-range gear he’d suddenly acquired. “So, you’re saying that all I have to do is chat to these women and I’ll be paid £1,000 a go?”

It was more money than he was used to making in a year.

Valentine pressed the tips of his fingers together under his chin. “There’s a lot more to a successful flirt than that.”

“Why did you choose me? I mean, I thought I hadn’t done very well in my interview. It’s not as if I’m some great ladies’ man.”

Valentine regarded him closely. “Contrary to what you might imagine, ladies’ men do not make great flirts; their egos demand too much attention. A successful flirt is an entirely different experience than scoring with women. We don’t collect phone numbers or chalk up sexual conquests. In fact, it’s not about you at all. It’s far more subtle. And the real art of flirting is dependent upon an unselfconsciousness with women that allows you to put them at the center of your attention. You have that quality, Hughie. You’re a natural. And I can tell you from many years’ experience, it’s extremely rare.”

Sandwiched firmly between his mother and Clara, Hughie had spent his whole life surrounded by women. He’d also spent a terrific amount of time trying to figure out how to soothe, calm and flatter them—to quiet whatever storms were raging inside them, splashing out onto the comparatively uncomplicated surface of his life. They’d bullied him, spoiled him, taken him in hand and then dropped him; but the feeling of women, the act of sitting and listening to them, of being their confidant, was second nature. He was relieved that he didn’t have to pretend to be a playboy or a lover.

“I think I can do this,” he said slowly. “I think this might be something I can do.”

Valentine smiled. “I think so too. Now, are you ready to begin your training?”

As if on cue, Henry appeared in the doorway, so handsome, flawlessly dressed, emanating smooth elegance.

I want to be like that, he thought. Leticia would love that. And another echo of his father resounded somewhere in his chest.

“Oh, there is one thing I failed to mention,” Valentine said, standing. “You must be single.”

“Oh. Really?” To his surprise, Hughie felt the bottom of his stomach disappear.

“This isn’t a profession that sits happily next to long-term relationships. Girlfriends, partners, wives are all strictly off limits. A little jealousy can destroy the entire set-up. We’ve tried in the past; invariably it’s a disaster. Even the most self-possessed woman finds the idea of her man flirting with hundreds of women every month trying. Of course, we don’t expect you to be celibate. Have sex to your heart’s content. All we ask is that you confine yourself to sex and only sex. One-night stands, preferably. Anything more meaningful is forbidden.”

“Oh.”

Valentine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re single, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Hughie nodded.

“Good. Make sure it stays that way.”

Hughie stood up, caught Henry’s eye. For a moment he thought his face betrayed him. But, of course, that was stupid; what was there to betray?

Henry put an arm around his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Where do you live?” Henry was walking just ahead of him, through the back streets of Mayfair. The air around them was cooling, the sky dimming to a light gray. Street lamps began to flicker as they strolled into Mount Street Gardens.

“Kilburn.” Hughie took out his cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Thank you.” Henry stopped and they both lit up. The dry, earthy scent of autumn leaves and crisp evening air mingled pleasantly with the acrid smoke. Henry inhaled deeply and their pace
slowed. Bells began to ring, announcing evensong at the church opposite.

“I’ll walk you to the train or bus or whatever it is you take.”

He managed to make the idea of traveling home sound alien, even passé.

“Where do you live?” Hughie asked.

“I keep a room. In a hotel.”

Hughie had never heard of such a thing. “A hotel?”

Henry smiled. “It saves me having to cook. And they have an excellent laundry service.”

“Which one?”

“The Savoy.” Henry kicked his way lazily through a pile of fallen leaves. “I’m particularly fond of the view of the river, especially at night.”

“Wow!” Hughie took another drag.

He pictured himself lying in bed, ringing down for room service every morning: a full English breakfast, large pot of tea and a morning paper. They probably even had phones in the bathtub and little bottles with shampoo and free soap. Imagine never having to make a bed (not that he did now) or boil a kettle!

“Do the maids still wear those uniforms? You know, the ones with the little aprons and white hats?”

“They do indeed,” Henry grinned.

Hughie entertained a vision of Leticia wearing just such a uniform, bending over to make the bed.

Could there be anything more glamorous than living in a hotel?

They crossed into Grosvenor Square. The sky above was streaked with pink and orange, glowing like the embers of their cigarettes.

“So, your girlfriend…what’s her name?” Henry asked.

“My what?”

Henry looked at him sideways. “Your girlfriend,” he repeated.

Hughie considered lying to him, then gave up the idea as being too labor intensive in the long run. “Leticia. Only she’s not my girlfriend. It’s a bit looser than that. Actually, a great deal looser.”

“Right,” Henry nodded. “Been together long?”

“A few weeks…maybe a little longer. But honestly, all we do is fuck. She won’t even let me stay over.”

“Yes.” Henry seemed unconvinced. “So you don’t care about her.”

“Well, I mean, she’s great. Wild, sexy, beautiful…”

“Uh hum.” Henry shook his head.

“But it’s not like I’m in love with her!”

“Really.”

“Really!”

Henry stopped, turned to face him. “I’ll bet she gives good head.”

Hughie’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

“I said,” Henry rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets, “that I’ll bet she gives good head.”

