Authors: Kathleen Tessaro
Somewhere around forty, he’d developed the same shape as his
father: long, spindly legs, a sloping, slightly apologetic stoop and a distinct absence of hair. His features, which had once been forceful and masculine, had softened—in much the same way that water wears away at stones in a brook—and now he seemed like a photograph that had faded in the sunlight; vague and unsure. The buttons of his tailor-made shirt strained over the width of stomach. Even it had lost its crispness.
I couldn’t seduce a pensioner let alone a beautiful socialite, he thought, panicking.
His heart was palpitating. He grabbed Felix’s favorite stuffed dog and curled up on top of his unmade Bob the Builder bed, staring at the dusty animal mobile dangling from the ceiling.
“I’m going to lose my job.” He pressed his eyes closed. “I’m going to lose my job and we’ll all end up penniless on the streets because of that fucking French fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
“Daddy?”
He flicked an eye open.
His sons, Felix, six, and Angus, three, were standing at the bottom of the bed, looking at him.
“Yes?”
“Mummy wants to know if you have any money for the cleaner,” Felix said.
Jonathan dug out his wallet, struggling to extract the notes without actually standing up. Immediately he assumed his parent voice, the one he’d inherited from his father—exasperation mixed with a halfhearted attempt at authority. “You cannot tell me a cleaner has been in this house today!”
Felix nodded. “It’s awful! She puts everything where we can’t find it. It takes all afternoon to get it back to normal.”
“Here,” Jonathan sighed, handing Felix twenty pounds.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“Why didn’t she come herself?”
“Mummy’s too fat to come upstairs.”
“I see.” That meant she was still sulking from their latest row.
“Only she’s not fat,” Jonathan corrected him, “she’s pregnant.”
“I think, Daddy,” Felix explained gently, “that maybe she’s fat
and
pregnant. By the way,” he nodded in the direction of the dog, “don’t squash his head. He doesn’t like it.”
“Yes, of course.” Jonathan readjusted the dog.
Felix trotted off and Angus remained, staring at Jonathan.
“Do you want to climb up?” Jonathan offered.
Angus shook his head. Then he bent over and picked something up from the floor.
“Daddy’s,” he announced, handing him a small white card.
“Thank you, darling. Must have fallen from Daddy’s wallet.”
He glanced at it.
“
Valentine Charles
,” it read. “
Purveyor of Rare Domestic Services
.”
“That’s it!” Jonathan sat up.
If there was one person who could solve this problem, it was bound to be the curious Valentine Charles!
Jonathan stood up. “My boy, you’re a genius!”
Angus grabbed his leg. “Daddy sleep in my bed!”
“Daddy’s got to make a phone call, darling.”
“No! Daddy sleep in my bed!” He began to cry.
So Jonathan Mortimer made one of the most important telephone calls of his career lying in his son’s converted cot while Angus happily covered his daddy with all the stuffed toys he could find.
And while covered in toys, it occurred to Jonathan that if Mr. Charles could sort out the bizarre, mystifying seduction of the Bourgalt du Coudray woman, he might be able to arrange something less dramatic but equally uplifting for his own wife, Amy.
(A Moment of Silence, Please, for Freddie)
L
ater that evening, they all assembled in Valentine’s flat.
Thanks to Jez, Hughie had been transformed from a rather good-looking, shabby student to the very image of a sleek professional. With his new haircut, he looked taller, his aquiline features exquisitely refined. Jez had selected a very fine navy pinstripe suit which brought out the color of his eyes, and a crisp blue cotton shirt worn open at the neck. Hands in pockets, the unselfconscious combination of youth, beauty and the excellent quality of the tailoring lent him a Gatsby-ish glamor. No longer a diamond in the rough, Hughie dazzled.
“Oh, yes!” Flick smiled when he walked in. “Yes, that’s the ticket! You could be the brightest young spark of a corporate enterprise!”
“Bravo!” Marco agreed, clapping his hands. “You got rid of those boxer shorts, right?”
“Absolutely,” Jez said.
“Smith, you burn them, yes? They only come out again when you retire, get married and have children!”
