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

He laughed. ‘You’ll never believe it – I’ve got an interview in ten minutes next door at the Royal Court!’

‘Oh, you’re an actor.’ No wonder he was talking to her; they were all such extroverts.

‘A director,’ he said. ‘We’re going to discuss a new play I’d like to do. But listen, I’m prattling. That’s the trouble with pretty girls, I babble like an idiot when I’m around them!’

She giggled.

‘Hey,’ he leant in again, ‘I don’t suppose you’re an actress, are you? Looking for some young director to cast you in a hot new play?’

‘Me! Never!’

‘But you’d be perfect!’

‘Really? For what part?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Any part! Look at you – bright, beautiful!’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’d just be perfect, full stop! Damn!’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m on the verge of losing this job before I’ve even got it.’

He stood, leaving a five-pound note on the table, and Amber felt a sudden wave of panic. Normally she hated talking to strangers but now she didn’t want him to leave. On an impulse, she stood too.

‘It was lovely to meet you. It’s weird, I can’t explain how much it’s helped me to talk to you … I mean … oh, I don’t know how to put it …’ I’m gushing, she thought. I have to stop gushing! ‘Anyway, I hope it all works out well for you. I’m sure it will.’ She thrust her hand out awkwardly. ‘Good luck!’

He was looking at her, smiling, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Then he shook his head slowly. ‘No, no, this won’t do at all,’ he said softly.

Hughie gazed down at Amber, at her open face and large brown eyes.

He’d never been responsible for anything or anyone before and now here he was, holding, for one brief moment, this girl in the palm of his hand. She was so fragile. He felt powerful; more masculine than he’d ever felt in his life. Already she was changed, lively, more confident. But he wanted to do more; he wanted to transform her, to crack her wide open. It wouldn’t take much. She was so malleable, staring into his eyes, lips parted, body tilting forward …

Hughie pulled her to him. She melted beneath him, her mouth warm and soft against his, her whole frame sighing with the release of …

Something hard sent him reeling into the sweet trolley.

‘Hey!’ Amber cried.

When he looked up, Henry was pulling him off the floor. ‘Excuse me, Mr Jones,’ he growled, ‘you’re late!’

Before Hughie could say anything, Henry pushed him out the door and dragged him another hundred yards into an alleyway behind the café.

‘What were you thinking of!’ He cuffed Hughie around the ear.

‘Ow!’

‘Weren’t you listening at all? No physical contact!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Hughie rubbed the side of his head. ‘I don’t know what came over me!’

‘You were blinded! Blinded by power. It happens to all of us at one time or the other but I’ve never seen it quite so badly or quite so soon!’ He shook his head.

‘I’ve never felt so … so,’ Hughie wanted to giggle, ‘you know …’

‘Yes, excited,’ Henry sighed, pressing his hand across his eyes. ‘Flirting can be very erotic, very intense. But you’ve got to learn to control yourself! Now, we’ve got to get out of here!’ Henry hailed a cab. ‘Bond Street,’ he shouted to the driver. And he climbed in, pulling Hughie after him.

No Ordinary Mark (#ulink_06ee2e05-ed01-5930-b107-6c60f4fea6a0)

Flick sat alone in her office, cutting out yet another photo of Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray for her file. This was no ordinary mark. Here was one case where preparation was crucial.

Flick’s particular talent, groomed by Valentine, was to read between the lines of women’s lives, to excavate with all the instinctive wisdom of a white witch, what would touch them, stir them most.

Only Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray was proving difficult.

It should’ve been easy. Her life was extremely well documented. Although she didn’t appear to seek out media attention, she naturally attracted it. And miraculously, it was mostly confined to her public appearances. Either she did nothing to excite speculation in her private life or she’d managed that almost impossible task of taming the British press.

However, there was an impenetrable quality about her; as if she were protected by a haze of steely perfection.

What was this woman lacking?

Flick snipped the last bit of paper away and added the photo to the already bulging brief.

She wasn’t making much progress.

Yawning, she leant back in her chair. The flat was quiet. Late-afternoon sun filtered in through the window behind her desk, warming her back.

Valentine was out. All the boys busy; even young Hughie.

She smiled. He was a strange, rare talent; a bit like a child behind the wheel of a Ferrari; he’d be either brilliant or a disaster. Careful cultivation was needed. But he couldn’t be in better hands than Henry’s.

How many young men had she auditioned, trained, watched as they struggled to find their feet in this strange half-world of flirting? Few had the necessary ability or self-control. If truth be known, it took a young man with a tragic history to be successful in this game. To flirt with the intention of seduction, intimacy, romance was one thing. But to flirt and leave, again and again and again, six, seven times a day, required an altogether different sensibility.

Sometimes Flick wondered who was lonelier – the women they flirted with or the flirts themselves?

And where did that put her, at the centre of this web of fragile human transactions? Were they really helping to heal the rifts which separated couples or were they, in fact, simply distracting them, dangling a shiny object in front of crying children to stem their tears?

She looked around her office – at the wooden filing cabinets, the crowded bookcases, her desk piled high with client files and finally, at the backs of her hands, holding the newspaper clippings.

There was no denying it: they were old-lady hands, wrinkled and worn. No amount of hand cream would hold back time.

‘You’re getting cynical, old girl,’ she said out loud. ‘Remember, it’s just a job.’

Then something caught her attention. Picking up another photo, she looked hard.

No, she wasn’t just imagining it: there was an unmistakable sadness in Olivia’s eyes; a kind of helpless resignation.

Sadness?

Flick pulled out a few more recent clippings and lined them up one next to the other.

There it was – the same forlorn quality, which had eluded her at first, was now instantly apparent in each one of them.