The Flirt (21 page)

A
t Smythson’s stationery shop, Flick purchased several dozen excruciatingly expensive thick, cream-colored cards and envelopes.

“Note the quality of the paper,” she pointed out to Hughie. “Everything you use must be of the best possible pedigree, do you understand? Remember, these notes will be the only tangible evidence the subject will have. They’ll be read over and over again, shown to close confidantes, discussed, debated. In short, Hughie, they must be perfect. Always choose cream. Other colors look pedestrian. Never choose distinctive designs. They should be anonymous, so while she should be able to trace the fact that they come from Smythson’s—which, in itself, is always reassuring—she shouldn’t be able to discern anything further.”

They walked back to the office, where Flick referred to a small Rolodex full of cards, each filled with a few lines of text gleaned from poems, lyrics, even fragments overheard in conversation. Here she’d stored hundreds of clues for future use. Finally, she paused and smiled.

“Perfect!”

Then, unpacking the cards, she slipped on a pair of thin white cotton gloves before taking up a fountain pen.

“Gosh!” Hughie observed.

“You may think I’m being paranoid,” she said, “but you’d be surprised at how many times a woman has resorted to having these notes dusted for fingerprints! Gloves are essential.”

Then in a large, firm hand, not too flowery, not too plain, she wrote across the middle of a blank card.

Blowing on it, she waited for it to dry before slipping it into an envelope and sealing it. Then she addressed it to “Olivia.”

“Just Olivia?” Hughie asked.

Flick paused thoughtfully. “The truth is, you could easily go either way. But I have a feeling that most people are quite deferential to her; that everyone calls her by her full title. I’m chancing that not many strangers would call her by her first name only. She might find that a bit provocative. Now, can you ride a bike?”

Hughie hadn’t been on a bike for quite some time—not since he was a child. So cycling across town had been a harrowing experience. By the time he finally pulled up in front of 45 Chester Square, he was little more than a collection of raw nerves, and sweating profusely, having spent the last quarter of a mile with a growling black Jaguar firmly up his backside.

On shaky legs, he climbed down, leaning the bike against the metal railings and doubling over to catch his breath. He tried to block out the all-too-vivid memory of Hyde Park Corner; pedaling for all he was worth only to find himself sandwiched in by huge, red buses, leaning on their horns, veering across lanes, sweeping him into fresh flows of speeding cars. Hughie had an epiphany: he might easily die at the hands of this woman in the Range Rover on her way to nothing more pressing than a hair appointment and, as long as he didn’t stop the flow of traffic, no one would care or, in fact, blame her.

The door of the house opened.

“You may not leave that here,” a haughty voice informed him. “Please remove it at once!”

Hughie looked up.

The butler had the knack shared by good domestic staff and public-school masters of instantly rendering those around them inadequate, before they’ve done or said a thing.

Of course, being a public-school boy, this made Hughie feel right at home.

“Hello!” He bounded up the steps. “Special delivery. By hand, as they say.”

The butler took the envelope, shuddering as he read it out loud. “For ‘Olivia.’ Indeed. And who are you?”

“Just a courier,” Hughie said. “I mean, if anyone asks.”

“I see. You’re not dressed like a typical courier.”

Hughie looked down at his jeans. “All my spandex is in the wash.”

The man sniffed. “Yes, spandex can be difficult.”

“A devil!”

“Best to air-dry it, don’t you find?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s the same with all the synthetics. And lurex especially. Plastics are the worst.”

Hughie blinked. “Definitely.” He backed down the steps. “Well, OK. Thanks.”

Gaunt watched in satisfaction as Hughie quickly wheeled the bike around the corner and out of sight.

Young people were so easily disturbed. It was as if God had created them for his amusement alone.

(Hughie’s Version)

O
n the other side of Chester Square, on Lyall Street, Hughie parked his bike once more in front of the Chocolate Society, which had a couple of outdoor tables set up under a neat little brown-and-gold-striped awning. There he unearthed a second Smythson’s card and envelope he’d lifted from Flick’s desk. And, while enjoying a thick cup of dark hot chocolate, he set about writing his own note to Leticia.

He hadn’t forgotten about her. Since they’d broken up he had thought about little else. Now, Flick had given him a solution. He would seduce Leticia as a mysterious stranger. Before she knew it, she would be hopelessly in love; unable to resist the skills of the professionals. All he needed to do was duplicate exactly whatever Flick prescribed for Olivia.

Not a bad plan, he congratulated himself.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten a pen and so had to borrow one from the man behind the counter. It was red. And his own handwriting wasn’t nearly as stylish as Flick’s; he had a bad habit of writing all in capital letters which gave the note a slightly sinister air—just one step up from cutting and pasting letters out of newspapers. It was only after he’d inadvertently smeared a bit of Belgium’s best across one corner that he remembered the importance
of the gloves and what a fuss Flick had made over them. But then again, Flick was a woman. They were apt to be a bit over the top about details. So, having only bothered to steal one spare card, he wiped it off as best he could and popped it into the envelope.

