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

‘She broke up with me.’

‘Congratulations!’ Henry slapped him on the back. ‘What a stroke of luck!’

Hughie stared at him, appalled. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Well, had to be done, didn’t it?’ Henry seemed surprised. ‘Only this time, you got out of doing the dirty work. Brilliant!’

Hughie longed to tell him that Leticia loved him; that that was the reason why she’d dumped him. Longed to ask for his advice. But now the job was all he had left. He didn’t want to lose that too. ‘It’s complicated. You don’t understand. Actually, not even I understand.’

‘Sure I do. Listen, the first forty-eight hours are the worst. The ego’s taken a bit of a kicking. What you need is a constant supply of alcohol.’ He took Hughie’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get you something to drink.’

‘No.’ Hughie suddenly felt sick to his stomach. His whole world had been turned on its ear; he was suffering from emotional vertigo. ‘I just want to be alone.’

‘Bad idea. Let me take you home at least.’

‘No.’ Hughie shook him off. ‘Please.’

Henry eyed him warily. ‘No phone calls, old chap. That’s the killer. Mustn’t pick up the phone or before you know it you’ll be back to square one with the whole damned thing!’

‘Here.’ Hughie handed him his mobile. ‘Take it. I just want to be alone.’

Then he walked away, heading up towards the bus stop. There, he finally yielded to his nausea, throwing up in the rubbish bin and guaranteeing a seat to himself on the crowded bus ride home.

Poor kid! Henry shook his head, pocketing Hughie’s phone.

An awful business, but had to be done.

He turned, lit a cigarette.

Ironic that he was the one sent to enforce Valentine’s no-relationships rule.

Especially as he’d never managed to follow it himself.

Hughie sat on the top deck, thinking about Leticia.

Only true love could be so annihilating. Surely the pain alone was proof they weren’t meant to be parted.

He sighed again and looked miserably out of the window.

If only there was a way to get her to take a chance; of persuading her to love him.

Eventually exhaustion overtook Hughie. It had been an overwhelming day and he’d understood only a bit of it. His eyes grew heavy and his breath slowed. Finally, he fell asleep on the top deck of the number 16 bus, missing not only his stop but the whole of Kilburn entirely.

The Ghost Chair (#ulink_e4b00c61-c305-5b72-8eb7-902830e3d5bd)

Without turning on the lights, Olivia walked into the empty house. It was late. The stifling, Indian summer day had faded into a warm, close evening. Light from the street lamps streamed in through the open windows. It was so hot. She was stiff and tired. Pushing a damp strand of long blonde hair back from her face, she kicked off her sandals, walking across the cool marble floor.

There was a note on the hall table.

Guest room appalling. Have checked into the Dorchester for foreseeable future.

Arnaud

It was in Gaunt’s handwriting. Arnaud had obviously dictated it to him.

She crumbled the paper into a ball and let it drop to the floor.

She was exhausted, worn out from his scenes and tantrums. What did it matter who saw it now?

Climbing the stairs, she made her way to her room.

There was the bed, their bed; beautifully made with expensive linens, piled with elaborate needlepoint pillows. But true to his word, everything of Arnaud’s was gone; his books and papers were no longer stacked on the bedside table, his dressing gown no longer hung on the back of the bedroom door.

Olivia opened the wardrobe; a rattle of empty hangers greeted her.

Nothing, not even a stray shoelace was left.

She looked round.

His absence was as tangible as his presence had been. The room felt not just empty but unexpectedly bereft.

There was something else …

Near the window, the old overstuffed armchair Arnaud loved was gone. There was a clear plastic Philippe Starck Ghost chair in its place. He’d obviously appropriated the other one, had this put in its place. Light and transparent; it seemed flimsy in comparison; insubstantial; a joke.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

Clothes were one thing but furniture signalled something more permanent. Was this the beginning of a larger rift; first separate rooms then separate houses? Had things really progressed so far? Dread gnawed at her heart.

Dinner with Pollard.

How many times this week had he had dinner with Pollard?

And then she knew.

Getting up, she padded downstairs, a mounting sense of inevitability pulling her towards Arnaud’s study.

The evidence was easy to find. There they were, in neat piles with the other household bills, waiting to be filed on his desk. He hadn’t even bothered to hide them – receipts for jewellery she hadn’t been given, the hotels she hadn’t enjoyed, the restaurants she’d never been to. He’d simply assumed she was too stupid, too trusting even to look.

He was having an affair.

Olivia’s knees gave way beneath her. She crumpled, cheek pressed against the cool wood floor.

Cut loose like a bit of flotsam; she floated, weightless and numb.

Night pressed in around her, airless, thick and black.

Juan was waiting for Leticia by the nurse’s station. He was shorter than she’d remembered and looked older; conservatively dressed in a navy windbreaker and jeans. The vision of him as a flamboyant Brazilian wild child was instantly smashed.