The Flirt (7 page)

For the first time in a long time, she felt energized.

“No one is to touch this room! Simon, get Mona Freestyle on the phone! I want this whole piece transferred to the gallery immediately. You’re a very clever girl.”

“Really?”

“Incredibly talented!”

“At what?”

Olivia and Simon exchanged a look.

“And witty!” Simon laughed. “Where did you train?”

“Train? I left school when I was fifteen. You see, I have a little boy.”

“A child? But you can’t be more than twelve yourself!”

“I’m twenty-two. Well, almost. Next month.”

“And your background?” Simon demanded. “Where were you born? Where do you live? What are your family like?”

“I’m from Kilburn. My dad owns a junk shop. My mother left when I was ten. I live in a council flat on an estate near Queens Park.”

He could hardly contain himself. “How perfectly Tracey!”

Olivia gestured for her to sit. “And your love of conceptual art…where does it come from?”

“Art?” The girl tugged at the ugly suit. “I can’t even draw.”

“Nobody draws any more!” Simon assured her. “I couldn’t sell a drawing if my life depended on it!”

“An utterly raw talent,” Olivia shook her head in amazement.

“You’re right,” Simon nodded. “God has answered all our prayers! Here is the
enfant terrible
we’ve been looking for! Even more
enfant
than Roddy and infinitely more
terrible
!”

Meanwhile, downstairs, one of the artists that Mona Freestyle of the Slade had recommended, a lanky young man with a large nose and beady eyes who specialized in preserving human remains in aspic, was being interviewed by Gaunt. He’d done quite well on the silver-polishing exercise and acquitted himself admirably during the cutlery identification. (The lobster trident was no stranger to him.)

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the opportunity to attempt the final exercise, as Simon Gray had the drawing room cordoned off and everything removed to the gallery later that afternoon. But Gaunt decided to hire him regardless. The quality of his sneer was first rate; he possessed a natural sense of superiority which couldn’t be taught. And if truth be told, there was something of Jean Marsh in the way he moved.

So perhaps England lost yet another great artist in the making to the service industry.

Then again, perhaps not.

H
ughie was sitting in a warm patch of sunlight on a bench in Green Park, with ten minutes to go before his appointment. He felt stiff and uncomfortable wearing the dark wool suit he’d borrowed from Malcolm. But at least it didn’t smell like violet water.

Perhaps it had been a mistake allowing Clara to dress him. But when she heard he finally had a job interview, she wouldn’t leave him alone. Her trademark yellow Post-its began to appear offering advice instead of warnings: “Make eye contact and smile! But not like an IDIOT!” “Don’t eat anything smelly the day before.” “Remember to shave!” As the week wore on they grew increasingly more like American life-coaching slogans: “You can do this!” “This job already belongs to YOU! All you have to do is reach out and GRAB IT!” “Failure is for LOSERS!” Hughie had begun to miss the Post-its that only required him not to forget his fucking keys.

He looked around at the people strolling past and the ones lolling, reading papers or dozing on the grass. And he wondered if any of them might be the person he was waiting for.

It was unusual to hold a job interview on a park bench. It was one of the things he’d kept secret from Clara and her endless grilling. But then, he was an actor and used to strange impromptu ar
rangements. Besides, any job that required discretion coupled with a romantic history was bound to be a bit unorthodox.

He checked the time again on his mobile phone. Any minute now, the man he spoke to would be here.

Then a redheaded woman sat down next to him, unfolded a newspaper and began to read. Hughie felt a bit anxious. This was the difficulty of using public spaces; namely the public. Should he ask her to sit somewhere else? Or perhaps he should just wait until the man arrived and take it from there?

Suddenly his phone buzzed. A text appeared.

The message read,
Flirt with the woman next to you. Your interview has begun.

Hughie blinked.

Flirt?

He read the message again.

Then he peered across at the woman reading her paper. She was about fifty-five, sensibly dressed; she looked like one of his mother’s friends. Definitely not the sort of woman he’d ever flirt with. Not that he was much of a flirt in the first place. His normal opening gambit was something along the lines of, “Hey.” And occasionally, he’d add, “Nice shoes.”