“Smythe, Marco,” Flick corrected.
“Yes,” Marco waved his hand impatiently, “whatever!”
Hughie could not believe his underwear had been such a hot topic of conversation.
“And the socks, old man?” Henry was standing near the fireplace, drinking a cup of tea.
“That boy’s ankles are completely covered!” Jez assured him, throwing himself into one of the armchairs.
“Well, I think we can all agree, Jez, that you’ve done a sterling job.” Valentine was sitting at his desk, leaning back in the chair, the tips of his fingers pressed together under his chin. “Now, Hughie,” he smiled slowly, “the easy part is over. It’s time for us to get to work.”
“Right.” Henry put his teacup down on the mantelpiece. “Welcome to a crash course on the rudiments of the professional flirt. Lesson one: the all-important background check. Flick?”
Flick stood up. “Valentine is in charge of the recruitment of new clients, managing existing clients and, of course, drafting in new staff. But the background information you need on each new mark will be provided by me. As soon as a client contacts us, I follow up with a long series of questions. I won’t bore you with the details, but the end result is as complete a character portrait of the woman as I can manage.”
“Flick has an incredible talent in this area,” Valentine assured him. “A knack for being able to read between the lines.”
“What husbands don’t know about their own wives is a lot!” she smiled. “Often they insist their wives are angry and sullen when obviously they’re hurt and rejected or they have tastes that, with a little probing, I discover are theirs, not the wife’s at all. Or sometimes, when I ask what their wife really wants from life or truly enjoys, they have absolutely no idea…either it’s changed over the years or, in some extreme cases, they’ve never really bothered to find out in the first place.”
“It’s no surprise that they’re experiencing difficulties,” Valentine said.
“Then I have to play detective,” Flick continued. “What magazines are on her bedside table? Does she look at any catalogues? What was the last meal she ordered in a restaurant? Who does she admire? What does her best friend do? By the end, hopefully I’ve got a clearer idea of what kind of flirt she needs, what she needs to hear, who would be the best man for the job, and what would be the ideal point of interception. And if possible, I like to have a look at them myself. It’s amazing what you learn just watching someone go about their daily life for a few minutes. After I’ve drawn up my report, I make a few gentle suggestions to the client about how they might follow up on the service we provide; half the success of what we do depends on a husband making an effort to be more attentive as well. What you get from all this background research is a personality breakdown, a job brief, and a time and location for the flirt.”
“Sometimes,” Henry said, “that window of time is quite generous but sometimes, especially with working women, it can be a very narrow gap indeed.”
“Tube trains!” Jez shook his head ruefully. “Wait till you have to do a train job!”
“Even a bus is better than the tube!” Marco agreed.
“With each brief, there’ll be a suggested, well-established flirt,” Henry went on. “For example, Casting Agent, Parking Meter, Interval Drinks or Shopping. Don’t worry,” he smiled. “We’ll go over all those later. After you’ve been trained, there’ll be a certain amount of creative leeway you can exercise, but in the beginning, there’s so much to concentrate on, that it’s best to stick quite rigorously to the script, so to speak.”
“And then,” Jez grinned, “all you have to worry about are two things: how can I get to her—”
“And how can I get away from her!” Marco cut in.
“Always know your exit,” Henry stressed. “Making contact is fairly easy…‘Pardon me, my watch is slow, do you have the correct time?’ Or, ‘Forgive me, I’m a little lost, I’m looking for Port-man Square.’ But after you’ve made contact, flirted, got them all excited, making a clean getaway is imperative.”
“Remember,” Jez added gravely, “not all our marks are married, some are single. You could get a Clinger.”
“A Clinger?”
“Ah! It’s terrible!” Marco shuddered. “The way they run down the street after you! Or follow you into the gents. One, she tried to get in the same cab! I had to pretend to suffer from…what is it? Falling asleep, you know?”
“Narcolepsy,” Flick volunteered.
“Oh, dear!” This was alarming.
“Normally I label the brief,” Flick interjected quickly, “‘PC’ for ‘Possible Clinger.’”
