The Flirt (8 page)

H
ughie rang the bell of Leticia’s shop later that evening.

“I’ve never seen you in a suit,” she said, as she unlocked the door and let him in.

He smiled.

They hadn’t seen one another in days. And now a delightful frisson sparked between them, a certain shyness that made him feel as if they were starting all over again. She looked perfect tonight; all soft and so young in a simple pink silk dress. And he was struck again by how much he’d missed her. The room was dimly, sensuously lit and a breeze lightly ruffled the sheer curtains of the open window.

“I had an interview,” he explained, catching her about the waist and pulling her to him. “But seeing as we’re all dressed up, why don’t I take you to dinner?”

Her body yielded against his. And, nuzzling into his neck, she traced her fingers lightly over his torso. “Fuck me first, darling. You know I hate sex on a full stomach.”

He sighed.

It had been a long, weird day. Sometimes he wished he could just take her out on a date like any normal girl.

But, as her hand slipped down the front of his trousers, he reconsidered. “Oh, all right then.”

“Your suit makes you look so distinguished.” There was a gleam in her eye. “Like a big, powerful businessman.”

Forcing him backward, she toppled him into one of the chairs. She shimmied a little and the silk dress shifted, slowly working its way down her naked shoulders. Brushing her mouth against his, she climbed on top of him and the dress fell to her waist. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she whispered, her lips caressing his neck. “It seems I’ve forgotten to type those letters you wanted.” He tried to pull her closer but she continued to work her way down. “I’m a very bad secretary.” She deftly unzipped his fly. “But perhaps I can make it up to you.”

Hughie closed his eyes.

Her mouth was so warm, soft, wet…

Amidst the usual parade of pornographic images, his day began filtering through his mind. The woman on the bench, cricket scores, yellow Post-its screaming, “You Can Do It!” Suddenly he felt tired and unexpectedly emotional. Loneliness threatened, of the variety he’d remembered as a schoolboy, dumped at the train station with his trunk and his uniform at the beginning of each new term.

Opening his eyes, he focused on Leticia’s breasts, their nipples stiff and pink, bobbing up and down between his thighs. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes half-closed with pleasure; she was doing something wonderful—stroking gently, her tongue everywhere. But, still, it was hard to concentrate. And he hated to disappoint her.

Taking her face in his hands, he stopped her. She looked up, surprised.

Hughie stood up. “If you’ve forgotten to type those letters, you’re in real trouble, Miss…Miss…”

She blinked at him. “Miss Love to Suck Your Cock?”

“Well, be that as it may, I’m afraid this is a very serious matter.” He shoved a pile of sketchbooks off the large mahogany table and
they scattered across the room. “Pull down your knickers, Miss Love to Suck Your Cock. I’m going to have to spank you.”

“I’m not wearing any knickers, sir,” she giggled.

“How convenient.”

He forced her over the round table and pushed what remained of the dress to one side. Her buttocks were round and white. As he lifted his hand, he caught sight of her face in the floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite. Hair tousled, lips parted in anticipation—he knew he was on to something. “I’m warning you, Miss Love to Suck Your Cock, if your bottom becomes too red, I may be forced to take you from behind.”

She squealed.

“Or some other ghastliness,” he added.

“Oh yes, more ghastliness!”

His hand landed roughly on her cool cheeks.

“Oh, sir!”

“Be quiet, Miss Love to Suck Your Cock!”

“But, sir!”

He spanked her again. A red welt formed.

“Oh, sir! I’ve also broken the typewriter, sir! And killed all the office plants!”

“You’re a dreadful secretary!”

He spanked her again.

“Yes, yes! I’m just awful!”

Hughie turned her over roughly and pinned her to the table. “What is it you want, Miss Love to Suck Your Cock?”

“I want to be used!” She arched her back, pressing herself against him. “I want to be used and taken and satisfied and then used again!”

“By whom?” Hughie persisted.

Her eyes widened. She’d never imagined he could be so forceful.

She liked it.

“By you! Only by you!”

And so, Hughie watched himself in the mirror as he performed an act of utter ghastliness upon the enraptured Leticia. As her body shuddered beneath his, he gently pushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.

Perhaps they might wander down to that tiny restaurant in Pimlico and have Chinese food afterward.

And maybe, he thought, just maybe, she’d let him hold her hand as they walked home.

It wasn’t until later, when they were feasting on duck pancakes and jasmine tea, that the text came through.

The job is yours. Welcome to the firm.

Hughie walked Leticia home in glowing twilight. He wanted to be close to her. But each time he reached out to take her hand she deftly moved it away, swinging her handbag coyly. Finally, they stopped in front of the tall, terraced house where she owned a flat on the second floor, overlooking a leafy garden square.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she smiled up at him, tracing her fingers lightly along the lapel of Malcolm’s suit.