And then, because he wasn’t quite paying attention and because the bill had just arrived (who would’ve imagined a cup of hot cocoa could be so much?), he scribbled “OLIVIA” across the front.

“Damn!” He scratched it out and wrote, “LETICIA,” underneath and then, just in case it wasn’t convincing enough, he added, “NOT OLIVIA—I DON’T EVEN KNOW HER,” in the same wooden capitals.

There.

Perhaps not quite as impressive as Flick’s but certainly more deeply and genuinely felt.

But time was ticking on. Flick would expect him back at the office soon. So Hughie hopped back on his bike, speeding away from the chocolate shop as quickly as he could (he had enough change to leave a generous tip yet not quite enough to actually pay the bill), and headed across the bridge to Pimlico, to drop his love missive through Leticia’s door.

That evening two very different women, separated by little more than a few city blocks and several billion pounds, sat alone in their bedrooms, contemplating a strange correspondence that had shattered the seemingly hopeless landscape of their lives. Outside, dusk divided the sky into shades of pink, mauve and darkest purple, and autumn turned the air sharper; quickening with the season’s change. Inside, the acceleration continued in the imaginations of Olivia and Leticia, as they stared in wonder at the letters that had arrived by hand that day.

In both cases, the women had been baffled, confused; one, a little alarmed, the other, intrigued.

In both cases, the women spent several long minutes staring out of their bedroom windows, wondering if, somewhere in the gathering twilight, the author of this letter was waiting, maybe even watching from the dimly lit street below.

And in both cases the letter contained only a single line:

I have always known that one day I would find you.

“Now what do we do?”

“Nothing,” Flick smiled. “Oh, we have research for our next clues, but for now, we just let them wait. Remember what I said, Hughie—it’s all about boldness and inaccessibility. We’ve made a statement. Now we just let it hang there a while, gathering strength in their imaginations. Then when we make even the smallest gesture, it will have increased power because they will have endowed meaning to it that you and I can only guess at.”

“Oh.”

Hughie couldn’t pretend he wasn’t disappointed. If anything, he wanted to leave more clues, as quickly as possible, just to make sure Leticia was well and truly hooked.

He missed her.

Or at least, he was pretty sure he missed her.

The conversation with Flick seeded uncomfortable doubts. Should it really be this difficult? Did he have to work this hard? Then again, the harder he worked, the more it proved he must love her.

His feelings were his compass. And he had plenty of those; some delicious, some painful; all punctuated by an intense physical longing. It was heroic to suffer for love, sublime.

Besides, with Flick’s expertise, he could make Leticia love him…whether she wanted to or not.

W
hen Hughie got home that night, he found his sister Clara drunk. She’d swigged the best part of a bottle of Tesco’s finest Chablis on her own, shoving everything that Malcolm had given her, or, indeed, ever touched into a giant black bin bag in the front room. As this was Hughie’s temporary bedroom, he was obliged to sit with her while she told him how she’d discovered Malcolm engaged in an extremely compromising embrace with a male member of staff in the catalogue room of Sotheby’s.

“It was that…that
creature
from the Small Decorative Objects department!” She had a meat mallet which she now used to whack the eighteenth-century planter Malcolm had given her to pieces. “The one with the goatee! He told me he was working late on a rush evaluation so I thought, ‘I’ll surprise him. Drop off a sandwich for his supper!’ Smoked fucking salmon!” Whack! “On brown fucking bread!” Whack! “With lemon and cracked fucking pepper!” She kicked the bag hard. It split open, its contents tumbling onto the floor.

Clara stared at it. Then crumpled, sobbing, onto the sofa.

Hughie opened another bin bag and scooped the remains of the old one inside. Then he got her a roll of toilet tissue from the bathroom.

She blew her nose loudly and refilled her glass.

It was awful to see her like this. Clara wasn’t the kind of person who cried; even when she was little. She’d always been tough, never got ill, never let you down; didn’t waste time with makeup or clothes or fits of temperament. Hardworking, punctual and resourceful, she was just the sort of person you’d want by your side if there was ever a war. But Clara’s considerable self-discipline was useless in matters of the heart and it disturbed Hughie to see her at such a loss.

“But you must’ve known…I mean, everyone knew he was…” Hughie paused. He’d never said it out loud. “You know…gay.”

For a moment he thought she might get angry. But instead she tossed back another glug of wine. For a long time she just stared at the floor.

“I knew he had certain…inclinations.”

“Then why didn’t you…”

“Look at me! Go on!” she challenged. “What do you see? Hardly a ‘Page 3 Stunna,’ am I? I’m not like you, Hughie! I’m not beautiful.”

“That’s not impor—”

“Just stop!” she cut him off. “I’ve always known, Hughie, since I was very young, that I’d have to make do. Always.”

“Clara—”

“Enough.” She stood up, swaying dangerously. “Enough of this whole damn thing! I’m going to be sick now,” she announced, “and then I’m going to sleep. Do something useful for once and take out the rubbish, will you? And don’t forget your damn keys. There’s a good boy.”

She tumbled down the hall and into the bathroom.

Hughie dragged the rubbish down the stairs to the bins outside then sat on the front steps of the house, smoking a final cigarette.