Just on the off chance, he glanced down. She was wearing a pair of flat, black loafers, what his mother called a “driving shoe.” He knew that because they were her favorite footwear. The originals were from Tod’s but his mother bought them in bulk from Marks and Spencer’s in a variety of garish colors. An involuntary shiver shot up his spine. How could he flirt with a woman who dressed like his mother?

His phone buzzed again.

A second message popped up.

There’s a time limit.

Hughie slipped his phone into his pocket. Was he being filmed?
Was this some sort of reality television show? Whatever it was, there were clearly two choices: to play along or to stand up and walk away.

Well, he was here now, up and dressed. And anyway, he’d get an earful from Clara if he just wandered off. He stole another glance. She wasn’t such a bad old bird. Her eyes were quite friendly and at least she didn’t have any disfiguring facial features—moles, mustache, or the like.

Still, he didn’t know quite how to get going. Lust or alcohol had always fueled his previous conquests. He tried smiling at her, but she wasn’t paying attention. An opening was required. Something sexy.

The woman was checking her watch, folding up her paper, pushing it back into her bag…

Then something caught Hughie’s eye.

“God! Excuse me…is that the cricket score?”

The woman looked up at him. “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry.” He grinned. “I’m rude, I know. It’s just,” he gestured to her paper, “that can’t be the cricket score! I mean, this is still England, isn’t it? I am awake, aren’t I? When was the last time you saw a score like that?”

The woman unfolded the paper again from her bag and laughed. “I don’t know. It’s not a sport I follow.”

“May I? Nice shoes, by the way.”

“Oh! Thank you. Of course you may.” She offered him the paper and he took it, his fingers brushing lightly against hers.

“Shane Warne! God, those figures are insane! I reckon he’s made a pact with the devil. So you don’t do cricket? What do you follow? Wait,” he held up his hand, “let me guess! Football! Beckham’s latest haircut, tattoo, fashion statement!”

“God, no!” she laughed again. “No, not my cup of tea, at all.”

“Rugby then. Large men in tight shorts.”

“Not rough enough.”

“Tennis.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Golf!”

She pretended to yawn.

“Championship Tibetan goat hurling!”

“Only the Tibetans know how to really hurl a goat,” she sighed wistfully.

“You’ve obviously never seen the Spanish have a go.”

She laughed.

He felt his nerves steadying.

Actually, she was easy to talk to; much easier than many girls he really fancied. And she had lovely eyes; a mixture of green and gray. When he concentrated on them, she could’ve been any age at all. Then it occurred to him that all he was doing was acting—just playing a part.

And he started to really enjoy himself.

“OK, OK.” He frowned in mock concentration. “Horse racing!”

Her eyes flickered.

“You cheeky devil! You play the horses! I know I’m right!”

Suddenly she was giggling. It was a delightful noise; unrestrained and girlish. “Only occasionally,” she admitted. “I’m Irish,” she added. “I was raised with it!”

“Raised with it, my arse!” He tapped her knee with the rolled-up paper. “You’re a thrill junkie! Don’t deny it! Look at how your eyes light up!”

And they had. Years seemed to have dropped from her; her face was glowing as she laughed again. “Everyone has a vice or two,” she said, looking away coyly.

“Thank God!” He leaned in. “I have a confession.”

“What?” She tilted toward him.

“The truth is, I’m not really into cricket either.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re not one of those dreadful cricket frauds I’ve been reading about, are you? Pretending to know how the game’s played, babbling on about wickets and overs, parading around with picnic hampers filled with nothing but bunched-up old newspaper.”

“Named and shamed!” Hughie hung his head. “Don’t hate me! It’s just, how else was I going to get the chance?”

“The chance at what?”

He had intended to lock her with an intense, sexy stare but then something happened that surprised Hughie; something that had only happened a few times in his acting career, when he was completely lost in the role. A strange rush of feeling flooded through him. His cheeks burned. “The chance to talk to you.”

For a moment, she said nothing. A delicate thread of intimacy wrapped itself around them.

“Why would you want to do that?” she asked quietly.

His blue eyes caught hers and he blushed even harder. “It’s just, well…” he fumbled, “it doesn’t happen very often. I mean…It’s not every day someone like you just…appears…out of nowhere…”

“Someone like me?”

