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

The curtains were drawn around the bed but they didn’t block out the noise of the other women and babies on the ward or the smell of the curry that the Indian woman’s mother had brought to her exhausted daughter in the bed next to Amy’s.

Still, Jonathan was oblivious. In fact it wasn’t until he looked up, beaming with ridiculous paternal pride at his ‘achievement’, that he noticed Amy was unusually subdued. She was still in a way that was entirely separate from the Hallmark moment he was experiencing, and it frightened him. So he said what he always said when he didn’t know what to say.

‘I love you, darling.’

‘Is that so, Johnny?’

She hardly ever called him Johnny. It was a term of endearment that harked back to another life they’d shared, before the division of domestic labour forced them onto more formal terms.

He laughed like a bad actor playing the Ghost of Christmas Present. ‘What’s all this? Of course I do! I think someone’s got a touch of the baby blues!’

She turned away. ‘Maybe.’

This was not his Amy; resilient, strident, list-making Amy.

This was another version, but a version he recognized all the same. Again, it echoed back to the young woman he’d wooed and won, who used to lie next to him at night, trying on various future visions of happiness like a child trying on dressing-up clothes.

The little girl turned fretfully in her sleep, clenching and unclenching her tiny red hand. Jonathan slipped his little finger into her palm and she settled again, holding on with all her might.

And suddenly Jonathan saw what had been lost on him for many years.

It was all so fragile.

Only it wasn’t just the baby that seemed small and delicate. It was Amy and him, their whole life together.

The thread that bound them was frayed and taut, stretched to the very point of snapping.

He felt lost.

He wanted her back; the Amy who knew what to do in every situation, who refused to be bowed by the grinding unrelenting business of everyday life, whose vision of their home and family usually blinded him with the same certain, unswerving power of a lighthouse beam. And it struck him that perhaps he’d been childish in his expectations of her, that maybe he’d taken her strength for granted.

‘I love you, darling,’ he said again, because, of course, he didn’t know what else to say.

But also because, for the first time in a very long time, he actually meant it.

The Savoy (#ulink_402f74f3-e78c-5e38-8db6-ffccb3ee427f)

Valentine sat across from Hughie and Henry with his hands pressed against his forehead. ‘Never, ever, in my entire life—’ He stopped himself, unable to continue, shaking his head. ‘It’s been a disaster, gentlemen! A farce!’

‘The thing is—’ Henry began.

‘No!’ Valentine raised his hand to stop him. ‘I don’t want to hear it! I am stunned, Mr Venables-Smythe! Completely at a loss for words!’

(This didn’t stop him from elaborating further.)

‘What could’ve possessed you?’ He stood up, pacing the room. ‘After everything we told you about the dangers of touching the mark!’

‘I think you’re being a bit hard on him,’ Henry mumbled.

Valentine swirled round. ‘Do you?’ His tone was lethal. ‘Do you really?’

Henry straightened. ‘Actually, I do. If it was anyone’s fault it was mine. He was shadowing me. And he did save me from being arrested.’

Hughie looked across. ‘Thank you, Henry.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘The two of you are equally irresponsible!’ Valentine despaired. ‘I have half a mind to fire you both!’

‘Please don’t.’ Flick was standing in the doorway. ‘At least, not until you’ve heard my idea.’

Valentine glowered. This was clearly his show; he didn’t like being upstaged.

‘I need some help,’ she continued. ‘Maybe Hughie could take a break from the streets and give me a hand instead. It would allow him to take stock; get a feel for the tone of what we do.’

‘Perhaps,’ Valentine conceded. ‘But that’s an important job, for a big client. It needs a delicate touch.’

‘He’ll be under my jurisdiction,’ Flick promised, looking across to Hughie. ‘I’ll take you on but only on the understanding that you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.’

‘Oh, absolutely!’ Hughie agreed. ‘I’m at your command.’

‘Yes, well,’ Valentine straightened his cuffs, ‘I would be lying if I said I didn’t have serious reservations about your ability to be reformed into a useful member of this organization, Hughie. But I will give you one more chance to redeem yourself. This is an extremely important assignment. If you prove trustworthy, I will review your situation.’

He crossed to the door.

Henry and Hughie stood up, awkward as two cadets in the presence of a senior officer. ‘But needless to say, I’m not just disappointed, gentlemen.’ He paused, looking from one to the other. ‘I’m disgusted!’

And then he left.

(In fact, as it was his flat, he didn’t have anywhere to go, so he just stood in the bedroom for a few minutes.)

Flick flashed Hughie a look. ‘Make no mistake, I’ve just saved your arse,’ she assured him, walking back to her office.

‘Well,’ Hughie slapped Henry on the back, ‘that went pretty well, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, dear.’ Henry mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Hughie had never seen him so tired or drained.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, dear,’ Henry said again. ‘I think we’d better go home now.’

‘Come on, old chap.’

And Hughie took him back to the Savoy.

What Henry referred to as keeping a room at the Savoy, was in fact an entire suite. Along with a generous bedroom, bathroom and dressing room, there was also a living room with a fireplace, dining table and even a baby grand piano near the window overlooking the Thames and the Embankment, massed with some of London’s most memorable landmarks – the London Eye, Cleopatra’s Needle; the dome of St Paul’s was just visible and Big Ben sounded clearly when the wind was right.

Hughie rang down for some tea while Henry listlessly checked through his messages, returning phone calls while Hughie wandered from room to room, absorbing the glamour of Henry’s existence. Rows of tailor-made suits lined his wardrobes, piles of history books and biographies were neatly stacked along the windowsills of his bedroom. It was all exquisite but also strangely anonymous. Hughie tried to put his finger on what was missing. Then he realized there were no photographs anywhere; nothing from that former life Henry must’ve had. It was as if he had no origins, existing only in the present.