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

Not just single, but childless; wandering free, with no lists, no mobile phone; no presence pressing, jostling for position in her mind.

Her heart beat faster; guilt seeped through her. But her imagination bounded forward anyway.

She left the gallery, this new single self and, sitting happily by herself, took the bus home.

Now she could see the darling little one-bedroom flat she lived in, somewhere near the canal in Little Venice. Here was the tiny, bright kitchen, just right for one, always clean … the living room with a cat, curled into the seat cushion of an old armchair, basking in a square of sunshine … an unashamedly romantic bedroom adorned with floral prints and mounds of soft pillows … A whole life unfolded before her; a peaceful, quiet, unhurried existence.

Suddenly she was frightened.

Did she really want a cat and a clean kitchen? She’d fought so hard, so long for her filthy South London home, bad-tempered husband and brood of children.

Passing a hand over her face, she rubbed her eyes.

Hormones. It was all hormones.

She stood up. If she wanted to go so badly, she could ask Jonathan to go with her. They could easily book a babysitter and have lunch.

And then she sat down again, quickly. Her heart contracted. She felt sick.

That was exactly what she didn’t want.

Quite unwillingly, she unearthed a nugget of truth she wished she’d left buried.

It wasn’t just that Jonathan didn’t do visual art. Or that free time was at such a premium, he’d consider it a waste. But the thought of trying to jolly him along, of having to be extra bright and effervescent to weather another one of his inevitable bad moods, force-feeding him art, was unbearable. The dream had been about wandering around alone and free. And Jonathan, this man she’d pursued, won and married with the single-minded passion of a zealot, would ruin the day.

In that moment, the full horror of her situation dawned on her.

She was married to a man she couldn’t take to the Royal Academy.

Then another unwanted truth emerged; pressing into her consciousness with such violence she thought it would suffocate her.

She was lonely.

Incredibly, indescribably lonely.

Lying down on the bed, not quite sure how she would ever get up again, Amy Mortimer listened to the sound of her children being rounded up and trotted off to the park. Already she was redundant. Some day soon they would leave her. They would go to school and grow up and get girlfriends she would hate. And she would be left alone with Jonathan. She’d made a mistake; a terrible mistake! Pressing her face into the pillow, she wept, astounded by her own stupidity. How could she have been so naive; so deluded and misinformed? What on earth had given her the idea that forcing this irritable, overweight man to marry her and produce child after child in this cramped, disgusting house would ever make her happy?

All this time, she wanted a cat and a clean kitchen and she never even knew it!

The doorbell rang.

‘Oh, fuck off!’ she growled.

But as it sounded again she hauled herself upright and grabbed a tissue, blowing her nose.

Then she began the long descent to the front door, leaning heavily on the banister, her orange flips-flops sucking and flapping against the soles of her swollen feet.

‘Yes?’ she barked, swinging the door wide.

A young man was standing there holding a bunch of flowers. He smiled. He was so good-looking. She wished she were wearing something more attractive.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.’

Amy smiled back. ‘Oh, no!’ she lied.

‘Good. I wonder if I could ask you for a favour.’

‘Certainly.’

‘You see, these are for next door. No one’s home and I wondered if I could leave them with you.’

‘Oh.’ She had thought they were for her. But of course, that was stupid; her birthday wasn’t for ages yet, her anniversary had just gone, and Jonathan wasn’t the type of man to send flowers for no reason. ‘Of course.’ She took the flowers from him. ‘They’re beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ he looked at her thoughtfully, ‘though to be honest, they’re kind of ordinary, don’t you think?’

‘Ordinary?’

‘Yeah,’ he leant against the door frame. ‘Dull.’

‘Really? So what would you send,’ she challenged, ‘or perhaps you wouldn’t send anything at all?’

‘Me? I’m a less-is-more kind of man.’

‘Obviously you and my husband think alike, only he’s more of a “none is enough” kind of guy.’

‘I’m not that bad! It’s just I like smaller, more intimate gestures. Personally, I’m a fan of the single white rose.’

She laughed; it was such an odd thing for a young man to say. ‘Why is that?’

He shrugged his shoulders; looked at her with the most remarkable blue eyes. ‘It’s more romantic,’ he admitted softly. ‘Sexier, don’t you think?’ He grinned again; a cheeky, slightly naughty grin. Her heart leapt.

‘Well, I wouldn’t know.’ She could feel her face flushing. (Was he flirting with her? Right here on her own doorstep?) Her eyes met his. ‘No one’s ever done that sort of thing for me.’

‘No!’ He seemed genuinely shocked to hear it. ‘That’s criminal!’

‘Criminal, maybe, but also true.’

He paused, looking at her.

She shifted, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Well, anyway …’

‘But don’t you agree? I mean, not that I’ve ever done it myself.’ His voice faded and to her surprise, he coloured slightly. ‘I guess I’ve never been inspired by anyone. It’s a more personal gesture, though … don’t you think?’

‘It sounds lovely,’ she conceded.

They stood a moment.

‘I’m keeping you.’