It was late.

Tomorrow Clara would wake up, hungover. She’d put on her navy-blue suit, brush her teeth and get on the tube. He knew Clara. By the end of the day she’d be making a joke of the whole thing, laughing at her own expense; getting on with it, the way she always did.

He took another drag.

Low on the horizon, Venus blinked forlornly in the night sky.

O
livia took the Symthson’s card out of her robe pocket. She had spent half the night staring at it, and now here she was, sitting out on the garden steps, looking at it again.

I have always known that one day I would find you.

Such a simple statement. Assertive, absolute. Someone had been looking for her, thinking of her.

But who? And when had he found her?

Did she know him?

It couldn’t have come from Arnaud, of that she felt certain. Such a selfless gesture would be impossible for him now.

It had been so long since she’d had any attention, that the thought of someone noticing her was almost unbearable. A whole ocean of longing flooded out; vast and uncontrollable.

I don’t know how to behave, she thought. Or what to do. Still another, much younger, more enthusiastic part of her leaped into life. “I’ve been noticed!” it squeaked eagerly. “I’m here! I exist!”

She wanted to toss the card aside; ignore it.

Instead she put it back in her pocket.

Then took it out.

Put it back again.

Finally Ricki arrived.

“Hey,” she looked at Olivia in surprise, flinging a bag of plant food down on the patio. “What are you doing out here?”

“Just thinking.” Olivia stood up, pulling her dressing gown around her.

“This is getting to be a habit, you waking up at dawn, isn’t it?” She dug out her cigarettes. “Fancy a fag?”

“Yes, please!”

Ricki passed her one and they both lit up.

“Actually, I wanted to show you something.” Olivia handed the card to Ricki. “What do you make of this?”

“‘I have always known that one day I would find you,’” Ricki read out loud, frowning. “Do you owe someone money?”

“No! It arrived by hand yesterday afternoon. Gaunt said it was delivered by a young man.”

“Hum.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t know.” She gave it back. “Maybe somebody likes you.”

“But I don’t want to be liked!” Olivia blurted out.

“Yeah?” Ricki leaned against the wall, blowing a smoke ring into the clear morning air. “Why not?”

Everything she did was so cool.

“Because,” Olivia paced the narrow confines of the grass, “it means…I don’t know, losing yourself—getting dragged under. Someone liking you is just the beginning; it always starts nicely but before you know it it’s like Persephone being dragged into the Underworld.”

Ricki exhaled. “You’re a control freak, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You have to be in control all the time.” She tucked her cigarette into the side of her mouth and sliced open the bag of plant
food with a penknife she kept in her back pocket. “Do you want my advice? I mean, are you asking for it?”

Olivia wasn’t sure. “OK,” she said halfheartedly.

“Let go. See what happens. It’s only a note. Might all turn out to be nothing.”

Olivia hadn’t considered that. Suddenly it turning out to be nothing didn’t seem like so much fun either.

“Turn on the hose, will you?” Ricki ordered—she was hauling out the sack of plant food which she mixed with the water in a large green plastic watering can. “It’s like an invitation, isn’t it?” she continued, pouring the mixture onto a row of white roses.

“To what?”

“To something unknown. Something you hadn’t considered.”

“And I’m meant to like that?”

Ricki turned. Olivia couldn’t quite read the expression on her face; was it amusement?

“No. Maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Was she being deliberately provocative? “Would you like to be dragged into the unknown by some stranger?”

“Ah, but you make it sound so sexy!” Taking a final drag, Ricki ground her cigarette out under the heel of her boot. “What’s known becomes unknown, what’s familiar gets lost, what’s dead springs back to life. That,” she nodded to the card, “is an invite. You don’t have to accept it; you can throw it away if you like. But really, what have you got to lose? Your life is changing whether you want it to or not.”

She’s quite intelligent, Olivia thought. And wise.

“How do you know all this?”

“I don’t; I’m making it up. Actually,” Ricki laughed wryly, “I got dragged into the unknown by some stranger.”

“What happened?”

She looked past Olivia, into the distance. “My world fell apart. Then it came together again in a completely different way. And then, of course,” she added softly, “that fell apart too.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So it goes.”

“I’m frightened.” It came out of Olivia’s mouth before she could stop it: small, childish. Here she was, a forty-year-old woman, standing in her dressing gown, telling the gardener her innermost fears. It was insane.

But Ricki took it in her stride.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “That’s normal. You’d have to be crazy not to be scared.”

“But what do I do?” Again, the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“Here.” Ricki handed her the watering can. “Do the back row. Make sure you really douse them.”

Had she heard correctly?

“You want me to water flowers?”

“Yeah.” Ricki bent down. “I’m going to tackle these weeds.”

Olivia wasn’t used to taking orders from her staff or, for that matter, engaging in manual labor. But she was so stunned that she did as she was told.

The sun was warm, the earth smelled cool and black and rich.

Olivia watered.

Ricki weeded.

Time passed.

And gradually, Olivia forgot to be frightened.

Gradually, it started to dawn on her that this really was quite a nice little garden after all.