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

It’s really quite simple: all you have to do is woo her. It doesn’t matter if she responds. In fact,’ he considered smugly, ‘I’m sure she won’t. All I need is the evidence of a seduction. You’re a clever man. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Oh, and Mortimer?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Don’t even think of touching her or you’ll live to regret it.’

      He hung up.

      Life was all about delegating.

      Standing, he brushed off his trousers and left to pick up Svetlana.

      Marriage was important, he reflected, as he climbed into the back of the huge black Range Rover waiting for him outside the gallery. It hurt him that Olivia was taking theirs for granted.

      Settling back into the plush leather seat, he stared out of the darkened window.

      Thank God at least one of them cared enough to do something about it.

      Jonathan Mortimer sat stunned on the corner of his son Felix’s bed. (He’d only made it as far as the children’s bedrooms.)

      What did he mean, seduce her?

      How?

      And more importantly why?

      He’d only met Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray about three times; they were only barely acquainted. How was he meant to suddenly become her lover? He didn’t have the energy to seduce his own wife, let alone someone else’s! The man was insane!

      Unfortunately, he was also his biggest client.

      Arnaud had laughed at the fact that he’d never had an affair. Was he right? Was Jonathan nothing more than a prude?

      He’d certainly never imagined himself as a ladies’ man.

      Pulling himself upright, stomach in, shoulders back, he regarded himself in the mirror hanging on the back of the door, cut out in the shape of a laughing giraffe.

      His reflection blinked back at him.

      Somewhere around forty, he’d developed the same shape as his father: long, spindly legs, a sloping, slightly apologetic stoop and a distinct absence of hair. His features, which had once been forceful and masculine, had softened – in much the same way that water wears away at stones in a brook – and now he seemed like a photograph that had faded in the sunlight; vague and unsure. The buttons of his tailor-made shirt strained over the width of stomach. Even it had lost its crispness.

      I couldn’t seduce a pensioner let alone a beautiful socialite, he thought, panicking.

      His heart was palpitating. He grabbed Felix’s favourite stuffed dog and curled up on top of his unmade Bob the Builder bed, staring at the dusty animal mobile dangling from the ceiling.

      ‘I’m going to lose my job.’ He pressed his eyes closed. ‘I’m going to lose my job and we’ll all end up penniless on the streets because of that fucking French fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

      ‘Daddy?’

      He flicked an eye open.

      His sons, Felix, six, and Angus, three, were standing at the bottom of the bed, looking at him.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Mummy wants to know if you have any money for the cleaner,’ Felix said.

      Jonathan dug out his wallet, struggling to extract the notes without actually standing up. Immediately he assumed his parent voice, the one he’d inherited from his father – exasperation mixed with a half-hearted attempt at authority. ‘You cannot tell me a cleaner has been in this house today!’

      Felix nodded. ‘It’s awful! She puts everything where we can’t find it. It takes all afternoon to get it back to normal.’

      ‘Here,’ Jonathan sighed, handing Felix twenty pounds.

      ‘Thanks, Daddy.’

      ‘Why didn’t she come herself?’

      ‘Mummy’s too fat to come upstairs.’

      ‘I see.’ That meant she was still sulking from their latest row. ‘Only she’s not fat,’ Jonathan corrected him, ‘she’s pregnant.’

      ‘I think, Daddy,’ Felix explained gently, ‘that maybe she’s fat and pregnant. By the way,’ he nodded in the direction of the dog, ‘don’t squash his head. He doesn’t like it.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Jonathan readjusted the dog.

      Felix trotted off and Angus remained, staring at Jonathan.

      ‘Do you want to climb up?’ Jonathan offered.

      Angus shook his head. Then he bent over and picked something up from the floor.

      ‘Daddy’s,’ he announced, handing him a small white card.

      ‘Thank you, darling. Must have fallen from Daddy’s wallet.’

      He glanced at it.

      ‘Valentine Charles,’ it read. ‘Purveyor of Rare Domestic Services.’

      ‘That’s it!’ Jonathan sat up.

      If there was one person who could solve this problem, it was bound to be the curious Valentine Charles!

      Jonathan stood up. ‘My boy, you’re a genius!’

      Angus grabbed his leg. ‘Daddy sleep in my bed!’

      ‘Daddy’s got to make a phone call, darling.’

      ‘No! Daddy sleep in my bed!’ He began to cry.

      So Jonathan Mortimer made one of the most important telephone calls of his career lying in his son’s converted cot while Angus happily covered his daddy with all the stuffed toys he could find.

      And while covered in toys, it occurred to Jonathan that if Mr Charles could sort out the bizarre, mystifying seduction of the Bourgalt du Coudray woman, he might be able to arrange something less dramatic but equally uplifting for his own wife, Amy.

       The Cardinal Rule

       (A Moment of Silence, Please, for Freddie)

      Later that evening, they all assembled in Valentine’s flat.

      Thanks to Jez, Hughie had been transformed from a rather good-looking, shabby student to the very image of a sleek professional. With his new haircut, he looked taller, his aquiline features exquisitely refined. Jez had selected a very fine navy pinstripe suit which brought out the colour of his eyes, and a crisp blue cotton shirt worn open at the neck. Hands in pockets, the unselfconscious combination of youth, beauty and the excellent quality of the tailoring lent him a Gatsby-ish glamour. No longer a diamond in the rough, Hughie dazzled.

      ‘Oh, yes!’ Flick smiled when he walked in. ‘Yes, that’s the ticket! You could be the brightest young spark of a corporate enterprise!’

      ‘Bravo!’ Marco agreed, clapping his hands. ‘You got rid of those boxer shorts, right?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ Jez said.

      ‘Smith, you burn them, yes? They only come out again when you retire, get married and have children!’

      ‘Smythe, Marco,’ Flick corrected,

      ‘Yes,’ Marco waved his hand impatiently, ‘whatever!’

      Hughie could not believe his underwear had been such a hot topic of conversation.

      ‘And the socks, old man?’ Henry was standing near the fireplace, drinking a cup of tea.

      ‘That