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

Flick outlined, ‘you absolutely, categorically do not pick up women.’

      ‘Not under any circumstances. We flirt, Hughie, make women feel good about being alive. We notice them. Smile. Talk a little. Pay them some attention.’

      ‘And then leave,’ Flick added. ‘Rule number two: always know your exit.’

      Things were looking up. He wasn’t going to be a rent boy after all.

      Still, his new profession wasn’t entirely clear.

      Valentine sensed his confusion. ‘Let me start at the beginning. Imagine,’ he made a bold, theatrical gesture with his hands, ‘one day a lonely, dejected woman is waiting for a tube train or queuing in a shop when suddenly she’s aware that a well-dressed, handsome young man is looking at her. Perhaps she turns away, pretends not to notice. But he’s unable to stop staring. She grows flushed, excited. And at last, just as she’s about to leave, he stops her. And stammering shyly, pays her a kind, warm compliment. “I just had to say, what lovely blue eyes you have …” and so on. To us, it’s nothing. But to her, a perfect stranger would have been struck by her charm and beauty – a charm and beauty that she’d imagined she’d all but lost.’

      ‘So, where do we find these women?’ Hughie asked, taking another drink.

      ‘That’s Valentine’s area of expertise,’ Flick explained. ‘He has connections all over the world. He’s the one who manages the enquiries. We have a great many repeat customers. The same husbands have been coming to us for years.’

      ‘Husbands!’ Hughie choked on his lager.

      Flick thumped him on the back. ‘Yes, that can be a bit of a shock.’

      ‘Let’s face facts, shall we?’ Valentine proposed. ‘Nowadays, the only thing that keeps a marriage together is the intervention of strangers. Normally those strangers are likely to be an army of counsellors and therapists. But we can achieve tremendous results from a few well-timed words. Everyone, no matter how old they are or how long they’ve been married, needs someone who sees them as an object worthy of desire. It’s just that one’s spouse isn’t always likely to provide it.’

      ‘The key point is,’ Flick explained, ‘we break the cycle. A woman who’s been flirting is an entirely different creature from one who feels rejected and unappreciated. Instantly, the dynamic shifts, and with a little effort on the husband’s part, the rough patch is over.

      ‘You see, said wife,’ Valentine continued, ‘otherwise known as the Mark, will be having a highly charged clandestine experience. A completely harmless, entirely manufactured experience, but a thrilling one nevertheless. And the most natural response in the world will be to treat her husband with extra care and affection to mask her little secret.’ His eyes sparkled in the dim light. ‘Et voilà! Domestic harmony is once more restored.’

      ‘But … but that’s dishonest!’

      Valentine tilted his head to one side. ‘Is perfume dishonest?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘We don’t naturally smell like crushed rose petals and jasmine, do we? And yet who would begrudge us a little harmless artifice? Honesty is only of value to doctors or lawyers. But in marriage, it can be fatal.

      Of course, we don’t always do married women,’ Flick took a sip of her wine.

      ‘Widows, divorcees, virgins, long-term singles …’Valentine reeled off.

      ‘Yes, I see,’ Hughie said, not really seeing at all. The very scope of it all was overwhelming.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Flick smiled. ‘It can be a bit much to get your head round at first. But pretty soon it will all be second nature.’

      Just then Hughie became aware that three of the most handsome men he’d ever seen were making their way across the pub towards them.

      ‘Here are the boys.’ Valentine turned to to greet them. ‘I want you to meet the rest of the team.’

      As they approached, Hughie recognized the man from the bus. ‘Good God!’

      ‘Well, fancy that!’ the man countered, with a smile.

      ‘You know each other?’ Valentine sounded irritated.

      ‘No,’ the man said, ‘not exactly. My name’s Henry,’ he held out his hand. ‘Henry Montifore.’

      Hughie shook it. ‘I can’t tell you what a spot I was in! I really owe you one. We met on a bus,’ he explained to the others. ‘I didn’t have a ticket or rather I had one but couldn’t get at it and there was an inspector …’

      Henry laughed. ‘Think nothing of it. Only I’d avoid that young man in future if I were you. Oh, and let me introduce you to Marco and Jez,’ he indicated the two men next to him: a slim, roughly handsome Italian, with long dark hair, green eyes, and the smile of a wicked cherub; and to his left, a tall, muscular black man, who showed off his Olympian physique in a simple white T-shirt and jeans. He had the classical chiselled features of a Greek statue, crowned by a close crop of white-blond hair.

      ‘Welcome aboard!’ Henry added.

      They were all smiling, patting him on the back, laughing. A fresh pint appeared before him and Hughie experienced the rare and pleasant feeling that he’d arrived.

      He wasn’t exactly sure where he’d arrived or for how long. But he determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

       La Dame aux Camélias

      Leticia pressed the buzzer of Leo’s flat and readjusted the shopping bags she was carrying. She’d lugged them all the way from Goodge Street in heels.

      No reply. She rang again, looking around at the enviable location. Leo lived in a small Edwardian mansion block tucked away in a narrow alley across from Covent Garden Opera House. He’d had the tremendous luck and insight to buy it back in the late seventies when living in town was still a novel idea. Now the flats above and below his were gutted, turned into sleek, loft-style apartments, and prices had soared. His, however, was still firmly rooted in all the mod cons of 1982. She teased him that if he hung on to it long enough, perhaps the avocado bathroom suite might actually come back into fashion.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m here!’

      The door clicked open and she struggled up the three flights of stairs. Leo was standing in the doorway wearing a red silk dressing gown worthy of Noel Coward; cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other.

      ‘At last!’ he grinned.

      ‘What do you mean at last!’ She walked past him into the kitchen, dumping the bags onto the table. ‘I trot all over town doing your grocery shopping and that’s all the thanks I get?’ She planted a kiss on his cheek, then frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight, old man. You can’t afford to lose weight. This cold is taking its toll on you, which isn’t surprising. How long have you had it? Almost a month?’ She began unpacking the food. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’

      ‘Actually, I think I look rather well,’ he said, striking a pose. ‘I tried a pair of trousers on the other day I haven’t been able to wear since 1983. They looked fabulous! Perry Ellis grey flannel with pleats like you wouldn’t believe! Of course you won’t remember Perry Ellis; you’re too young.’ He sat down. ‘Did you get the fish fingers? And the pickles?’

      ‘Yes. Since when do you eat fish fingers? Or pickles?’ She opened the fridge. ‘Tell me straight, are you pregnant?’

      He laughed. ‘Not this month. Juan likes them. He thinks they’re exotic. They don’t have fish fingers in Brazil. But the sweet things are all for me. Ahh! You genius!’ He pulled out a tub of Belgian chocolate ice cream.