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

Olivia had never used that word before; she’d never even thought it. In her family, it was considered cutting someone to the very quick to call them ‘a bit of an ass.’

‘Yes,’ she realized, slowly, ‘what a cunt!’

It was surprisingly satisfying to say – full of sharp, unapologetic sounds.

She said it again.

‘An absolute cunt!’

‘There we have it. Men! What a fucking fool!’

‘Do you think?’

Ricki was emphatic. ‘Biggest fool I know!’

It had seemed complicated before; now it was painful but simple. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ Ricki wanted to know.

‘Me?’ The question was almost offensive.

‘Yeah.’ Ricki leant against the wall, folded her arms in front of her chest. ‘What are your plans?’

No one had expected Olivia to do anything before, least of all herself. Action, accomplishments were optional. Surely her dreadful situation gave her immunity from such practicalities.

‘I don’t know.’

Ricki pulled a tiny weed growing between the paving stones. ‘I’d hire a fuck-off lawyer.’

‘A lawyer? You mean, you think the marriage is over?’

Ricki looked up. ‘Didn’t you just say he was sleeping with someone else?’

‘Yes, but …’ her voice trailed off.

In Olivia’s family marriages limped under the burden of far greater betrayals than just infidelity. She could practically hear her father’s voice, ‘When a Van der Lyden makes their bed, they lie in it!’ Lord knows how many women he’d had over the years.

‘How could you ever trust him again?’ Ricki pointed out.

Did I ever trust him? Olivia wondered.

Ricki began unpacking her tools. ‘Well, at least you have your job. That’s a real solace in a time like this.’

Olivia had never thought of the gallery as an actual job. She’d treated it more as a dalliance. ‘Something to keep me off the streets,’ was how she put it to Mimsy.

‘Get on with your own life,’ Ricki selected a narrow trowel, ‘that’s the best revenge.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Olivia agreed, not entirely sure it was true.

Ricki set about weeding in earnest.

Get on with your own life.

The words hung in the air, like a gauntlet thrown. What would her life be like without Arnaud to hide behind? Suddenly the prospect was intriguing as well as daunting.

Olivia watched as Ricki crouched low, weeding the flower beds in the pale sunlight. She was so strong, so sure of herself. Just being near her shored Olivia up; gave her clarity.

She’d needed to talk to someone, someone she could trust. How odd that it should be her.

Olivia wandered back into the house.

Something had shifted. The thick, cold, suffocating weight she’d known most of her life, dampening her spirit, was gone. In its place, something new, dangerous stirred. It fluttered, dark, uncontrollable, in the pit of her stomach.

‘Cunt,’ she muttered under her breath, climbing the stairs. The word resonated, clean, tough, full of unfamiliar power. She chanted it like a mantra. ‘Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt!’

Gaunt passed her on the way down. ‘Good morning, madam.’

‘Good morning. Cunt, cunt, cunt!’ She rounded the landing. ‘Oh, and Gaunt, put the coffee on, will you? I need it strong today.’

‘Very good, madam.’

Simon was waiting for her; she had a job to do.

Breakfast at Graff (#ulink_9db6692d-5548-5b6e-9143-39f34e376085)

They glittered in the window of Graff: a pair of tiny, delicate, wholly unexpected heart-shaped diamond earrings.

And they were perfect. So perfect that Hughie was arrested as he walked down Bond Street the next morning; quite literally prevented from moving another inch as soon as his eye caught sight of them.

Diamonds! That’s what girls loved! They wanted diamonds and men who could afford to buy them.

He stopped, pressed his nose up against the window and examined them as closely as he could.

And now that he had a job he could be one of those men!

The debilitating malaise he’d woken with was replaced by the giddy thrill of anticipation. They’d look wonderful on Leticia! She’d be so impressed! So grateful! How could she fail to love him if he gave her diamonds?

He checked his watch.

He was due to meet Marco in a few minutes.

Marco specialized in a series of flirts known as ‘Sexy Foreigner.’ Among his trademark personas were Racing Driver, Lost Architect, and his favourite, Roaming Photographer. Camera clicking, he had descended upon many an unsuspecting mark, transforming their entire outlook with a few shots and the promise of slipping their photo into the next issue of Italian Vogue. Flick and Valentine agreed that Hughie was more Room with a View than La Dolce Vita but Marco was still drafted to teach Hughie the rudiments of his smouldering eye contact.

Still, how long could it take to enquire about the price of a pair of earrings?

Hughie rang the bell and the impeccably dressed middle-aged gentleman inside buzzed him in. The interior of the shop was furnished with all the opulence of a grand hotel lobby, only in miniature.

‘Sir!’ the man exclaimed, grasping Hughie’s hand and pumping it up and down. ‘What a pleasure, sir, to see you! Percival Bryce, at your service! What can I do for you?’