“Yes, someone so…lovely. You have a certain way about you. I really like talking to you.” He was aware, even as he spoke, that it was true.

For a moment, it looked as though she might say something. But then an odd expression clouded her face.

It wasn’t quite the effect he was going for.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he apologized.

She shook her head. “No.” Then she was silent.

Fuck, he thought. I’ve buggered it up.

Shrugging his shoulders, he pushed his hand through his mop
of blond hair and gave her one last smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

But she just blinked.

He stood, handed her back the paper.

Oh, well, he thought, as he ambled up toward the tube entrance. That’s fucked.

Maybe there’s a job going at HMV or something.

Flick sat very still, for a long time, on the bench in Green Park. It had been a beautiful early-autumn day, and now it was just beginning to fade, mellowing into that time of evening when the light drains from the sky. The people around her were moving slowly, enjoying the last of the hazy warmth.

But Flick sat frozen.

She felt unusual, disorientated, flustered even. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who was accustomed to feeling flustered. After all, she’d been through this process a hundred times over the past twelve years. Normally these auditions were either excruciating or comical. But today was different. This young man had stirred something inside her; something she’d almost forgotten existed. He’d managed to disturb her entire equilibrium in a way that left her feeling exposed, vulnerable but at the same time exhilarated.

Valentine walked down from Piccadilly and sat next to her. He handed her a takeaway coffee. “Well…?”

This is where the two of them would usually dissect the whole adventure and more likely than not, have a good laugh. Instead, she frowned.

Hughie had reminded her of someone.

“Flick…”

A memory floated to the surface, of another young man, differ
ent in physical type from Hughie but similar in his eagerness and enthusiasm.

It had been years since she’d thought about the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d struggled to make conversation the first time they’d met. His desire to be with her had been palpable; a solid, physical force she’d found irresistible. And she’d yielded, almost immediately. Her face flushed from the recollection.

“Flick!” Patience was not one of Valentine’s virtues. “What’s come over you?”

She forced her eyes to focus on Valentine’s face and suddenly it dawned on her, what had happened.

“I’ve been seduced!” she said. “That little shit has just charmed the pants off me!”

Valentine’s mouth curled up at the corners as he slowly stirred his tea. “You don’t say.”

Shaking her head, she sipped her coffee. But it was too hot; too sweet and strong. She put it down again. “He’s really very handsome,” she added, “much handsomer in real life. I didn’t expect him to be so tall. And then there’s the smell of him…none of that dreadful thick cologne but a kind of clean, soapy freshness.”

Valentine laughed. “Mary Margaret Flickering, I do believe you’re smitten!”

She tossed him a look. “You wouldn’t understand. There was nothing at all forced about it, or smarmy. My God, he even blushed! So sweet! So terribly, terribly sweet…”

“Ah,” Valentine arched an eyebrow, “but do we need sweet?”

She thought a moment.

“Yes,” she decided firmly. “We need something unrehearsed, raw, a bit awkward. Not prepackaged or particularly sophisticated…” Standing up, she pulled her mackintosh around her. “We need something fresh, Valentine.”

“Where are you going?” He rose too, affronted. He wasn’t used
to being taken for granted; normally just the fact that he was present was reason enough to warrant her undivided attention.

But instead, she handed him back the takeaway coffee, as if he were a bus boy.

“I’m going for a walk.” Her voice was dreamy, faraway. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

He’d never seen her so distracted. He watched as she made her way down the hill, through the avenue of plane trees toward St. James’s, until he felt a bit poignant and ridiculous and decided enough was enough, this wasn’t an old film and he could really do with a drink.

As Flick strolled along, dry leaves, bereft of color, crunched underneath her feet. Her thoughts were drawn again to the past and her gauche young lover—of the way he used to look at her. He was the first person who’d made her feel intoxicated; completely alive and powerful. At the time, she imagined that feeling would be hers forever.

What a shock it had been when she began to grow invisible to men and they no longer registered her. How humiliating to discover time had abducted her favorite version of herself and replaced it with a saggy middle-aged woman instead.

Then she thought of Hughie Venables-Smythe’s amazing, clear blue eyes. Even now, she could still feel them gazing into hers, taking her in; seeing her.

And she smiled.

It was autumn. The leaves had begun to fall.

And she was still lovely, after all.