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

Henry just smiled. ‘I’m sorry I made you break up with Leticia. I’m not much of an example to you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t your idea, was it?’ Hughie felt relaxed and peaceful; it was nice to share confidences with Henry. He kicked his shoes off, stretching out on the sofa. ‘You’re only human, Henry. Hey, do you mind if I kip here for the night? It’s a lot more comfortable than at my sister’s.’

‘Be my guest,’ Henry said, finishing off his Scotch.

He got him a spare pillow and a blanket.

‘She might still come,’ Hughie said.

‘She might.’

‘And you’ll be here.’

‘Yes.’ Henry paused by the door. ‘Oh, she was lovely, Smythe! Blue, sort of greenish eyes … actually, maybe they were brown … hard to remember now. They were pretty, whatever colour they were.’

Hughie rolled over onto his side. ‘So you believe in true love?’

‘Absolutely! Without a doubt. Don’t you?’

‘Utterly.’

Pause.

‘So … why do you think, I mean, if true love exists, why are we so busy?’

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Henry concentrated. ‘Well,’ he decided, ‘I think it’s that they, you know, the rest of them, don’t try hard enough.’

‘That must be it.’

‘Lazy.’

‘Unlucky?’

‘Much lower standards.’

‘Exactly!’

‘It’s all about staying true to the dream, my boy.’

‘Never letting go!’

‘Precisely.’ Henry turned off the light. ‘Goodnight.’

Hughie snuggled down. ‘Goodnight.’

Outside, the view of the Embankment and South Bank dazzled. The Millennium Wheel turned almost imperceptibly, Big Ben chimed, the inky black waters of the Thames curved into the distance, reflecting every glowing detail in duplicate.

‘She’ll be back,’ Hughie whispered.

Henry wavered, a dark silhouette by the door. ‘Of course she will.’

But for a man who’d waited so long, he sounded oddly unconvinced.

All Hail Athena (#ulink_fe16ca1f-100e-5f61-842c-4d58bb1ed58d)

Standing alone in the middle of the gallery, Olivia took a deep breath. She’d made it. She wasn’t sure how but somehow she’d got through the hours, minute by minute, until now, here she was, at the end of the day.

At last the show was ready.

And what’s more, it worked; there was a clear flow from one piece to another, a subtle dynamic of unexpected juxtapositions and parallels. She hadn’t believed it was possible; until the last piece was in place it had seemed nothing more than an incoherent jumble. But slowly, surely, she and Simon had worked it through.

‘You never know just how they’re going to play off one another,’ he assured her, as they wrestled a giant canvas of an erect penis into position. ‘That’s the fun of the thing!’

Olivia had had her doubts, in fact it terrified her, but he was right. What was more, she was good at it; her instinct to move the giant teddy to the foyer, for example. ‘Inspired!’ Simon congratulated her, delighted. Now it stood like a bold, cartoon Colossus ushering the viewer into another world.

She walked on.

Here were the dustbin photographs, the human-hair tepee, the Myra Hindley Jubilee teaset, and then on into the next room: Red Moriarty’s ‘What’s the Point in Carrying On?’

Olivia stopped.

Here was her life: her velvet sofa, her books, her Holbein drawings … Soon people would wander in, stare at it; reach profound conclusions as to its meaning.

She had lived it; was still living it. Did she dare to read the reviews and subject herself to social dissection? Or did she already know everything she needed to know; in short that it had failed to relieve her of the terrible sense of internal weightlessness?

Only, strangely, she realized, that feeling wasn’t here now.

The room and its objects receded from her identity, ebbing away like a bad dream. Her drawing room was empty now, she reminded herself. A vacuum waiting to be filled.

So much of the house was empty now.

Walking on, she came to the last room.

There was nothing in it except for Mrs Henderson’s brown velour chair.

‘Mrs Henderson Died in this Chair.’

Ugly, common, powerful; it refused to be anything other than what it was.

At first it had revolted her. But the more time she spent around it, the more she appreciated its uncompromising blandness. It would never be beautiful yet it possessed a horrible integrity all its own.

That in itself made it rare.

Then she noticed a pair of legs sticking out of it.

She walked round. There was Red Moriarty, asleep in Mrs Henderson’s chair.

‘Red!’ She gave her shoulder a shake. ‘Red! Wake up!’