The Flirt (10 page)

“Well, she’s married…” Hughie began. “She’s got two children. She must be rich; she’s done a lot of shopping…”

“How do you think she feels?” Henry pressed.

Hughie narrowed his eyes. “Tired?”

Henry took another sip of his whisky and soda. “Is that all?”

“I don’t know. Hungry?”

“I’d say starving. But not just for food.” He leaned forward. “First off, she’s American. Probably from somewhere provincial, like the Midwest; definitely not from New York or LA. That’s why the children are dressed like extras from
Mary Poppins
and her makeup is ten, no, more like fifteen years, behind the times.”

Hughie was amazed. “How can you tell?”

“You get a feel for these things. It’s easy to tell she’s not European; there’s nothing at all natural about her.”

“Oh.”

“Secondly,” he continued, “she’s married a wealthy man but doesn’t have a job of her own. It’s unlikely the money is hers. Independently wealthy women don’t spend money in such an obvious way. They buy things, of course. But what you see here is revenge shopping. She’s spending her husband’s money, piling up as many bags as she can in order to take what she can from him.”

“She could have a job,” Hughie felt a sudden desire to defend her against Henry’s razor-sharp evaluation.

“See how her hair doesn’t move with her head? That’s because it’s been blow-dried every other day. Working women don’t have time for that, or for the freshly manicured nails.”

“I see.” Hughie felt suitably chastened.

“She’s bored, depressed and, if I’m not mistaken, hasn’t even seen her husband recently let alone had any romantic attention from him.” He leaned forward. “See how she’s wearing half of the Bulgari collection? A sure sign of low self-esteem. Too much jewelry, too much makeup; these things are like armor for women. She obviously thinks she has something to hide. So, what does she need?”

Hughie smiled wanly. “A good therapist?”

Henry sighed. “From you.”

Hughie looked at her again. A waiter tried to clear the plates and she snapped at him, like a small dog whose tail had been stepped upon. The young man retreated and for a while she just sat, her fingers pressed over her eyes.

Something about her reminded him of his own mother, of the overwhelming sense of failure that seemed to follow her about like a cloud when he was small.

“She needs to be told she’s good at something,” Hughie said quietly.

Henry smiled. “That’s good. Very good. How do you think you might do that?”

Hughie took another gulp of his drink.

This was the best job he’d had in his entire life. But he was hopelessly out of his depth.

The little boy looked up and caught his eye. And before he knew quite what he was doing, Hughie stuck his tongue out at him.

The boy giggled.

Hughie pretended to ignore him and then glanced over again. This time the boy made a face and his sister squealed in delight.

Very slowly the dark-haired woman turned round.

“I’m sorry,” she said, in a soft drawl. “Are my children disturbing you?”

Hughie thought he caught a thin thread of fear in her voice. “No, not at all,” he smiled. “Except for that one,” he added, winking at the little boy. The child giggled again, squirming in his seat with glee.

“Oh, he’s a terror!” his mother agreed. And as she smiled, her eyes settled upon her son’s face. There was unmistakable tenderness in her expression.

She loves him, Hughie thought. Henry’s right: she’s just not that fond of herself.

“Are you in town long?” Henry asked, leaning in.

“No, we go to Paris tomorrow and then Rome. I wanted the children to see Europe.” She sounded wistful. “You know, Americans abroad,” she added, almost apologetically.

“Ah! A Grand Tour!” Henry grinned. “There’s nothing like it!”

“A Grand Tour?”

The little boy had wriggled off the chair and moved as close to Hughie as he dared, waiting for him to do something naughty.

Hughie stuck a sugar cube up his nose.

“Oh, yes! An age-old English tradition; the invaluable education that comes from immersing yourself in the very bosom of Western civilization; inundating the youthful sensibility with the rich history and extraordinary aesthetics of the great cities of Europe…It’s the stuff of Henry James and Edith Wharton…of Fielding…”

Her eyes lit up. “I read Edith Wharton once!
Ethan Frome
. But I don’t think anyone went to Paris. It was all about these invalids on a sled.”

“Yes, well…”

“But I like the idea of a Grand Tour,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“It’s a noble tradition,” Henry assured her. “Are you traveling alone?”

“Well,” her face clouded, “my husband was going to come but he was detained in Chicago. And New York. Business, you see. But Daddy may join us in Rome, isn’t that right?” she said brightly. The children nodded obediently. “On our Grand Tour,” she added, smiling at Henry.

Henry leaned back. “You know, I admire you.”

