The Flirt

‘Stop, Leo,’ she warned.

He ignored her. ‘You pretend to be tough but we both know you’re not.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Darling, I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt.’

‘What? By Hughie?’ she laughed. ‘See, that’s the whole point! He can’t hurt me! And I can’t hurt him. We have rules, Leo. It’s strictly sex…nothing more.’

‘I’ve got news for you, sunshine. Rules or no rules, you’re not in control of your heart. No one is.’

‘Listen, I’ll call you later. I have heaps to do and if you’re not coming round I’ll have to try to sort out this kimono monstrosity by myself. Speak later? And no more hot Brazilians, understand?’

She clicked the phone shut, pressed her hand over her eyes.

He was being so difficult.

And suddenly, it was back again; the dull ache, pressing hard.

It was an ache now, but for at least a year it had been a searing, slicing pain across her whole chest, like someone performing open-heart surgery without an anaesthetic. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep…

Damn him! Why did he have to be so…so judgemental?

She took a deep breath.

It didn’t matter. It was all over now. She was on her feet again, better than ever.

In her workshop, Leticia put the kettle on and lit a cigarette. There was time between the duchess and the novelist to have Hughie come round. And leaning her back against the counter, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

Hughie was so tall, so young, so classically handsome. And so easy to control! There were no power struggles, no coy dating rituals or manipulations. She rang, he came, they fucked. And then they fucked some more.

It was a simple relationship and, in a way, beautiful. There was something different about Hughie: a freshness. No deep thoughts or dark moods interfered with his performance. Of course, he had a lot to learn; a diamond in the rough. But that was exciting. And the best part was, he was insane about her. It was only a fling, but in every relationship there was the one who adored and the one who was adored. She’d done the adoring and preferred by far when it was the other way round.

The kettle boiled. Spooning the loose leaves of Earl Grey tea carefully into a Tiffany blue pot, she poured in the hot water. The aroma of bergamot filled the room.

She stared out of the window into the small garden at the back.

Leo was wrong. No one could hurt her again; she wouldn’t let them.

Giving the tea a quick stir, she poured herself a cup. These were the hours she liked best; the day glimmered before her like a golden promise, untouched by disappointment or frustration. And sitting down at the table, she placed her teacup on a small bench well away from her work, unfolded a tissue-paper parcel full of silk and deftly threaded her needle.

The morning sun warmed her back, outside birds sang. Leticia sipped her tea.

Few things were more fragile than antique lace or the human heart.

Then she heard something.

Persistent, irritating.

Coming from the bathroom.

A dripping sound.

The kind of sound, in fact, that signalled the urgent need for a plumber.

Tea for Table Five (#u9d4477ac-b973-5942-a957-899ed74d23b0)

The waitress at Jack’s Café, Rose, paused by the window, watching as Hughie Armstrong Venables-Smythe sauntered away down the street through the crowds of people.

‘Order up!’ shouted Bert from the kitchen behind her.

‘I said, order up!’ he called again.

Rose turned and delivered the two fried eggs, sausage, beans and tomato to the man at table seven before clearing away Hughie’s breakfast remains. Then she took £4.95 from her own pocket of tips and put it into the till.

‘Rose! Tea for table five!’ Bert shouted. ‘What the hell’s got into you today?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, pouring out the tea. ‘Nothing at all.’

She took it over to Sam the plumber, a regular at table five. In his late thirties, Sam had a mop of dark unruly hair, now flecked with grey, wild pale green eyes and a sardonic smile. He’d inherited his father’s floundering plumbing and heating business earlier that year; along with the same ready laugh and long, loping gait. He was poring over a catalogue of plastic U-bend pipes.

‘Thanks.’ He took a sip, frowning with concentration.

‘God, Sam, don’t you ever take a break?’

‘What for?’ he shrugged. ‘It’s my business now; no one’s going to make it a success but me.’

‘But U-bends at breakfast?’ She shook her head. ‘Your dad was always more relaxed.’

‘Yeah, well, if my old man had put as much time into the business as he did into going to the pub, he might still be with us.’ His voice was sharp.

Old Roy, Sam’s dad, had lived in the same block of council flats as Rose; she’d known both of them for years. He’d been a larger-than-life character, equally popular with men and women; a man whose cheeky good humour seemed to exempt him from the normal rules of life. Over the years he and Sam, both stubborn characters, had spent a lot of time at loggerheads. Sam was ambitious and Old Roy was usually hungover. But now that he was gone, Rose detected an edginess to Sam; a cloud of uncharacteristic seriousness coloured his personality. Lately he only had time for one thing: his career.

‘Sorry, Sam, I’m not thinking today’. She pushed a cloth absent-mindedly around the tabletop, knocking the sugar over. ‘Oh, damn!’

He glanced up; clear eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. ‘Off in your dream world again?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well,’ he put his mug down, ‘he kissed you, didn’t he, Red?’

Sam was nothing if not observant.

‘So what if he did?’ She was blushing again. Turning, she pretended to be deeply engrossed in removing a coffee stain from another table. ‘And don’t call me Red. I’m too old for nicknames. I’m nearly twenty-two, not some child.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Without looking round, she knew he was laughing.