The Flirt (13 page)

A
rnaud Bourgalt du Coudray paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was on his way out to supper. Again. He was taking Svetlana to George’s and on to some club afterward.

Automatically, he stopped to appraise himself in the mirror in the front hallway. How things had changed! A person might mistake me for forty-five, he thought, shaking his head so that his hair covered his bald patch, and flashing himself a strange little smile, parting the lips but keeping the upper half of the face completely immobile; a trick his mother had taught him for not getting wrinkles. (The fact that as an expression it failed to convey any warmth or good humor had escaped them both.)

Yes, in many ways, he considered, life couldn’t be better.

Business was going amazingly well. In a couple of weeks when he launched the Nemesis All-Pro Sport 2000, he was certain to rise to the very pinnacle of the sporting goods industry. He might even be nominated for the prestigious Silver Sock Award—the sporting industry’s highest honor. In addition, he hadn’t spoken to his mother in weeks. Normally she rang twice a day to vent her ill-will at him but she’d treated herself to a month-long spa break and they’d thoughtfully wired her jaw shut.

Best of all, there were no real obstacles to him seeing Svetlana.
Here they were, trotting out for the third time this week. And he was guaranteed sex. (It took a couple of recreational drugs to work herself up to the task, but once high as a kite, she did a creditable impression of a sexually predatory creature possessed with lust and desire. One of the drawbacks of having been inconceivably wealthy all his life was that Arnaud was absolutely certain no one had ever slept with him for the sex alone.)

Still, a profound sense of unease stirred in the pit of his stomach.

Surely something was wrong, deeply wrong, if no one even cared where he was going or what he was doing? And he realized that the ingredient missing from this otherwise flawless existence was the presence of his beautiful, faithful, chronically unhappy wife.

Where was Olivia? Why was she no longer trailing after him in the mornings like a doomed wraith? In the almost eleven years that he’d known her, she’d never been so conspicuously absent from his life. He’d been threatening to move into one of the guest rooms every day this week—surely she should be frantic!

And, having done everything in his power to repel and degrade her for the past six months, Arnaud found himself outraged.

Was this part of some larger plan? Was she toying with him? Did she imagine he was like some schoolboy to be neglected and manipulated as she pleased?

“Gaunt!” he shouted, suddenly furious. “GAUNT!”

Gaunt appeared from below stairs. “Yes, sir?”

“Where is my wife?” He spat the words out, resenting them even as they left his lips.

“I believe, sir, she is still at the gallery. Shall I ring to confirm?”

The man was impertinent; laughing at him, he was certain.

“No.” Arnaud pushed his way past him, flinging the front door wide. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

When Arnaud arrived at the gallery, there were at least two dozen people milling about, unloading trucks, hanging canvases, repositioning video cameras, and shouting at each other. The artists were instantly recognizable as a small cluster of vagrants puffing away on cigarettes in a corner underneath the “No Smoking” sign.

“Where is my wife?” Arnaud demanded of a scruffy young man.

“And, like, who are you?” the rogue challenged.

“I am…” Arnaud stopped himself. It was degrading to have to introduce himself. He cut straight to the point.

“Fuck off,” he said and stamped away, aware that they were laughing at him.

Arnaud loathed art. It had never bothered him much before he was married, but after Olivia became a devoted patroness, he came to despise it. He especially hated the word “talent” and the way it was thrown about, landing on any and every substandard imbecile who took his wife’s fancy. Michelangelo was talented. Leonardo da Vinci had ability. But Walter Fripp from Woking with his papier mâché mannequins dressed as sexually explicit Teletubbies had severe mental problems, not talent. He had tried on many occasions to explain this to his wife but she refused to see his point. She talked about vision and cultural references and metaphors for modern life until he wanted to shout. So he did. Educated women insisted on having ideas and opinions. His mother had enough opinions for all the women in the world. He didn’t need any from his wife.

Then he spotted her, talking to that fop, Simon Gray.

Arnaud planted his feet where they were and bellowed. “Olivia!”