“Still, any woman can become tricky,” Henry warned, “and knowing your nearest exit, having your departing lines well rehearsed and moving quickly are your greatest safeguards against an emergency situation.”
“An emergency situation?”
“Remember, Hughie,” Valentine said, “this is a highly improvised profession, full of huge unknown variables. The truth is, any flirt can go wrong at any time.”
“That’s how we lost Freddie.”
“Freddie?”
No one had mentioned Freddie before.
“Freddie was a rare case,” Henry explained. “It’s highly unusual for an apprentice’s training to go so…so extremely wrong.” His voice trailed off.
“Lost him?” Hughie felt a faint chill creeping up his limbs. “How?”
Marco leaned in. “She was a Class A Clinger, Smith. Never, in all my years, have I ever seen anything like it!”
“Yeah, she had a kind of energy,” Jez recalled, “a kind of rolling around on the floor, possessed look in her eyes…like someone plugged her into a light socket. But Freddie didn’t clock she was mental—all he could see was that she was small and blonde.”
“Beware the Small Blonde Ones!” warned Marco. “From the first moment he spoke to her, you could just tell there was going to be trouble!”
“What happened to him?”
“He married her,” Valentine said sharply.
Silence.
Suddenly Hughie’s shirt tightened around his neck, his skin prickled. A skull in the gardens of Arcadia.
“But…I mean, married!” He laughed hollowly. “That’s a bit extreme!”
“She was a Clinger, Hughie.” Valentine’s face was devoid of any emotion. “Never underestimate a Clinger.”
“She started crying,” Jez explained. “A classic Clinger move. And of course Freddie made a mistake: a big mistake. He put his arm around her. We tried to intervene, tried to get him out of there…thing was, she was small but strong…”
“Never touch the mark!” Marco shouted. (The whole thing was clearly too much for him.) “Never!”
“Which brings us to the cardinal rule of our profession,” Henry cut in, dragging the conversation back from the brink of hysteria. “No physical contact, young Smythe. Crossing a physical boundary invites anarchy. From the moment poor Freddie gave the Clinger a hug, his defenses began to deteriorate; before he knew
it, he lost sight of his exit, then he was buying her a drink, trying to cheer her up. In an hour, he was lost to us forever.”
Valentine stood. “Distance, Hughie. The profession is a paradox—like being a physician. You must have compassion for them but you cannot help these women if you have no detachment. Remember that and you can have a wonderfully successful and lucrative career.”
“And you’ll be shadowed for the first week or so,” Henry said. “One of us will be with you every step of the way. Nothing can go wrong.”
Hughie swallowed, hard.
“Nothing,” Henry assured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
Still, the specter of Freddie, the fresh-faced recruit who hadn’t managed his escape, cast a shadow across the proceedings.
The phone rang. Flick answered it. “The offices of Valentine Charles…yes…of course, sir, one moment please…” She put the call on hold. “Mr. Jonathan Mortimer on the line for you.”
Valentine took the phone.
“Class dismissed,” he said as Flick ushered them toward the door. “Oh, Henry, a word please, when I’m done.”
Henry nodded.
The rest of them headed out to the street and said their goodbyes.
Hughie loitered.
After a while Henry came down. “Are you waiting for me?”
“Sort of. Thought I might pick up a few more tips.”
Henry put an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one day?”
They walked on through the narrow street.
“I don’t know. It was kind of fun the other night, you know, at Claridge’s. Didn’t you think so?” He enjoyed having Henry show him things; working together as a team.
“You did very well.” Then he stopped, his face serious. “The truth is, Hughie, Valentine has asked me to speak to you. We need your absolute assurance that you’ve finished with this girl of yours, Leticia.”
“Oh.” Hughie felt the walls closing in on him. “Well, the thing is…I thought perhaps I should let her down gently.”
Henry shook his head. “Not good enough, old man. It’s got to be done. Otherwise you’re out. Bit of a make-or-break situation, you see.”
“Yes. Yes.” Hughie stared at his shiny new shoes. “I’m due to see her tonight. At the Victoria bus depot.”
