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

‘No,’ she said in wonder. ‘They’re not from Daddy.’

‘Who are they from?’

‘Yes, Mommy!’ Travis jumped up and down excitedly. ‘Who sent you flowers?’

Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused.

Then she smiled.

Grabbing Taylor’s hands, she spun her round and round until they collapsed on top of the massive bed. Pillows went flying. Shrieks filled the air. Travis clambered eagerly on top of them and she pressed them both to her, these two tiny wriggling bodies, smelling of warmth and youth and cake. She tickled them, covering them in kisses, blowing raspberries on the backs of their necks until they squirmed with delight. The perfectly made bed crumpled and creased as she threw them into the soft pile of pillows, until one of them exploded, sending a cloud of white feathers shooting into the air, drifting slowly, weightlessly to the ground. They were laughing so hard they never even noticed the tears she quickly brushed away.

A Brief History of the Professional Flirt (#ulink_e9778a71-a80b-52f4-903a-bf9f64e6a630)

(A Small Digression) (#ulink_e9778a71-a80b-52f4-903a-bf9f64e6a630)

Now, you are probably wondering why you’ve never heard of a professional flirt before and some of you, the more jaded and pessimistic, might even imagine I’ve made up the entire occupation, that no such position exists.

Well, you’re wrong.

It was during the famously hot summer of 1911, when Valentine Charles’s own great-grandmother, Mrs Rowland Vincent (Celia to her friends), found herself recently widowed and struggling to save the rather dreary ladies’ hairdressing shop in St James that she and her first husband had established with their life’s savings. Poor old Rowland Vincent had died of a sudden diabetic attack brought on by eating too many rose crèmes. (What the crèmes were doing in the house, considering his condition and extreme partiality to them, remains a mystery.)

The fortunes of the Vincents’ small shop were floundering, headed for disaster, when Celia had the good luck to meet Valentine’s grandfather – the very tall, wickedly handsome Nicholas Charles.

Twelve years her junior with no hairdressing experience (in fact, at twenty-six he’d already had a suspiciously long and varied career in domestic service that spanned stable boy to gentleman’s valet), he was nevertheless remarkably popular with her clients, creating hairstyles based on the long plaits fashionable for horses in dressage. (Luckily for him, the Russian ballet was in town that summer performing The Firebird and the Russian peasant look, along with thick braids, was all the rage.)

Seizing upon the fervour for all things foreign, Nicholas took to calling himself Nicolai and then the Baron Carvolski which was, in the autumn of 1912, shortened to the Baron. His accent was a beguiling if challenging mixture of cockney, Prussian and a bit of Franglais thrown in for colour. His signature style was La Vie en Rose: long plaits woven into a kind of basket on top of the head, then filled with a combination of real and silk roses. A client had to keep her head very still. In spite of, or perhaps, because of the fact that very few ladies could pull off such a feat, the style became legendary.

However, the trait that rescued the tiny shop from ruin, raising it to the enviable position of the most exclusive in town, was his remarkable, even heroic ability to flirt with absolutely anyone. Celia Vincent watched in fascination (and no small amount of jealousy) as day after day, he wove a spell around each woman, practically hypnotizing them with compliments and subtle sexual innuendoes, tailoring his words precisely. He’d flash his perfect teeth and had mastered the daring, direct stare that was to become the trademark of the screen idol Valentino (many say he stole it from the Baron).

But it wasn’t until the Baron was approached by a distraught duke that the professional flirt as we know it today was born. The hapless peer had been caught in flagrante with his mistress behind the library sofa at a country-house party. His wife, a sadly plain and introverted woman, was, he felt, taking it all a bit badly. The Baron’s reputation to lift a woman’s spirits was well established and the duke wondered if, for an additional fee, he might not lay it on a bit thick.

Nicolai kept his side of the bargain, not only flirting the depressed duchess into a much better humour but also managing to give her a genuinely flattering hairstyle at the same time. The couple reached a reconciliation and soon word spread of the Baron’s amazing abilities. Shortly after, he was inundated by wealthy husbands of a certain class with ‘special requests.’

