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

and sugar? That’s not to say it won’t be gorgeous,’ she added temptingly.

      ‘Excuse me.’

      It was the plumber, standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on an old rag. These people had no sense of timing.

      ‘May I have a word?’

      ‘Pardon me.’ She eased the novelist into a chair, piling a stack of sketchbooks onto her lap and popping a biscuit in her hand. ‘Have a look through some of these. It will give you some fresh ideas. I won’t be a minute.’

      She followed him into the bathroom. ‘Yes? So what exactly is wrong?’

      ‘How long ago did you have this put in?’

      ‘Three years ago. Why?’

      ‘And who did it?’

      ‘Freelance guys. Armenians. Friends of my godfather’s.’ (‘Friends’ was a euphemism.)

      ‘So not a proper outfit, is that right?’

      She didn’t like all these questions. ‘Well, no. Not as such. Why?’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

      Sam sighed. ‘I didn’t think it could be done by a legitimate company. Not by the quality of the work. But I wondered for your sake. Then you might have some legal recourse.’

      The word ‘legal’ sounded ominous.

      ‘See this,’ he continued, pointing to the pipes that fed into the freestanding bath. ‘Underneath the floorboards there are places where they’ve been held together with chewing gum and electrical tape. These pipes aren’t even the same width. You’ve got a well of water underneath there that’s rotting the wood. I’m surprised you couldn’t smell it.’

      The Armenians had done it at the most amazing price. And so quickly too.

      She ran her hand over her eyes. ‘Can you fix it?’

      He shook his head. ‘I can fix it but it means tearing up these floorboards, maybe even starting from scratch.’

      ‘And how expensive will that be?’

      ‘Hard to say. Twelve hundred?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘You can get a second opinion. I mean, another quote. But don’t use it for a couple days. It needs to dry out.’ He began packing up his bag. ‘If you want me to do the work, I can fit you in, but you need to let me know quickly. Here,’ he took a card out of his back pocket. ‘Let me know what you decide.’

      ‘Thanks,’ she said grimly, leading him through the workshop and opening the back door.

      ‘By the way,’ he stopped on the threshold, looking around, ‘what is it you actually do here?’

      ‘I design bespoke lingerie.’

      ‘You’re kidding!’ he laughed.

      Leticia straightened. ‘What’s so funny about that?’

      ‘Nothing. Hey, any chance of coming to a fashion show?’

      ‘Thank you for coming by,’ she said briskly, shutting the door.

      Twelve hundred for pipes! Of all the things to have to spend money on! Then she thought of her ever-climbing overdraft. It was all so depressing.

      She tossed the card down on the counter, adjusted the music and went back to her client.

      This really wasn’t her sphere; she was an artist, after all.

       The King of the Tennis Ball

      Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray was the king of the tennis ball. Anyone who ever thought about tennis balls (and there were those who did), couldn’t help but consider the du Coudray Imperial, with its bold mandarin-yellow felt and exceptionally springy rubber core, as everything a tennis ball should and could be.

      But the du Coudray Imperial had been Arnaud’s father’s accomplishment. (Actually, it had taken two generations to perfect – one for the felt and another for the springy core.) By the time Arnaud was born, the Imperial was the established tennis ball of champions. And so throughout Arnaud’s privileged life, his mother had followed him around, first when he was too small to get away from her and later, when he was too guilty to try, drilling into him that he would never match his father’s success as a son, a human being or a producer of world-class tennis balls. He might as well give up right now. Which would, of course, be disgustingly lazy.

      But Arnaud did not give up. It is a credit to his sheer stubbornness that every year he embarked upon a new scheme to make his mark on du Coudray Industries and increase the already ludicrously large family fortunes.

      And year after year, under the cynical eye of Arnaud’s mother, his schemes failed.

      There was the rubber tennis dress that never needed to be washed. The coaching racquet that hurled abuse every time a player missed a shot. And the legendary Tennis Caddy, a remote-controlled tennis bag on wheels which premiered at Wimbledon, famously reaching speeds of up to sixty miles an hour. Unfortunately, these were recorded during the men’s finals when one rogue version terrorized a slow-moving ball boy on national television.

      But now at long last, Arnaud’s hour had come. The Nemesis All-Pro Sport 2000 tennis shoe was a marvel of engineering, a triumph of fashion design, and a veritable orgasm of shiny lurex, flashing lights and gravity-defying rubber springs. And with Men’s Top Seed Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich flying in from Croatia to launch it in a special ceremony in Hyde Park, it was certain to fly off the shelves despite its £299 price tag.

      Standing in the middle of the vast sporting goods department of Harrods, Arnaud eyed up the competition. This time he had cracked it. None of them – Nike, Reebok, Puma – were a patch on his creation, he noted, smiling with satisfaction. Amateurs, all.

      Behind him Jack Pollard, his marketing director, was negotiating an exclusive display with the buyer; gesturing wildly, virtually battering the poor woman into submission with his enthusiasm. But Arnaud, restless, excused himself, wandering alone through the maze of exercise bikes, yoga mats, rowing machines – an endless parade of products aimed at the preservation of youth. How depressing. There was some woman in her fifties trying to balance on a ski machine. ‘It’s too late!’ he wanted to shout at her. ‘Give up!’

      Rounding a corner, he came face to face with an older man. The man barred his way, glaring at him. What an old shit, Arnaud thought. He was about to say something when he realized with horror that it was a mirror.

      Those were his lined features, his thinning hair, his sagging shoulders. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. Then he turned anxiously to see if anyone else had witnessed his discovery.

      He was alone.

      Backing away from the mirror, he averted his eyes, moving quickly into another section. Rage, unholy and mountainous, boiled up inside him. The events of the past year had clearly ruined him, draining away his mental, emotional and physical well-being. And he thought of Olivia, of how she had failed him. If only she were a proper, functioning woman, things would be different!

      For it is true to say that, while Arnaud hated himself, he despised Olivia even more.

      He kept walking, barely noticing where he was going.

      Of course he could have plastic surgery but then everyone would know; his insecurity would be revealed for the entire world to see. Besides, it was pathetic; one of his oldest friends, Fabrice, had succumbed and now he looked positively bizarre – tight bits here, saggy bits there – his facial expression was one of permanent surprise. It was impossible to hold a conversation with him without being offended.

      It wasn’t a dignified solution. Was there a dignified solution?