Instantly everything stopped. All eyes turned.

“‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate!’” Simon quoted under his breath.

Olivia looked round.

“Arnaud,” she smiled, crossing the floor with her hand extended, as if she were greeting a stranger. “What are you doing here?”

Her lack of reaction disorientated him. She was meant to come running, with that familiar frightened look. Instead she took his arm and moved him firmly into a room covered with photographs of dustbins. And once she’d cordoned him off from the rest of society, she stopped, staring up at him expectantly with her large blue eyes.

Arnaud hadn’t looked at his wife in a while. He didn’t expect her to be so attractive. He was surprised by how young, how slim and compact she was. She was wearing a thin cotton eau-de-Nil Oxford shirt and a pair of mannish black linen trousers, a steel-blue cashmere pullover tied loosely around her waist. It was a casual, artless ensemble and yet oddly sexy. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing a taut forearm and tiny wrists. There was something about a woman’s wrists, he noted; the way they tapered into the hands. He was particularly drawn to her long graceful fingers. Olivia’s flitted toward her neck and his eyes followed. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her neck unadorned. Naturally his gaze wandered to the deep V below her throat where her cleavage began. He wondered if she was wearing a bra, almost hoping she wasn’t. Something within him stirred.

How irritating to find her sexy! It disrupted his plans for the evening. There was a girl half her age preening and plucking herself into oblivion right now in anticipation of his arrival. Also it dulled his anger; he felt exposed, unarmed. Even more upsetting was her serenity.

“Well?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest so that her breasts sat firmly on top of them. Was she trying to drive him mad?

“I wanted to know…the thing is…” Having come all this way, he was now at a loss. Feeling wrong-footed in any way made him furious and, with the rush of feeling, he recovered himself. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Working.”

“Working? Why?”

“What else am I to do?”

It was an oddly valid point.

“But it’s late! What about supper?”

“Are you offering to take me out?” she countered.

He furrowed his brow in an attempt to look beleaguered and put upon. “You know I have to meet with Pollard this evening,” he lied.

“Ah, yes,” she smiled, “Pollard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s meant to mean, ‘Ah, yes, Pollard.’” He could feel her concentration going; her eyes scanning the room. “At any rate, I’m not hungry. But thank you for thinking of me. Send Pollard my very warmest regards.”

And she strolled away from him, back to where Simon was overseeing the installation of a ten-foot-tall aluminium teddy bear.

Arnaud knew that now was the time to leave; he’d made a fool of himself and a speedy exit was required. But internally he felt himself dig in for the long haul.

He followed her, glaring at Simon (who tried to shake his hand) and sneering at the young artist who was nervously trying to right his ridiculous creation.

“Pollard and I are involved with some very tricky negotiations,” he barked, to no one in particular.

Olivia made a small adjustment to the plinth and the teddy bear righted itself.

“Well done!” Simon patted her on the back.

“The Asian market is a nightmare!” Arnaud continued, trailing after Olivia as she walked into the next room. Suddenly he stopped. “Wait a minute.” He had an odd feeling of déjà vu. “This sofa looks like ours…My God! It is ours! This is our furniture!” He wheeled round. “This is our drawing room!”

Olivia was waving to a tiny red-haired girl in the far corner.

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Comes off rather well, doesn’t it?”

“What?” he spluttered. “Are you mad? What are we meant to sit on at home?”

She sighed. “No one ever uses it, Arnaud. And here it’s part of a work of art. I’d like you to meet the artist. Red Moriarty, this is my husband, Arnaud.”

He ignored the girl and pulled Olivia to one side. “What’s got into you? I will not have my private home life on show for every snot-nosed student to paw over!”

She shook him loose. “It’s going to be reviewed tonight, Arnaud. The art critic from
The Times
is coming for a sneak preview. Red Moriarty is going to be a household name, if I have anything to do with it. She’s incredibly, uniquely talented!”

That word again! He rolled his eyes.

“Finally,” she continued, her voice strained with feeling, “I’ve found something worthy of my energy and efforts. This is deeply important to me, Arnaud. And I will not have you destroying what you don’t understand!”