The enterprising couple set about expanding their business. They were quick to realize they’d stumbled upon a previously untapped service industry. An ad was placed at the back of The Times, not dissimilar to the one that Hughie answered in the Stage, and two more gentlemen were hired and trained in the Baron’s methods.

And so the business flourished.

During the Second World War, the shop was badly bombed and Valentine’s grandparents were surprised that even without the shop front, clients still came flooding in – many of them anxious soldiers posted overseas, desperate to be assured that their wives and girlfriends remained faithful. (This was when the Cyrano was born, but more about that later.)

Thus the business quietly thrived and was handed down from one generation to another, mutating as such things do to keep up with the times.

There has always been a Charles presiding over England’s oldest, and for all I know, only established agency of flirts.

But now our digression is over. Those of you who still doubt the existence of the professional flirt and accuse me of writing fiction are gently reminded to keep an open mind. After all, can you really be certain you’ve never been on the receiving end of their services yourself?

The World’s Most Exclusive Hairdresser (#ulink_94a83ee6-eefa-5b5f-a9fb-0b6dd930bbba)

‘Old Compton Street,’ Olivia called, climbing into the back of a black cab. ‘And hurry!’

Weaving in and out of traffic, the cab negotiated the congested curve of Hyde Park Corner and Olivia sank back into the seat.

She was late. It wasn’t like her to be late. But suddenly life had become interesting; there was so much to organize, so many changes to be made now that Red Moriarty was part of the new show. Before she’d realized it, half the morning was gone. Now her best friend, her only friend, Mimsy Hollingford, would be furious.

Mimsy was waiting for Olivia at the Factory, the hottest new beauty salon in Soho. Although getting an appointment with the owner, Rolo Greeze, was next to impossible, Mimsy had arranged one for Olivia months ago as a birthday present.

‘Now that you’re forty,’ she counselled, ‘you’ll need to revamp your style. And Rolo is the most exclusive hairdresser in the world. He has clients in Rome, Paris, New York; he flies out once a month. Did I tell you he dyes Gordon Ramsay’s roots?’

‘But I like my style.’

‘Yes, of course. But really,’ Mimsy shot her one of those looks; the one that signalled in no uncertain terms that she was not impressed, ‘let’s be practical now. All these troubles with Arnaud; typical. It’s a midlife crisis. Nothing a good haircut can’t sort out.’

Olivia didn’t like to ask whose midlife crisis. But by now she was well used to Mimsy’s methodology. According to her there was no problem in life which couldn’t be solved using sheer willpower and a platinum credit card. Fifty-five now, the veteran of four husbands, countless affairs and numerous surgical procedures, she was fond of taking people in hand. They’d met at a fund raiser when Olivia first arrived in London eleven years ago. Mimsy had struck her as powerful, chic; confident with her emaciated figure and strong, feline features. Olivia had allowed herself to become Mimsy’s new project, not fully realizing Mimsy liked to revamp indefinitely.

‘Forty is a milestone,’ she’d continued. ‘You need to rethink everything. Time to get the needles out, book a surgeon, hire a full-time Pilates instructor and a macrobiotic cook. And, let’s face it, in the bedroom, you’ve got to work, work, work! You can slack off when you’re sixty but this is the crunch period. Forty is when most women start to give up. What they really should be doing is upping their game. No more lying back and thinking of England. From now on, oral sex is always on the menu; if you can’t give a good blow job, you’d better learn. To tell the truth,’ she leant in, ‘it saves so much time. Fifteen minutes and you can get back to watching telly. Oh, and make an appointment at Bordello. I have a dozen pieces from her – worth every penny. Arnaud should never see you wearing anything that isn’t sexy or gorgeous. Lord knows, as soon as you take it off, he’ll have to start using his imagination, so help him out a bit!’