“Well,” Hughie bristled, “I honestly don’t see that that’s any of your business and quite frankly, I take offense at the question!”

“Ah-ha!” Henry pointed at him triumphantly. “You see! You do care! No feelings, my arse! You, sir, are in grave danger of being in love!”

Hughie was stunned. “Really?”

“Absolutely. You’re teetering, Smythe. Dangling dangerously on the edge.”

An emotional precipice suddenly gaped before him. “Oh, God! Are you sure?”

“I can tell, just by looking at you, you’re a romantic. And a romantic around love is like an alcoholic bartender—simply can’t be trusted. Put her down, Smythe. Walk away right now.”

“Are you sure? I mean, seems a bit…rough.”

“See! You’re dragging your feet! Very bad sign.” He shook his head. “Best give her up, old man, if you want the job. Valentine’s very strict on this point and not without good reason.”

“But you don’t understand! It’s the perfect set-up; she doesn’t even believe in love! Ours is a strictly physical affair.”

“And yet…” Henry paused, looking at Hughie closely, “I hear she’s as hot and horny as a racehorse after the Derby!”

“Good God, man! Do you want to be punched?”

“See! Inability to tolerate locker-room banter is a dead giveaway. Only with the woman we care about, is that sort of talk offensive.”

“Oh, God!” It was true. Henry was right. Hughie hadn’t noticed it before, but somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention (which could’ve been any time), he’d apparently crossed an invisible line. How could he have fallen so far without even noticing it? It wasn’t like him. Normally he only realized he was in love when the girl he was seeing told him so. There was usually a moment, and an awkward one at that, when they’d gaze up at him, bat their lashes, look all soft and melting. “You do love me, don’t you?” they’d murmur.

And a bloke had to say yes. Anything else was just rude. Besides, if you didn’t, they’d batter it out of you anyway.

“What about you? Do you mean to say you haven’t had a girlfriend this whole time?”

Henry’s gaze was far off, on some distant landmark. “I loved a girl. Once,” he added wistfully.

“What happened?”

But Henry didn’t answer.

Instead he patted Hughie on the back. “Some day you’ll understand. See, being a flirt is a vocation. A calling. We flirt, young Smythe, because others cannot. And we have the ability to foster
love only because we’re above it ourselves. But like all true vocations, it involves sacrifice and discipline.”

It sounded so noble. Hughie had never had a purpose in life. Henry’s words seeped through to his very core. Could it be that he was destined for a higher calling?

They walked on.

After a while Hughie asked, “So. How do you do it? What’s the trick?”

“Do what?” Henry paused to let a woman thunder past in her high heels, swinging her handbag violently to and fro like a weapon.

“Flirt.”

“The thing about flirting is not to think of it as flirting. The minute you do, it becomes contrived and false. The trick, if there is a trick, is just about noticing. Paying attention. What you say is secondary. And forget poetry. Simple things are best. Specific is good; it shows you’re really paying attention: ‘I’ve never seen such green eyes,’ but not, ‘Your eyes are like two shining emeralds.’ Women don’t want to be endlessly flattered. They want to feel as if you find it a pleasure to be with them.”

“OK,” Hughie’s brow knit. “So to flirt you try not to flirt but pay attention instead.”

“There are three stages to any successful flirt; observing, making contact and reframing…taking who they think they are and shaking it up a little. The matron wants to be told she’s sexy or avant-garde. The new mother wants to be told she’s handling it all seamlessly and hasn’t changed. The sophisticate wants to be told she’s delightfully unaffected, even charming. Your job is to see beyond the surface.”

“And how do you do that?”

“You’re keen!” Henry laughed. “All right, then. The easiest way is to show you.” And he led Hughie down Brook Street and into the grand lobby of Claridge’s Hotel.

They sat at one of the small round tables in the foyer, buzzing with the sudden rush of early-evening activity that tourists generate upon arriving back from a long day’s sightseeing. A string quartet was playing Mozart and the exotic ritual of high tea was just drawing to a close; hotels being the only place left where it was enacted in its entirety, like small historical dramas for people who had only read about it in books. Henry ordered them both a drink and then sat back, surveying the scene around him.

“There,” he said presently, pointing to a woman sitting with two young children at a table well away from the other guests.

“What can you tell me about her?”

Hughie looked across the foyer. The woman was about forty-two, with dark shoulder-length hair, wearing a pair of tailored trousers and a stiff white shirt. Her hands were covered in rings; gold bracelets dangled from her wrists, a thick gold chain around her neck and a pair of matching, large earrings. Her face was carefully made up, too heavily for Hughie’s taste. She sat listlessly while the little girl and boy ducked in and around the table, arguing over a small electronic Game Boy. The table was set for high tea but, although the children’s plates bore the remains of half-eaten cakes, the woman’s was empty. A cup of black tea sat cooling in front of her and a pile of shopping bags from exclusive designer boutiques was stacked at her feet. The children, who were maybe five and seven, were dressed like two Ralph Lauren models, in pristine, almost Victorian children’s clothes. As the argument over the Game Boy became more animated, she winced and whispered something to them Hughie couldn’t hear. They looked up at her anxiously. Then the girl berated the boy, gave her brother a shove, and they both settled back sullenly into their seats.