“Me?” She laughed incredulously. Her daughter wrapped herself protectively around her mother’s chair.

“It’s quite an unusual thing for small children to be given the
chance to have such an adventure. Imagine,” his voice lowered, gentle and intimate, “wandering around the great capitals of Europe with a lovely, determined young mother leading the way…mothers, especially, have the knack of making almost anything fun.”

She stared at Henry.

This was clearly not the scenario she had been living.

Hughie took the sugar cube out of his nose. “Not a lot of parents would do what you’re doing. Especially on their own.”

“That’s true,” Henry agreed. “You have spirit.”

“It’s funny,” she paused, registering their words, “I’ve never thought of it quite that way. Of course, I hadn’t intended to do it on my own…”

“It’s an opportunity!” Henry insisted. “A wonderful, rare chance to be alone with you that your children will remember for the rest of their lives.”

The little boy had shoved sugar cubes in both his nostrils and was making faces at Hughie. Hughie grabbed him and tickled him until they fell out.

“Do you really think so?” she murmured.

“Without fail!” Henry pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Well, we were just admiring this lovely family portrait. I wish you luck in your travels. May I make one last suggestion?”

“Please.”

He clapped Hughie on the back. “When I took my son here to Paris for the first time, some fifteen years ago now…” he gazed adoringly down at Hughie. “Can that be true? Was it really as long ago as that?”

Hughie blinked up at him.

“Seems like yesterday,” Henry sighed, ruffling his hair. “Anyway, we didn’t bother with things like the Louvre or Notre Dame. We just explored. There’s a wonderful merry-go-round in Les Tu
ileries and Les Deux Magots make a marvelous hot chocolate. And now of course he speaks impeccable French.”

“Really?”

They both turned to Hughie.

“
La voiture est rouge
,” Hughie observed sagely. “
Charles ressemble á un sange. Où est la bibliothèque?
”

The woman giggled nervously. “Did he say Charles looks like a monkey?”

“He’s mentally ill,” Henry explained. “But his pronunciation is impeccable.”

Out on the pavement, Henry clapped Hughie on the back. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? And all we did was observe, make contact and reframe her experience a little. Easy as pie.”

“Easy as pie,” Hughie repeated. “Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only, it doesn’t quite seem enough.”

“Really?” Hughie frowned. “What more is there?”

“I don’t know…some grand gesture…something she won’t forget.”

Henry thought a moment. “You’re right! No point settling for half-measures. Let’s push the old girl right over the edge, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s!”

“Wait here.” Henry ducked back into the hotel.

Hughie shoved his hands deep into his pockets to look nonchalant. But his heart was thumping against his ribcage, adrenalin surging through his veins. Taxis pulled up, disgorging well-dressed passengers. Hughie was conscious of trying to look a part, and at the same time, feeling a fraud. He grinned, at no one in particular, nodded to the doorman who moved away.

Then, quite suddenly, he was giggling. He tried to control it. His shoulders shuddered and his eyes watered. The doorman stared straight ahead. And Hughie was reminded of the kind of hysterical relief of performing a ridiculous schoolboy dare.

When Henry came back, it was all Hughie could do to pull himself together and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“Travis, Taylor! Come on!”

She stood, gathering the handles of all her shopping bags together; the pile of gold bracelets falling forward on her wrists. “Children! Please!”

Taylor and Travis danced around her as they made their way across the lobby and into the lift. As the doors opened again on the fifth floor, they spilled out, racing each other down the long corridor. Rummaging in her handbag, she pulled out the credit-card-shaped room key and swiped it, forcing the door of the suite open. The children bounced into the master bedroom and, giggling, flung themselves onto the bed.

“Mommy, look!” Taylor shouted, pointing to the dressing table.

“What is it?” She turned, let go of the packages; her handbag slid to the floor. “Oh, my goodness!”

An exquisite bouquet of creamy white roses interspersed with fresh, fragrant stalks of eucalyptus, was massed in front of the dressing-table mirror. Buried deep within the blooms was a small card.

She took it out.

“Are they from Daddy?” Taylor pressed herself around her mother’s leg. “What does it say, Mommy?”

“No,” she said in wonder. “They’re not from Daddy.”

“Who are they from?”

“Yes, Mommy!” Travis jumped up and down excitedly. “Who sent you flowers?”

Looking up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused.

Then she smiled.