The cab dipped into the narrow labyrinth of one-way Soho streets. Outside the window, the bold pink neon signs of sex shops blinked, cheek by jowl with bijou patisseries, oyster bars and coffee houses. A rainbow display of wildly coloured fishnet tights on naked mannequins graced the window of a wholesale fashion outlet across from the West End production of Mary Poppins. Film production companies, ad agencies, sushi bars, Chinese herbalists; bicycle couriers veered dangerously onto the pavement, terrorizing slow-moving clots of disorientated tourists; a homeless man and his dog camped in front of the Ivy playing show tunes on a harmonica … all life spilt out, raw, unchecked, vibrant. Olivia soaked up the unfamiliar, louche atmosphere.

Mimsy had her heart in the right place, she reminded herself, staring at a young woman with a shaved head, washing down the windows of a venue called the Pussy Cat Club. For her, marriage was a full-time profession, a never-ending game of chess with houses, holidays, even children as rather useful pawns. Men were to be outwitted, manipulated, cajoled. And Olivia had taken a lot of Mimsy’s advice; she wanted to make her marriage work and hated how dramatically it had changed recently. But the military approach to relationships was still daunting. Buried deep in her heart, Olivia had a vague dream of reaching a place with Arnaud where the pretence would fall away and the constant forward planning become obsolete.

The bald girl tossed a bucket of soapy water across the front doorstep.

But she would never dare share that with Mimsy.

Just as she predicted, Mimsy was pacing the floor of the waiting area when she arrived. The whole place was done out like an industrial manufacturing plant with cold stone floors, sheet-metal counters, large black dentist-style chairs and huge communal wash basins like giant stone troughs. A soundtrack of Patty Smith blared ‘Because the Night’ and nubile young men in tight black overalls balancing trays of cold drinks were everywhere.

‘My God!’ Mimsy threw her hands up. ‘What are you wearing? And what took you so long?’

Olivia looked down at her jeans, cashmere cardigan and ballet pumps. ‘What I always wear to the hairdressers. I’m sorry I’m late …’

‘How is he going to be able to create a new look for you if you don’t give him some inspiration!’ she interrupted, peeling off an unstructured Chanel jacket and thrusting it at her. ‘You look like you’re about to do the school run, for Christ’s sake!’ Then she stopped. ‘Oh, sorry, Olivia! Really, I am!’

‘It’s OK,’ Olivia lied, taking the jacket. It reeked of Venom; a hangover from Mimsy’s heyday in the eighties. And the couture piece wasn’t anything she’d ever buy. Still, Mimsy had gone to a lot of trouble. Dutifully she slipped it on. ‘Am I too late?’

‘Well,’ Mimsy readjusted the collar of her blouse in the mirror, ‘he’s running an hour behind. But that’s not the point!’

‘What is the point?’ Olivia laughed, relieved.

Mimsy shook her head. ‘The point is, you’re not taking this seriously. And I’m telling you, God is in the details, darling. Everything flows from the head down. Besides, this man’s a genius. He works miracles. He’s the most exclusive hairdresser in the world!’

‘Rolo is ready for you,’ the receptionist informed them coolly, sashaying down a long grey corridor.

They followed her through the brigades of stylists, blow-drying, cutting, gluing on extensions, to a small raised platform in the centre of the salon. There, in a mirrored alcove, stood Rolo Greeze; all four foot nine of him. Like a dark dwarf he oiled up to them, smoothing down his goatee. Two terrified assistants stood at the ready on either side.

‘Ah!’ Arms spread wide, he embraced Olivia, as if they’d known each other for years. ‘Sit down, sit down! NOW! Let me see!’ And he began flipping her hair about. ‘See this?’ he positioned his hands at her jawline. ‘Your hair must never be longer than this, right?’

‘Then I won’t be able to put it up.’

‘Putting up your hair is over! Ageing!’ He shook his head, emphatic. ‘This is it! Anything longer and it’s completely wrong for your face! And I want layers; lots and lots of layers! Let me see your hands!’ He grabbed one. ‘Perfect! Lovely! What I’ll do is cut a long fringe, something that hangs right here.’ He indicated the middle of her nose. ‘And then you’ll have to push it out of your eyes using these wonderful hands of yours! It will be so young! So sexy!’ he enthused. ‘Everyone will see that gorgeous ring of yours!’