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

‘Fire! Passion!’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘Resistance, Smith! What I want is a woman who doesn’t want me! But look at me: I’m thirty-four now and more handsome than ever! I’m starting to think maybe the woman of my dreams doesn’t exist.’

They sat a while.

For the first time, Hughie concentrated on the admiring glances of the women who walked by. He liked to think that some of them were for him, but he had to concede that Marco got more than his fair share.

‘This is the only job I can do,’ Marco continued, downing his coffee in one go. ‘In and out; no contact. If I work in a normal profession, I leave a trail of broken hearts. Here, at least I do the world a little bit of good. Waitress! Another espresso, please.’

The girl fluttered her lashes. ‘It’s on the house!’

‘See?’ Marco groaned miserably. ‘It’s hopeless!’ He held up a teaspoon, examining his reflection. ‘If only my nose were larger or my jaw weaker …’

For a moment, he looked as though he might cry.

Hughie was relieved when Henry ambled up, on his way to the office.

‘Hughie! Just the man I need to see! I’ve got a job for you.’ He paused. ‘Everything OK?’

Hughie leapt to his feet. ‘Never been better!’

Marco just blinked.

‘OK, well, we’d better get a move on. We’ve got a lot on today,’ Henry said, checking his watch. ‘See you later, Marco! Marco?’

But Marco was in another world. When they left he was turning his espresso cup around and around on its tiny little saucer, staring into space.

‘Let me guess,’ Henry steered Hughie towards a white van parked across the street, ‘he got started on his hopeless quest for love.’

‘How did you know?’

‘We’ve all been there.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Poor Marco! But more importantly, how you doing, old boy? Feeling better? I was really worried when I left you.’

‘Humm …’ Hughie couldn’t decide if playing the wounded lover gave him a certain tragic depth. It certainly required a lot of effort. He changed the subject instead. ‘I’m ready for my first real day. Where do we begin?’

‘At the beginning, with flower delivery.’ Henry opened the back of the van and chucked him a T-shirt and hat. ‘Put these on. Once we’re on the road, I’ll brief you. This job’s a good example of a classic mark; married a while, three kids, another one on the way … virtually drowning in domesticity. You’ll see.’ He smiled. ‘The married women of this world need us, Hughie; need us more than even they know.’

Professional Massagers of the Female Ego at Large(Part One) (#ulink_c2260df5-43a3-576b-84ab-0f4a3fa1e313)

Meanwhile, in the less fashionable districts of South London, Amy Mortimer opened her wardrobe door. Two flights below, she could hear the dull, siren roar of her children wailing. She wavered, fighting the desire to waddle downstairs and sort everything out.

No. The nanny was there. The whole point of the nanny was so Amy could be free to bathe and dress and even sometimes leave the house. That’s what they paid her for.

Only nothing in her closet fitted any more. She stared at the clothes in front of her, half of them still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic; the only remaining evidence of her once, well-groomed, size-ten former life. It had been years since she’d been able to fit into them. They were a shrine to a self that had been completely obliterated.

Amy sighed.

‘Mummy! Mummy! Muuuuuuuummmmmyyyyyy!’ Angus was screaming. She could hear him flinging his little body up the stairs and then the sound of the nanny intercepting; struggling to prise his fingers off the hall banister.

‘Nooooooooooooooooooo! Mummy! Noooooooooooooooo!’ He was like some tiny extra in Schindler’s List being dragged off by the Nazis.

Amy made herself close the bedroom door. Why had nature designed small children’s cries to tear a mother’s heart in two? In fact, the whole business of being a mother was just one long exercise in guilt and compromise. Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, she began to cry. The harder she cried, the more the baby inside her kicked.

With her luck, it was probably another boy.

Kick, kick, kick.

I’m hormonal, she told herself. This is normal. These are just buckets of hormones racing around my veins. Pull yourself together.

Exhaustion dragged at her. She wanted to lie down but that was a whole half-hour performance: the placement of pillows under the bump, between the legs, something to wrap her arm around … she hadn’t slept in years. Why start now?

So she forced herself up again, and looked around.

The windows needed to be washed. She had the vague recollection of thinking the same thing the last time she was pregnant. Nothing had been done about it then and things were probably going to go the same way now.

Opening Jonathan’s wardrobe, she selected one of his best, handmade shirts. Thank God he had a paunch. And retrieving her elastic-panelled maternity jeans from where they were crumpled on the floor, she struggled into them. There were some shoes somewhere … wait, what was this? A pair of bright orange beach flip-flops? Perfect. At least she didn’t have to bend down.

Then she picked up a small notepad she kept by her bedside table and referred to a list she’d made last night.

Amy was fond of making lists. In her heyday as an events organizer, she’d been able to plough through them, ticking off each entry with remarkable speed. Even when she was a little girl, her world had been clean and tidy, its parameters neatly marked by lists of accomplishments. She prided herself on being able to get things done, to face the mundane tasks of everyday life head on and emerge triumphant. But lately her lists had failed to deliver the same satisfaction. Instead of getting shorter, they only seemed to grow. And their contents overwhelmed her.

This one began brightly enough. ‘Shoes for Angus, haircuts for all the boys, Dylan’s dental appointment, water filters, new nursing bras, nightgowns, and knickers …’ But then came, ‘Ring garden maintenance company, ask about infestation of big, black bugs (possible health hazards of small children eating fertilizer).’ Followed by, ‘Ask doctor about ADD link to fish fingers, vacuum sand from downstairs sofa, order extra-long rubber sheets for Felix and Angus, apologize to new neighbour about noise, flying dirt and Dylan kicking down lattice fence, DO LAUNDRY, DO LAUNDRY, DO LAUNDRY! Boys to clean their rooms [was she deluded?] and not to leave wet swimming trunks under beds!!!’

And then, at the bottom of the page, just before she’d gone to bed, she’d written, ‘Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.’

The Royal Academy?

Leaning over, she grabbed her reading glasses from the bedside table.

‘Must see latest show at the Royal Academy.’

It didn’t even look like her handwriting.

The phrase struck her as so blatantly out of step with the reality of her day-to-day life as to be psychotic. It smacked of the kind of fatuous promise she sometimes made to her single friends: ‘Oh, yes! We must see the latest show at the Royal Academy! Shall I give you a ring next week?’ Of course, they both knew she was lying. But here it was, popping up, entirely independent of social artifice; the strange, forlorn desire to attend a cultural event.

She sat down again on the edge of the bed and stared at the paper in her hand. It was the only thing on the list that was even remotely appealing.

And for a moment she imagined herself, dressed in something other than maternity jeans and orange flip-flops, walking slowly through the grand rooms.

Her breath slowed.

The baby stopped kicking.

Here was the catalogue in her hands; the satisfying weight of thick, glossy paper and years of scholarship. The smell of wooden floors and leather banquettes enveloped her, and there was space – space above and around; space between objects and people, between information and images; a luxurious sense of perspective that was so lacking in daily life. She was taking her time, moving slowly, forming opinions and feeling the gentle surge of energy as her mind contemplated something new; something beyond her narrow sphere of experience. She was peaceful, exhilarated; anonymous.

And there was something else, another quality that evaded her …

Then it came.

In her vision, she was single.