Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector

Did he?

Was it love or just habit that kept them together now? A sharp burning sensation filled his chest; the question was too painful even to contemplate.

‘Yes,’ the stranger tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘You see, my view of marriage is that it’s an extremely delicate thing. Resilient, yes. But more like a finely made Swiss watch than, say, a huge, muddy piece of farm equipment. Sometimes, when it’s all come to a grinding halt, what’s really required is a little fine tuning rather than a large, clumsy repair job.’ As he spoke, the man re-crossed his legs. Jonathan was aware of the glossy black sheen of his handmade shoes and the way his dark navy silk socks matched the shade of his pinstripe suit perfectly. Elegant silver cufflinks flashed as he drew his elbows up, pressing the tips of his long fingers against one another. ‘From what you’ve said, it’s possible that both sides are feeling neglected, perhaps a little unappreciated. Does that sound like an accurate appraisal to you?’

He made it sound so light, so normal.

Jonathan nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘These situations can so easily get out of hand. Snowball, so to speak. But,’ he held his finger up promisingly, ‘if one of you were to make an effort, the whole thing could easily be reversed, don’t you think?’

Jonathan imagined a large snowball barrelling towards him, then suddenly swerving, heading in the opposite direction, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

‘Perhaps …’

The man sensed his hesitation. ‘But when a dynamic has been allowed to grow unchecked for so long, one doesn’t always have the emotional resources to make the effort required,’ he concluded.

‘That’s right!’ Jonathan had never heard anyone describe his particular malaise so succinctly or accurately.

‘Yes, yes, of course!’ the man nodded. ‘I’ve seen it a thousand times!’

‘Have you?’ Jonathan leant forward.

‘Absolutely! Don’t despair. This whole difficult chapter of your marriage can be behind you in a week,’ the man assured him breezily. ‘In place of a distant, sullen wife who’s given up on herself, you can have a delightful, confident creature – without the time, expense or distress of resorting to long-drawn-out discussions where intimate details are dragged out in front of third parties.’

‘Really? But what’s to be done?’

The man took something out of his breast pocket; a thin silver card holder. And moving with no particular speed or urgency, he removed a card and handed it to Jonathan. ‘I might be able to help you.’

The card read:

Valentine Charles.

Procurer of Rare Domestic Services.

Satisfaction Absolutely Guaranteed.

111 Half Moon Street (#ulink_42b9ab7e-b42d-56f9-a782-a9e7b7c03b5b)

Two days after the advertisement appeared in the Stage, 111 Half Moon Street was inundated with responses and the postman had to ring the bell because all the thick envelopes wouldn’t fit through the letter box.

Valentine Charles couldn’t quite decide if he enjoyed this bit of the proceedings; it was time consuming and exhausting sifting through all the letters, but also thrilling when one happened upon that rare gem. This morning, the deluge had been particularly heavy and as he sat there, in his cashmere dressing gown, with his morning coffee, he looked upon the pile with satisfaction. In there, somewhere, was a budding new apprentice and an answer to the staff difficulties that had plagued him for the past months.

He considered diving straight in but then dismissed the idea. He was a creature of habit and married to the inflexible, set routine of his daily life. One of the pleasures of living by yourself is the privilege of being able to practise, day after day, in whatever order you wish, the rituals that define your tastes and aspirations without any threat of disruption. And at fifty-eight, Valentine was deeply grateful for his solitude.

He had loved, a few times briefly but only once seriously. The love wasn’t returned and so he made peace with all the aspects of single life that many people find so abhorrent. Now he valued them above all else. Over time he’d mutated from a lonely, watchful person into a completely self-sufficient one, treating himself with the same affection a lover would. The older he was the more he realized that few people were given the time and means to be as completely indulged as he was. He hadn’t had to accommodate another human being on any matter of significance for years. He was entirely, unapologetically selfish and grateful for the opportunity to be so. Now, when he thought of the woman who broke his heart (which was rare), he viewed it as a narrow escape.

No, he’d finish his coffee, glance at the crossword, then have his bath. And while he was dressing, his assistant, Flick, would arrive.

Flick had been sent from an agency twelve years ago. She’d turned up, a rather dour middle-aged Irish woman in a beige Marks and Spencer twinset, shortly after her husband died. Her full name was Mary Margaret Flickering, but Valentine had christened her Flick early on. At first she was horrified. But gradually, Mary Margaret Flickering began to fade and Flick took hold. The beige twinset disappeared; her actions became sharper, her tone confident and Valentine learnt the power of re-framing someone. Flick was more daring and resilient than Mary Margaret Flickering had ever been. And she was funnier too. Now she was invaluable to him.