“This is where we say goodnight. Unless, of course, you change your mind and invite me up,” he grinned hopefully.

“You know the Rules, Hughie.”

“Ah, yes. The Rules.”

“No point being sarcastic; they’re there for a reason.”

His hand traveled into the small of her back, pressed her close. “No emotional attachments, no gifts, no staying over, no sweet sentiments…”

“And no nasty surprises!” she concluded. “The Rules keep us safe, Hughie. You don’t think for one moment we’d be having this much fun if we were a couple, do you?”

“Hummm,” he buried his face into the curve of her long neck. “I wonder…”

She pushed him away. “You’re not in danger, are you?” She looked at him hard. “Remember, if you’re falling in love…”

“Only I’m not!”

“Swear?”

He went down on one knee. “I prostrate myself before you in indifference!” Then, while he was down there, he tucked his head under her skirt. “Ahh! Here’s a bit I missed!” His lips moved up her inner thigh.

“Hughie! We’re in the middle of the street! Oh!” she swooned, gripping the iron railings. “Oh, yes!”

He poked his head out. “Of course, we could go upstairs…”

“That would be against the Rules!”

“Yes! But it would feel so wrong, wouldn’t it?” Standing, he pulled her close. “It would be so incredibly…bad!”

She couldn’t resist. He really was a terrific playmate. “Oh, here!” Giggling, she dragged him across the street, into the garden square, behind a hedge. “Only I’m warning you…”

He kissed her hard.

They tumbled onto the sweet-smelling grass. He looked into her beautiful dark eyes, hair tousled, lips parted.

“I don’t love you,” he whispered.

Her arms wrapped round his neck. “You say the sweetest things!”

T
wo days later, Hughie found himself sitting on the same bench in Green Park, waiting for the man called Valentine. It was no name for a guy, that was for sure. He was wearing the same borrowed suit. (Already Malcolm was demanding that he have it professionally dry-cleaned.) The sunny day was almost identical to the one earlier on in the week and the whole experience was colored by a strong sense of déjà vu. Hughie found himself scanning the figures in the distance; not searching for this unfortunately named man but for his redheaded woman instead. He was strangely disappointed when Valentine finally did appear.

“You’re Hughie,” Valentine announced, stopping in front of him and holding out a hand.

“Yes,” Hughie stood and shook it. It struck him as an odd way to begin the conversation.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Valentine Charles. What do you say we go get a drink in Shepherd’s Market?”

“Sure,” Hughie smiled.

Any job where your employer buys you a drink on the first day has to be good.

They crossed the street and Valentine led him up a narrow alleyway. At the top, Shepherd’s Market emptied onto a tiny square
and in one corner there was a pub called the Adam and Eve. The sign had a picture of a man and woman divided by an apple. They stepped inside and as Hughie’s eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness of the half-empty bar, he recognized a familiar face. She was sitting at a table in the corner, sipping a glass of white wine.

“It’s you!” Hughie was surprised by how pleased he was to see her.

She smiled.

“Allow me to introduce my assistant, Mrs. Flickering. Flick for short.”

She gestured to a chair. “Take a seat, Hughie.”

“What will you have?” Valentine asked.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Surely this was a test; the right answer was probably to order a soft drink.

“I’m having Scotch but that’s probably a bit old for you. A pint of something?”

Hughie relaxed. “Yes, please.”

Valentine went to the bar. They were alone.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said softly.

Flick traced her fingers along the edge of her glass. “And yet, here we are. Life’s a funny old business, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say.” He shifted, unsure of how to continue. “The other day in the park…what happened…”

She stopped him. “Don’t worry. I don’t take it personally. All part of the interview process, Hughie. I’ve been through it a hundred times.”

“I see.” He looked crestfallen.

“Why so serious?” she laughed. “Surely you’re relieved!”

He let out a sigh. “But how many times do you meet a stranger you can talk to?” The directness of his gaze was unnerving. “That you really want to talk to?”

“Well, yes, but the thing is…” He had a knack for creating
instant intimacy; disorientating her with his artlessness. She’d never encountered anything quite like it.

Valentine came back with the drinks and sat down.

“Cheers, Mr. Venables-Smythe!” They raised their glasses. “Congratulations on your appointment!”

“Thank you!” Hughie beamed.

They beamed back.

“So,” he ventured, “what is it exactly that we do?”

Valentine looked at him closely. “You’ve received one of the greatest honors of your life. You’ve been chosen; hand-selected to join one of the oldest and most secret professions in the world.”

Hughie felt uneasy. “Not…the Oldest Profession?”

“Hardly!” Valentine bristled, offended. “We are professional massagers of the female ego. We notice, flatter, attend to the delicate matter of romantic yearnings, that despite science and technology and sexual revolutions of all descriptions, still linger, languishing, in the human soul.

