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

thought his face betrayed him. But, of course, that was stupid; what was there to betray?

      Henry put an arm around his shoulder.

      ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

      ‘Where do you live?’ Henry was walking just ahead of him, through the back streets of Mayfair. The air around them was cooling, the sky dimming to a light grey. Street lamps began to flicker as they strolled into Mount Street Gardens.

      ‘Kilburn.’ Hughie took out his cigarettes. ‘Want one?’

      ‘Thank you.’ Henry stopped and they both lit up. The dry, earthy scent of autumn leaves and crisp evening air mingled pleasantly with the acrid smoke. Henry inhaled deeply and their pace slowed. Bells began to ring, announcing evensong at the church opposite.

      ‘I’ll walk you to the train or bus or whatever it is you take.’

      He managed to make the idea of travelling home sound alien, even passé.

      ‘Where do you live?’ Hughie asked.

      ‘I keep a room. In a hotel.’

      Hughie had never heard of such a thing. ‘A hotel?’

      Henry smiled. ‘It saves me having to cook. And they have an excellent laundry service.’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘The Savoy.’ Henry kicked his way lazily through a pile of fallen leaves. ‘I’m particularly fond of the view of the river, especially at night.’

      ‘Wow!’ Hughie took another drag.

      He pictured himself lying in bed, ringing down for room service every morning: a full English breakfast, large pot of tea and a morning paper. They probably even had phones in the bathtub and little bottles with shampoo and free soap. Imagine never having to make a bed (not that he did now) or boil a kettle!

      ‘Do the maids still wear those uniforms? You know, the ones with the little aprons and white hats?’

      ‘They do indeed,’ Henry grinned.

      Hughie entertained a vision of Leticia wearing just such a uniform, bending over to make the bed.

      Could there be anything more glamorous than living in a hotel?

      They crossed into Grosvenor Square. The sky above was streaked with pink and orange, glowing like the embers of their cigarettes.

      ‘So, your girlfriend … what’s her name?’ Henry asked.

      ‘My what?’

      Henry looked at him sideways. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he repeated.

      Hughie considered lying to him, then gave up the idea as being too labour intensive in the long run. ‘Leticia. Only she’s not my girlfriend. It’s a bit looser than that. Actually, a great deal looser.’

      ‘Right,’ Henry nodded. ‘Been together long?’

      ‘A few weeks … maybe a little longer. But honestly, all we do is fuck. She won’t even let me stay over.’

      ‘Yes.’ Henry seemed unconvinced. ‘So you don’t care about her.’

      ‘Well, I mean, she’s great. Wild, sexy, beautiful …’

      ‘Uh hum.’ Henry shook his head.

      ‘But it’s not like I’m in love with her!’

      ‘Really.’

      ‘Really!’

      Henry stopped, turned to face him. ‘I’ll bet she gives good head.’

      Hughie’s eyes widened. ‘What did you just say?’

      ‘I said,’ Henry rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets, ‘that I’ll bet she gives good head.’

      ‘Well,’ Hughie bristled, ‘I honestly don’t see that that’s any of your business and quite frankly, I take offence at the question!’

      ‘Ah-ha!’ Henry pointed at him triumphantly. ‘You see! You do care! No feelings, my arse! You, sir, are in grave danger of being in love!’

      Hughie was stunned. ‘Really?’

      ‘Absolutely. You’re teetering, Smythe. Dangling dangerously on the edge.’

      An emotional precipice suddenly gaped before him. ‘Oh, God! Are you sure?’

      ‘I can tell, just by looking at you, you’re a romantic. And a romantic around love is like an alcoholic bartender – simply can’t be trusted. Put her down, Smythe. Walk away right now.’

      ‘Are you sure? I mean, seems a bit … rough.’

      ‘See! You’re dragging your feet! Very bad sign.’ He shook his head. ‘Best give her up, old man, if you want the job. Valentine’s very strict on this point and not without good reason.’

      ‘But you don’t understand! It’s the perfect set-up; she doesn’t even believe in love! Ours is a strictly physical affair.’

      ‘And yet …’ Henry paused, looking at Hughie closely, ‘I hear she’s as hot and horny as a racehorse after the Derby!’

      ‘Good God, man! Do you want to be punched?’

      ‘See! Inability to tolerate locker-room banter is a dead giveaway. Only with the woman we care about, is that sort of talk offensive.’

      ‘Oh, God!’ It was true. Henry was right. Hughie hadn’t noticed it before, but somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention (which could’ve been any time), he’d apparently crossed an invisible line. How could he have fallen so far without even noticing it? It wasn’t like him. Normally he only realized he was in love when the girl he was seeing told him so. There was usually a moment, and an awkward one at that, when they’d gaze up at him, bat their lashes, look all soft and melting. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ they’d murmur.

      And a bloke had to say yes. Anything else was just rude. Besides, if you didn’t, they’d batter it out of you anyway.

      ‘What about you? Do you mean to say you haven’t had a girlfriend this whole time?’

      Henry’s gaze was far off, on some distant landmark. ‘I loved a girl. Once,’ he added wistfully.

      ‘What happened?’

      But Henry didn’t answer.

      Instead he patted Hughie on the back. ‘Some day you’ll understand. See, being a flirt is a vocation. A calling. We flirt, young Smythe, because others cannot. And we have the ability to foster love only because we’re above it ourselves. But like all true vocations, it involves sacrifice and discipline.’

      It sounded so noble. Hughie had never had a purpose in life. Henry’s words seeped through to his very core. Could it be that he was destined for a higher calling?

      They walked on.

      After a while Hughie asked, ‘So. How do you do it? What’s the trick?’

      ‘Do what?’ Henry paused to let a woman thunder past in her high heels, swinging her handbag violently to and fro like a weapon.

      ‘Flirt.’

      ‘The thing about flirting is not to think of it as flirting. The minute you do, it becomes contrived and false. The trick, if there is a trick, is just about noticing. Paying attention. What you say is secondary. And forget poetry. Simple things are best. Specific is good; it shows you’re really paying attention: “I’ve never seen such green eyes,” but not, “Your eyes are like two shining emeralds.” Women don’t want to be endlessly flattered. They want to feel as if you find it a pleasure to be with them.’

      ‘OK,’ Hughie’s brow knit. ‘So to flirt you try not to flirt but pay attention instead.’

      ‘There