“Don’t understand? Don’t understand! What do you think I am? An idiot?”

She was silent.

“Right!” he raged. “That’s it! I’m moving my things out tonight!”

No reaction.

“This is it!” He waved his phone in the air. “I’m ringing Gaunt right now!”

“Fine.”

She marched away, heels echoing across the parquet floor, disappearing into the throng of activity in the main gallery. And Arnaud found himself stranded in the middle of his own drawing room which had washed up in Mayfair, complete with some strange girl in it.

He closed his eyes and clenched his fists in rage. Something worthy of her energy and efforts! What was he? Wasn’t he completely worthy of her undivided attention and devotion? How dare she replace him with this…this…ridiculous show!

He rang Gaunt. “I want you to move everything of mine out of my bedroom into one of the spare rooms, do you understand? And I mean absolutely everything!”

“Very good, sir.”

He clicked his phone shut. That would show her!

But instead of feeling back in control, terror took hold.

She was leaving him.

After all his years of devotion!

It wasn’t fair! He was the victim here—of her unstable emotional condition.

He wanted her back; she belonged to him.

But it had to be on his terms. He wasn’t prepared to be dictated to by anyone.

Arnaud paced the floor. He was damned if he was going to grovel!

If only he could catch her out; discover her in some compromising position. That was the surest way to gain the upper hand. Then
she
would have to beg for
his
forgiveness.

Trouble was, Olivia never did anything wrong. If only she could be tempted…

Frowning, he checked his watch. He was already late for Svetlana.

Once again, his wife was ruining his evening!

Wait. That was it!

It was so simple, he nearly laughed out loud with relief.

All he needed was some idiot to do his bidding; someone who couldn’t afford to say no.

Taking out his mobile phone again, he sat down on his sofa, put his feet up on the ottoman and dialed.

Jonathan answered. Arnaud could hear the wail of various ill-tempered children in the background.

“Mr. Bourgalt du Coudray! What a pleasant surprise!” Jonathan shouted above the din. He was panting now, as if he were jogging up a flight of steps; the wailing growing distant. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Seduce my wife, Mortimer.”

Jonathan stopped whatever aerobic activity he was doing. “I’m sorry?”

“Seduce my wife. Hit on her. Pursue her.”

“I’m not sure I understand. You want me to—”

“I want you to make love to her,” Arnaud interrupted.

“But, sir, I don’t know your wife. Besides, I happen to have one of my own.”

Arnaud laughed. “And…? You act as if you’ve never orchestrated an affair!”

“I haven’t.”

“You English are such prudes! Listen, I haven’t got time for this. It’s really quite simple: all you have to do is woo her. It doesn’t matter if she responds. In fact,” he considered smugly, “I’m sure she won’t. All I need is the evidence of a seduction. You’re a clever man. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, and Mortimer?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t even think of touching her or you’ll live to regret it.”

He hung up.

Life was all about delegating.

Standing, he brushed off his trousers and left to pick up Svetlana.

Marriage was important, he reflected, as he climbed into the back of the huge black Range Rover waiting for him outside the gallery. It hurt him that Olivia was taking theirs for granted.

Settling back into the plush leather seat, he stared out of the darkened window.

Thank God at least one of them cared enough to do something about it.

Jonathan Mortimer sat stunned on the corner of his son Felix’s bed. (He’d only made it as far as the children’s bedrooms.)

What did he mean, seduce her?

How?

And more importantly why?

He’d only met Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray about three times; they were only barely acquainted. How was he meant to suddenly become her lover? He didn’t have the energy to seduce his own wife, let alone someone else’s! The man was insane!

Unfortunately, he was also his biggest client.

Arnaud had laughed at the fact that he’d never had an affair. Was he right? Was Jonathan nothing more than a prude?

He’d certainly never imagined himself as a ladies’ man.

Pulling himself upright, stomach in, shoulders back, he regarded himself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door, cut out in the shape of a laughing giraffe.

His reflection blinked back at him.