“In short,” Flick cut in, “we flirt.”

“And we are master craftsmen at our vocation,” Valentine added proudly.

“You mean we pick up women?”

“Rule number one,” Flick outlined, “you absolutely, categorically do not pick up women.”

“Not under any circumstances. We flirt, Hughie, make women feel good about being alive. We notice them. Smile. Talk a little. Pay them some attention.”

“And then leave,” Flick added. “Rule number two: always know your exit.”

Things were looking up. He wasn’t going to be a rent boy after all.

Still, his new profession wasn’t entirely clear.

Valentine sensed his confusion. “Let me start at the beginning.
Imagine,” he made a bold, theatrical gesture with his hands, “one day a lonely, dejected woman is waiting for a tube train or queuing in a shop when suddenly she’s aware that a well-dressed, handsome young man is looking at her. Perhaps she turns away, pretends not to notice. But he’s unable to stop staring. She grows flushed, excited. And at last, just as she’s about to leave, he stops her. And stammering shyly, pays her a kind, warm compliment. ‘I just had to say, what lovely blue eyes you have…’ and so on. To us, it’s nothing. But to her, a perfect stranger would have been struck by her charm and beauty—a charm and beauty that she’d imagined she’d all but lost.”

“So, where do we find these women?” Hughie asked, taking another drink.

“That’s Valentine’s area of expertise,” Flick explained. “He has connections all over the world. He’s the one who manages the inquiries. We have a great many repeat customers. The same husbands have been coming to us for years.”

“Husbands!” Hughie choked on his lager.

Flick thumped him on the back. “Yes, that can be a bit of a shock.”

“Let’s face facts, shall we?” Valentine proposed. “Nowadays, the only thing that keeps a marriage together is the intervention of strangers. Normally those strangers are likely to be an army of counselors and therapists. But we can achieve tremendous results from a few well-timed words. Everyone, no matter how old they are or how long they’ve been married, needs someone who sees them as an object worthy of desire. It’s just that one’s spouse isn’t always likely to provide it.”

“The key point is,” Flick explained, “we break the cycle. A woman who’s been flirting is an entirely different creature from one who feels rejected and unappreciated. Instantly, the dynamic shifts, and with a little effort on the husband’s part, the rough patch is over.

“You see, said wife,” Valentine continued, “otherwise known
as the Mark, will be having a highly charged clandestine experience. A completely harmless, entirely manufactured experience, but a thrilling one nevertheless. And the most natural response in the world will be to treat her husband with extra care and affection to mask her little secret.” His eyes sparkled in the dim light. “
Et voilà
! Domestic harmony is once more restored.”

“But…but that’s dishonest!”

Valentine tilted his head to one side. “Is perfume dishonest?”

“What?”

“We don’t naturally smell like crushed rose petals and jasmine, do we? And yet who would begrudge us a little harmless artifice? Honesty is only of value to doctors or lawyers. But in marriage, it can be fatal.”

“Of course, we don’t always do married women,” Flick took a sip of her wine.

“Widows, divorcees, virgins, long-term singles…” Valentine reeled off.

“Yes, I see,” Hughie said, not really seeing at all. The very scope of it all was overwhelming.

“Don’t worry,” Flick smiled. “It can be a bit much to get your head round at first. But pretty soon it will all be second nature.”

Just then Hughie became aware that three of the most handsome men he’d ever seen were making their way across the pub toward them.

“Here are the boys.” Valentine turned to greet them. “I want you to meet the rest of the team.”

As they approached, Hughie recognized the man from the bus. “Good God!”

“Well, fancy that!” the man countered, with a smile.

“You know each other?” Valentine sounded irritated.

“No,” the man said, “not exactly. My name’s Henry,” he held out his hand. “Henry Montifore.”

Hughie shook it. “I can’t tell you what a spot I was in! I really owe you one. We met on a bus,” he explained to the others. “I didn’t have a ticket or rather I had one but couldn’t get at it and there was an inspector…”

Henry laughed. “Think nothing of it. Only I’d avoid that young man in future if I were you. Oh, and let me introduce you to Marco and Jez,” he indicated the two men next to him: a slim, roughly handsome Italian, with long dark hair, green eyes, and the smile of a wicked cherub; and to his left, a tall, muscular black man, who showed off his Olympian physique in a simple white T-shirt and jeans. He had the classical chiseled features of a Greek statue, crowned by a close crop of white-blond hair.

“Welcome aboard!” Henry added.

They were all smiling, patting him on the back, laughing. A fresh pint appeared before him and Hughie experienced the rare and pleasant feeling that he’d arrived.

He wasn’t exactly sure where he’d arrived or for how long. But he determined to enjoy it while it lasted.