Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro

abuse you, just for doing your job!’

      The man nodded and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a brave soldier.’

      ‘You have to be!’

      ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the man, taking out his mobile. ‘I’m putting in a call to Head Office right now and I’d like to mention you by name.’

      ‘Really? Do you mean it? It’s Paul, sir. Paul Pullerton.’

      ‘Mr Pullerton, you’re a credit to your profession! I’m dialling right now. Keep up the good work!’ he called as he headed down the steps and off the bus.

      ‘Now there’s a gentleman!’ the inspector declared to anyone who would listen. ‘Last of a dying breed!’

      ‘He didn’t have to show his ticket!’ Malcolm pointed out.

      But the inspector ignored him. ‘A dying breed,’ he repeated and moved down the aisle.

      Hughie looked out of the window. The man had disappeared.

      Surely he’d given him his ticket. But why had he bothered to save a complete stranger?

      Halfway down Park Lane, the bus shuddered violently. Clouds of black smoke billowed from its engine. The driver pulled over and rang the bell. ‘Everyone off! Everyone off the bus!’

      Hughie climbed off and managed to lose Malcolm in the outraged throng of pensioners and pushchairs. Traffic had ground to a halt.

      There was nothing for it. So he ran down Park Lane.

      At Hyde Park Corner, his phone rang again.

      ‘I’m ordering without you,’ his mother said. ‘You forget that not everyone is unemployed and can laze about all day like you.’

      ‘Mum … I can explain …’

      ‘You have so little respect for other people. Time is more than money, Hughie, it’s the stuff of life. You are wasting my life! Why are you panting? Is something wrong with you? Are you ill? How is it that any child of mine could be so badly brought up as to think …’

      Another call was coming through. It was Leticia.

      ‘After all the money I’ve spent trying to give you the best possible start – yes, I’ll have the lamb please and a bottle of Château Margaux …’

      ‘Sorry, Mum …’

      ‘Hughie, don’t interrupt! What have I just been telling you about respect?’

      ‘Mum, if you could just hold a minute …’

      ‘Hold! I will certainly not hold!’

      Leticia rang off.

      ‘My God, Hughie, you really take the biscuit!’

      ‘Mum! This is a very important call!’

      He put his mother on hold and rang Leticia.

      ‘The Vane home for very, very wayward women,’ she answered.

      Then Hughie’s credit ran out and the line went dead.

      By the time he arrived at Leticia’s shop, her next client was already there. He rang the bell anyway.

      ‘Can’t you read the sign?’ she said, opening the door. ‘No soliciting.’

      He pushed his hair, damp from all the running, back from his face. ‘I’m here to pick up the samples, Miss Vane. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

      ‘And what samples might those be?’

      ‘The ones for Mr … Mr … Mr Licktitslowly.’

      ‘Mr Licktitslowly,’ she repeated.

      ‘That’s right, Mr Licktitslowly and the Reverend Hardascanbee.’

      She sighed. ‘Those samples have been put away. I don’t have time to get them out now.’

      Hughie leant in. ‘I’m afraid the Reverend in particular is most insistent.’

      She smiled, brushing her fingers softly against his thigh. He stiffened. ‘Tell the good Reverend Hardascanbee that another time, I’ll personally ensure he samples everything.’

      She shut the door.

      Hughie waited a moment for his erection to go down, then bolted across to the Goring. He was just in time to see his mother climbing unsteadily into a cab and it pulling away.

      ‘Bugger!’

      By now, breakfast had worn off. He went into the Goring anyway, lifting a copy of The Times from the front desk as he passed. There was no point attempting the dining room. And the bar was heaving. Instead, he squeezed into the lounge which was full of people lunching on sandwiches. He scanned the busy room until he found a table where a middle-aged couple were just paying the bill.

      ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’ He flashed his most charming grin. ‘It’s so crowded, is this seat taken?’

      Hughie’s Harrow education was useful for the accent alone.

      ‘Oh! No, please!’ the man gestured to the spare chair. ‘We were about to leave anyway.’

      ‘That’s very good of you. Here.’ Hughie held out the woman’s coat for her.

      ‘Thank you,’ she smiled.

      ‘No, thank you!’ Hughie waved as they made their way towards the door.

      Then he settled down, folded out his paper and disappeared into the general throng. The woman had left half her crab-and-avocado sandwich and most of her crisps. There was a small bowl of olives and even a bit of wine left in the bottle. He’d chosen well.

      Wiping the lipstick off the woman’s glass, he poured out the rest of the wine. Not a bad year, he thought, settling back.

      At least the letter was off, winging its way across London. He was in with a chance. Today, he was scrambling for spare change but tomorrow? Who knows? He popped a crisp into his mouth. After all, it was difficult to keep a Venables-Smythe down.

      He made a note of the time on the clock by the front door, then turned to the sports page and checked the cricket score.

      Sooner or later, Leticia’s client would leave.

      And sooner or later, the Reverend Hardascanbee would have his evil way.

       Armenian Plumbers

      Leticia closed the door.

      Nothing was going to plan today. Hughie was late, the romance novelist turned out to be four foot seven, a size twenty, and obsessed with the colour pink and now she’d have to measure her in the workroom because the plumber was poking about in the bathroom, trying to locate the mysterious leak. He was hammering on something, making the most God-awful noise.

      She checked the tea things she’d laid out earlier, running her fingers over the exquisite china cups and saucers. Thin, tangy lemon biscuits, smoky Assam tea, fine white sugar, milk, all neatly arranged on the large silver tray. Turning on a CD of Handel arias, she tried to look serene and composed, taking it back into the main room. ‘Please forgive me!’

      The novelist beamed up at her, dressed in a pair of too-tight jeans and a waxed Barbour jacket, smelling of wet dogs and hand lotion. ‘No problem at all!’

      ‘So,’ Leticia poured a little tea in a cup, checking the colour, ‘you want something with puffball sleeves, is that right? And a train? Are you sure?’

      She nodded eagerly. ‘Do you think you can do it?’

      ‘Well.’ How to break the news to her? ‘It’s not what I would recommend. Why don’t we