Grabbing Taylor’s hands, she spun her round and round until they collapsed on top of the massive bed. Pillows went flying. Shrieks filled the air. Travis clambered eagerly on top of them and she pressed them both to her, these two tiny wriggling bodies, smelling of warmth and youth and cake. She tickled them, covering them in kisses, blowing raspberries on the backs of their necks until they squirmed with delight. The perfectly made bed crumpled and creased as she threw them into the soft pile of pillows, until one of them exploded, sending a cloud of white feathers shooting into the air, drifting slowly, weightlessly to the ground. They were laughing so hard they never even noticed the tears she quickly brushed away.

(A Small Digression)

N
ow, you are probably wondering why you’ve never heard of a professional flirt before and some of you, the more jaded and pessimistic, might even imagine I’ve made up the entire occupation, that no such position exists.

Well, you’re wrong.

It was during the famously hot summer of 1911, when Valentine Charles’s own great-grandmother, Mrs. Rowland Vincent (Celia to her friends), found herself recently widowed and struggling to save the rather dreary ladies’ hairdressing shop in St. James that she and her first husband had established with their life’s savings. Poor old Rowland Vincent had died of a sudden diabetic attack brought on by eating too many rose crèmes. (What the crèmes were doing in the house, considering his condition and extreme partiality to them, remains a mystery.)

The fortunes of the Vincents’ small shop were floundering, headed for disaster, when Celia had the good luck to meet Valentine’s grandfather—the very tall, wickedly handsome Nicholas Charles.

Twelve years her junior with no hairdressing experience (in fact, at twenty-six he’d already had a suspiciously long and varied
career in domestic service that spanned stable boy to gentleman’s valet), he was nevertheless remarkably popular with her clients, creating hairstyles based on the long plaits fashionable for horses in dressage. (Luckily for him, the Russian ballet was in town that summer performing
The Firebird
and the Russian peasant look, along with thick braids, was all the rage.)

Seizing upon the fervor for all things foreign, Nicholas took to calling himself Nicolai and then the Baron Carvolski which was, in the autumn of 1912, shortened to the Baron. His accent was a beguiling if challenging mixture of cockney, Prussian and a bit of Franglais thrown in for color. His signature style was
La Vie en Rose
: long plaits woven into a kind of basket on top of the head, then filled with a combination of real and silk roses. A client had to keep her head very still. In spite of, or perhaps, because of the fact that very few ladies could pull off such a feat, the style became legendary.

However, the trait that rescued the tiny shop from ruin, raising it to the enviable position of the most exclusive in town, was his remarkable, even heroic ability to flirt with absolutely anyone. Celia Vincent watched in fascination (and no small amount of jealousy) as day after day, he wove a spell around each woman, practically hypnotizing them with compliments and subtle sexual innuendoes, tailoring his words precisely. He’d flash his perfect teeth and had mastered the daring, direct stare that was to become the trademark of the screen idol Valentino (many say he stole it from the Baron).

But it wasn’t until the Baron was approached by a distraught duke that the professional flirt as we know it today was born. The hapless peer had been caught in flagrante with his mistress behind the library sofa at a country-house party. His wife, a sadly plain and introverted woman, was, he felt, taking it all a bit badly. The Baron’s reputation to lift a woman’s spirits was well established
and the duke wondered if, for an additional fee, he might not lay it on a bit thick.

Nicolai kept his side of the bargain, not only flirting the depressed duchess into a much better humor but also managing to give her a genuinely flattering hairstyle at the same time. The couple reached a reconciliation and soon word spread of the Baron’s amazing abilities. Shortly after, he was inundated by wealthy husbands of a certain class with “special requests.”

The enterprising couple set about expanding their business. They were quick to realize they’d stumbled upon a previously untapped service industry. An ad was placed at the back of
The Times
, not dissimilar to the one that Hughie answered in the
Stage
, and two more gentlemen were hired and trained in the Baron’s methods.

And so the business flourished.

During the Second World War, the shop was badly bombed and Valentine’s grandparents were surprised that even without the shop front, clients still came flooding in—many of them anxious soldiers posted overseas, desperate to be assured that their wives and girlfriends remained faithful. (This was when the Cyrano was born, but more about that later.)

Thus the business quietly thrived and was handed down from one generation to another, mutating as such things do to keep up with the times.

There has always been a Charles presiding over England’s oldest, and for all I know, only established agency of flirts.

But now our digression is over. Those of you who still doubt the existence of the professional flirt and accuse me of writing fiction are gently reminded to keep an open mind. After all, can you really be certain you’ve never been on the receiving end of their services yourself?