“Really?”
“She’s…you know,” Hughie flushed, “fond of public places.”
“Oh. Yes,” Henry considered. “I can see how she’d be a tough one to give up. What time are you due?”
Hughie checked his watch. “Actually, I’m late!”
“Right.” Henry flagged down a cab, smiling grimly at Hughie. “Best done quickly, son. Like chopping off a leg. Come on. And I’ll get you good and pissed after.”
O
ver the years Leticia had developed a strict protocol to deal with breakups; she practiced swift and humane methods, not unlike a kosher butcher.
First, breakups needed to be staged in bland, neutral territory; ideally public places, where the chances for tantrums and tears were dramatically reduced. Car showrooms were good (men were always distracted there), as were shopping malls and hotel lobbies. Next, she rehearsed her speech, the one about them both being in different places and needing different things. Lack of blame was essential. Finally there was the costume. Unwashed hair, no makeup, a shabby tracksuit…he’d look at her and wonder why he’d bothered in the first place. These were the details that separated the men from the boys, ensuring a clean and painless closure.
The thing that most women wouldn’t admit was that they didn’t really want a clean break; they preferred to remain desirable, mysterious; in love with the idea of themselves as forties film stars, playing out tragic scenes in train stations. They enjoyed being tortured by their decision, filled with regrets; it provided the perfect excuse to act out their pain with drink, cigarettes and strange men, all of which were mother’s milk to Leticia.
Drama: that was at the crux of the matter. Leticia prided herself on being above it.
And so, looking not at all like her normal self, Leticia arrived at Victoria bus depot and waited, sitting in her faded tracksuit on one of a row of blue plastic chairs anchored to the floor, before Hughie finally showed up.
She spotted him walking through the crowds of luggage-laden tourists. Her heart lifted. He looked different, still recognizably Hughie yet transformed. In fact, he’d never looked more handsome. He was carrying a bunch of shopping bags, wearing a new, expensive suit, and his hair was cut. Suddenly she wished she weren’t drowning in a sea of faded gray poly mix. For a split second she considered making a hasty retreat. But it was only her pride, she reasoned. A bit of vanity rearing its head.
He didn’t recognize her at first, so she waved.
He waved back. A sharp stab of longing cut across her chest.
“Courage, darling,” she told herself. Still, it was strange that she should need it; she’d never needed it before.
“I’m so sorry,” Hughie gushed as he approached and then he stopped, registering her curious ensemble. “Are you all right?” he asked, sitting down. “You look a bit…under the weather.”
“Hughie,” she began, “I need to talk to you.”
“Oh, dear! You’re not…you know…?”
“Oh, no! No, no, no! Nothing like that!” His face relaxed. “It’s just we need to have a talk.”
“The six thirteen leaving for Brighton is now boarding at platform seven.”
A herd of gangly adolescents grabbed their bags and left, giving them a brief moment of privacy.
“OK.” He stared into her eyes. “I’m really pleased to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve missed you.”
It had been a long time since anyone had missed her. She shifted uncomfortably.
“
The six twenty leaving for Winchester is now boarding at platform eleven. Passengers are reminded to keep their belongings with them at all times
.”
“I think we should stop seeing each other.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It just isn’t really working out, is it?”
Hughie stared at her.
Leo was right: he was so young, so terribly young.
“But why not? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. It’s not you. It’s not you at all. It’s me, Hughie. It has to do with me.”
“But…but I don’t get it. Have I done something wrong?”
“
The six twenty bus to Reading is now leaving from platform four
.”
More travelers lumbered past, dragging luggage, listless with heat and exhaustion. Leticia tried to swallow. Her mouth was dry, throat tight.
“Remember the Rules?”
“Yeah. But I haven’t broken them.”
She stared down at the floor; at the space between her feet. “I know. Like I said, it isn’t you, it’s me.”
“You mean you…” he concentrated, putting something together, “you…like me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Sort of. Anyway,” she snapped impatiently, “it’s not important. What’s important is that we follow the Rules, Hughie. We need to protect ourselves.”
