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

their hair cut.’

      Rose’s father had been trying to get her to be a hairdresser since she was three. ‘Dad, I don’t want to be a hairdresser! I’ve never wanted to be a hairdresser! Just because Mum wanted to be a bloody hair—’

      ‘Oi!’ he interrupted. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead!’

      ‘She’s not dead, Dad. She lives in Brighton.’

      ‘Same difference.’ He ran through a red light. ‘Anyway, you’ll have to own up sooner or later. If you haven’t got the gift, then that’s that. Nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone’s a Damien Hirst, after all.’

      Rose stared at him in amazement. ‘How do you know about Damien Hirst?’

      Mick laughed, pulling into Brook Street. ‘You could always put a cheese grater in the Albert Hall, kid! Just remember, I want a little credit on that one! Now, where is this place?’

      Rose sighed. He wasn’t taking her seriously.

      Then again, why would he?

      It was so typical of her life; just when she thought she was going to get somewhere, be somebody, she fucked it all up. Always. It was like that at school when she was doing so well, studying for O levels, and then fell in love with Rory’s dad, a DJ at a big club in the West End. For three whole weeks they were mad about each other; she actually thought he was going to propose. But the next thing she knew, she was pregnant, her father furious, and he’d buggered off to hit the club circuit in Ibiza with some girl named Doreen. There was no point continuing with her studies; her fate was sealed.

      In school they’d studied Hamlet; the teacher banged on and on about him having a fatal flaw. That was her all over. No matter what she did, how hard she tried to alter her destiny, her default setting was failure. And now here she was again; she would have to explain to Simon and Olivia that her worst fears were true: she wasn’t a natural talent, only a fraud. And her budding career as an artist would be over before it had even begun.

      A few minutes later, Mick parked on a double-yellow line in front of the gallery, jumped out and opened the back of the van. Rory woke up crying and as Rose tried to soothe him, she spotted a parking warden heading their way.

      ‘Dad! Dad!’ she hissed.

      Mick poked his head out. ‘Shit! I just want you to have a look at this chair, luv. Wait a minute.’ He ducked back inside the van and Rose could hear him struggling with something.

      Simon ran out. ‘There’s no stopping here! Oh, Red!’ he greeted her in surprise. ‘Please say this is your latest piece! After all, we’re opening soon!’

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I … I know you’ve been so supportive and I so badly wanted to be an artist but I have to tell you, I can’t do it! I …’

      The parking warden was upon them. ‘What’s going on here?’

      ‘Unloading!’ Mick shouted, struggling to unearth a particularly ugly brown velour armchair from the back of the van. ‘Won’t be a moment.’

      Simon stared at it. ‘What is it?’ He gingerly picked up the yellowed lace doily from the headrest.

      But Rose recognized it immediately. It had belonged to her father’s neighbour, Mrs Henderson. She’d been a sweet old lady, like a grandmother to Rose. Unfortunately, she’d passed away two weeks ago.

      ‘Oh no!’ she murmured, her eyes filling with tears. It had been a tense morning and now just seeing it made her feel emotional. ‘No, no, Dad!’ she whispered. ‘Put it away! I can’t even look at it!’

      ‘But wait!’ Mick insisted, bending down to demonstrate the reclining feature; he pressed a lever on the side and a faded footrest shot up, nearly knocking Rory over. ‘It’s a beauty, Rose! It was broken but I fixed it. Another Moriarty original!’

      Simon’s eyes lit up. ‘A Moriarty original? Rose! At last! I knew you’d come through!’

      Rose shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said to Simon.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Simon smoothed the doily back in place. ‘I think I do.’

      ‘But Mrs Henderson died in this chair!’

      ‘My God! That’s powerful!’ Backing away, he stared at Mrs Henderson’s recliner in awe. ‘An entire tale of life and death in a single chair! The … sheer … ordinariness of the whole thing is so moving!’

      ‘What’s he going on about?’ Mick wanted to know.

      Rose ignored him. She grabbed Simon’s arm. ‘You don’t understand! It’s junk, Simon! Nothing but old junk!’

      ‘It’s always the same!’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Everyone thinks their work is junk when they deliver it. Nothing more than nerves!’

      Rory was clambering all over it now. The parking warden reached for his pad and pen. ‘Look here, there’s no stopping any time …’

      ‘Except,’ Simon interrupted, ‘when unloading valuable new pieces of art!’ He plucked Rory off, handed him to Rose and picked the chair up. ‘You have surpassed yourself, Red! I can’t wait to show Olivia! Now, if you don’t mind!’

      He nodded imperiously to the parking warden, who, somewhat confused, held the door open while Simon pushed the chair inside.

      Rose knew her father was staring at her but she found it hard to meet his gaze. After a while, he took Rory from her, turning him upside down until he giggled.

      ‘So, I guess you’ll take it,’ he said, flinging Rory onto his shoulders.

      Rose nodded. ‘I guess I will.’

      ‘Well, maybe Rory and I will go and have an ice cream, eh?’

      ‘Ice cream!’ Rory shouted, refreshed from his nap. ‘Chocolate! Banilla! Ice cream!’

      ‘What about Islington?’

      ‘It’ll be there tomorrow. Anyway, I think we need a break, eh, champ?’

      Rory beamed up at him.

      ‘Thanks, Dad.’

      Rose gave Rory a kiss and watched as her dad strapped him into a booster seat. ‘Drive carefully! Please!’

      As they pulled away, the parking attendant smiled shyly. ‘Would you mind?’ he said, handing her the pad and pen.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘Your autograph! You’re a famous artist, right?’

      ‘Oh! Yeah, I suppose so.’

      ‘You never know, it might be worth something!’

      ‘You never know,’ she agreed.

      And then she signed ‘Red Moriarty’ across the page in a strange, firm hand. It glared back at her, full of sharp angles and unfamiliar shapes. She passed it back to him. He was looking at her in a different way, as if she were a completely new person from the one she had been ten minutes ago.

      He walked back down the street, grinning proudly at the signed parking ticket.

      Rose stood by herself on the steps of the Mount Street Gallery.

      Maybe, she concluded, the whole art thing was like being a top model; you got loads of attention for doing nothing. And maybe, just like a naturally beautiful woman, she’d never be able to really see what everyone else saw or what the fuss was all about.

      It was sad.

      Still, there were probably worse things in life.

       A Man’s World

      Hughie