Half Moon Street wasn’t a traditional office. It was an old-fashioned bachelor pad. It had last been refurbished in the late fifties and still had some of the plumbing features from the thirties that are so popular now. There was a large reception room, a tiny office, a single bedroom and the kind of kitchen only a man would find adequate. It was furnished like a set from Brideshead Revisited; a look of luxurious, old moneyed antiques shoved into students’ quarters.

There had been a time when Valentine had toyed with the idea of having a separate office but in truth he enjoyed having Flick about. She provided just the right touch of domesticity to his life. He liked the fact that he could emerge from his bedroom to find her rifling through the post; more often than not she’d make some small adjustment to his tie in the same casual way a wife would. It was all the intimacy he required without any of the emotional turmoil.

After she arrived, he took a brisk morning walk around St James’s Park, then popped into Fortnum’s to pick up something for lunch (at the moment, they were both fond of campagne bread, foie gras and fresh figs). Then he returned, settling down to review all the applications that she’d opened and sorted, removing the most blatantly hideous.

There were only two that were of interest. One was a darkly sensual young man from Wales and the other, a blond public-school boy from North-West London. The Welshman’s romantic résumé was quite shockingly graphic; he obviously thought the position was for some sort of gigolo and wanted to show that he’d received adequate technical training. But the school boy’s was endearingly brief; he’d lost his virginity to a friend of his sister’s, dated a few girls, fell in love with the student in drama school who played Juliet to his Romeo only to discover that when the production was over, the feeling faded. And now he was involved with an older woman.

Valentine examined the photo carefully. For all his Merchant Ivory good looks, the boy had the feel of a blank sheet of paper; a kind of wide-eyed optimism emanated from him that was the hallmark of either an idiot or a saint. Next to him, the young Welshman seemed positively louche.

Valentine held the picture up triumphantly. ‘Flick, can you see it? Isn’t it amazing? I haven’t seen a specimen like it in years!’

She leant back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. After a moment, she nodded. ‘Yes, I do! It’s remarkable! Like looking into a void!’

‘A completely unformed character!’ he agreed. ‘Perfect! Would you be so kind, Flick, as to give Mr Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe a call? If he’s half as malleable in real life as he is on paper, then I do believe our search is over.’

A Subtle Twist of Fate (#ulink_6f116db9-b02b-5409-aded-da7f43e0e6e9)

Rose stood awkwardly in front of a table massed with silverware. Her interview wasn’t going well. It began over an hour ago when Mr Gaunt, the butler, interrogated her about her slender CV. Then he moved on to what he referred to as ‘the practical exercises.’ They’d just established that she knew nothing about the proper care of silver and now were involved in a guessing game with various bits of cutlery. The suit she’d borrowed from her friend Sheri was too big in most places and too tight in others. And it itched. But she didn’t dare scratch in front of Mr Gaunt.

Gaunt, in turn, had never recovered from the considerable impression that the television series Upstairs, Downstairs had made on him in the seventies. It was an era when he’d struggled with his identity and the result was a curious devotion to archaic class distinctions along with a violent obsession with Jean Marsh. Power plays that might have resolved themselves quite harmlessly in the more traditional sado-masochistic club circuit thus oozed out into his professional life with alarming regularity.

Poor Rose watched in dread as his gloved hand moved towards another exotic utensil.

‘And this, Miss Moriarty?’ He held up a narrow, curved piece with three long prongs.

It was agony.

She hesitated. ‘Another fork?’

He sighed, making a mark in his notebook next to all the other marks, before replacing it with the rest. ‘It is a lobster trident, Miss Moriarty. Extremely rare. At a push it may also be used to serve crab. But only at a push.’

‘Oh.’

She’d tried being funny about her mistakes in the beginning but that was a long while ago now and there weren’t that many amusing things to say about cutlery.

‘This is the last one,’ he informed her, making his final selection.

She nearly laughed with relief. ‘A dessert spoon!’ she cried triumphantly.

Gaunt’s silence was withering.

‘It is a serving spoon,’ he said at last. ‘And a particularly large one at that.’

Rose watched as he made a final, devastating mark, then closed the notebook.

‘I’m afraid, Miss Moriarty, that your dinner-service knowledge leaves something to be desired.’