But Hughie wasn’t concentrating. Everything had shifted. Bugger the job! Leticia loved him! She’d practically said as much.
“What do we need protection from? Especially if you like me
and I like you, which, by the way, I do, you know,” he grinned. “What could be better?”
“See!” she warned. “This is how it begins! The whole thing is getting completely out of hand!”
“So what?” He embraced her, covering her face with kisses. “Leticia, my darling!”
“OK, stop!” She pulled away. “Stop right there! We’re not doing a love scene, do you understand?”
“But why not? What have we got to lose?”
“Everything! You’re too young to know. You don’t understand now, but you will some day. Love doesn’t fix anything, Hughie. In fact, it destroys more than it fixes. And when the dust has settled, it’s just an afterthought. Lives still get ruined, people still leave, and life goes on and on and on. So the Rules matter, Hughie. They’re the only thing that matters. Which is why this is over!” She stood up. To her horror there were tears running down her cheeks and people, stupid, fat tourists, staring at them.
He got up too. “Someone’s hurt you. You’re frightened, that’s all.” He wrapped his arms around her again. “Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not frightened!” She pushed him away. “It’s the Rules, Hughie! Why can’t you just accept that? We had an arrangement.”
“Leticia…”
“No! I have to go.” She grabbed her handbag from the blue plastic seat, brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. Really I am.”
And before he could say anything more, she had pushed past the group of German backpackers who’d stopped to see how this scene would play out and rushed out the door.
What a disaster! What was wrong with her today?
She hadn’t got very far when her phone rang.
Please God, don’t let it be him! She focused on the number. It was safe; she didn’t recognize it.
“Yes?” she answered, trying to pull herself together, sound normal. “Who is this? I’m sorry. Juan? Juan who?”
Outside, Henry was waiting.
Hughie wandered out, dazed.
“What happened? Hughie?” Henry took his arm. “What happened?”
“She broke up with me.”
“Congratulations!” Henry slapped him on the back. “What a stroke of luck!”
Hughie stared at him, appalled. “How can you say that?”
“Well, had to be done, didn’t it?” Henry seemed surprised. “Only this time, you got out of doing the dirty work. Brilliant!”
Hughie longed to tell him that Leticia loved him; that that was the reason why she’d dumped him. Longed to ask for his advice. But now the job was all he had left. He didn’t want to lose that too. “It’s complicated. You don’t understand. Actually, not even I understand.”
“Sure I do. Listen, the first forty-eight hours are the worst. The ego’s taken a bit of a kicking. What you need is a constant supply of alcohol.” He took Hughie’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get you something to drink.”
“No.” Hughie suddenly felt sick to his stomach. His whole world had been turned on its ear; he was suffering from emotional vertigo. “I just want to be alone.”
“Bad idea. Let me take you home at least.”
“No.” Hughie shook him off. “Please.”
Henry eyed him warily. “No phone calls, old chap. That’s the killer. Mustn’t pick up the phone or before you know it you’ll be back to square one with the whole damned thing!”
“Here.” Hughie handed him his mobile. “Take it. I just want to be alone.”
Then he walked away, heading up toward the bus stop. There, he finally yielded to his nausea, throwing up in the rubbish bin and guaranteeing a seat to himself on the crowded bus ride home.
Poor kid! Henry shook his head, pocketing Hughie’s phone.
An awful business, but had to be done.
He turned, lit a cigarette.
Ironic that he was the one sent to enforce Valentine’s no-relationships rule.
Especially as he’d never managed to follow it himself.
Hughie sat on the top deck, thinking about Leticia.
Only true love could be so annihilating. Surely the pain alone was proof they weren’t meant to be parted.
He sighed again and looked miserably out of the window.
If only there was a way to get her to take a chance; of persuading her to love him.
Eventually exhaustion overtook Hughie. It had been an overwhelming day and he’d understood only a bit of it. His eyes grew heavy and his breath slowed. Finally, he fell asleep on the top deck of the number 16 bus, missing not only his stop but the whole of Kilburn entirely.