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

Marco shouted. ‘I said ten o’clock! In the morning, right! I can’t work this way, understand? Ten o’clock is ten o’clock! Not eleven, not two!’ He stopped quite suddenly. ‘Wait a minute! You,’ he waggled a finger in Hughie’s face, ‘you’ve been looking at jewellery! I can tell!’

      Hughie started. ‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong!’

      Was he psychic?

      ‘I’ve got it all wrong, eh? Look, what’s that?’ He brushed a few crumbs from Hughie’s lapel. ‘And this?’ He jabbed at a bit of chocolate on Hughie’s chin. ‘And is that champagne I smell? You don’t get that at McDonald’s, do you? You’ve got a woman, Smith! I know it!’

      ‘Smythe! Venables-Smythe!’

      ‘Smith, Smythe, whatever you’re called, you’re in big trouble!’

      ‘I was just looking! Browsing, that’s all.’

      Marco snorted. ‘Men don’t browse for jewellery!’

      ‘Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong! I’ve just been dumped. Ask Henry if you don’t believe me. I’m a dedicated flirt. One hundred per cent.’

      Marco looked unconvinced.

      ‘It’s for my sister,’ Hughie lied.

      ‘You’re lying!’

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘You’re playing with fire. Love is not a toy!’

      ‘Oh, please! All of you go on about it as if it were the Plague! So, I was looking at earrings. So what? You act as if I were mainlining heroin!’

      ‘Ahhh! Now I see! You’ve never been in love. That’s why you’re so cock-like!’

      ‘Cocky.’

      ‘Whatever! You have no experience of the madness; no respect for the danger! You, Smith,’ he poked Hughie firmly in the chest, ‘are arrogant!’

      Hughie took exception. ‘Well, you, sir,’ he poked Marco back, ‘are obviously frigid!’

      ‘Frigid!’ A wild look flared in Marco’s eyes. ‘You accuse me, Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol – the King of Love – of being frigid?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You are mad! Insane! I am a master flirt! The finest in London!’

      ‘Ah, yes! But for all your flirting, Marco, have you ever once dared to fall in love?’

      ‘Love?’ Marco snorted. ‘Love!’

      ‘Yes, love!’

      Marco hesitated and in that moment, his Italian bravado deflated before Hughie’s eyes. His shoulders fell forward beneath his impeccable black wool Prada suit; his eyes dimmed by melancholy. Even his lustrous dark curls sagged around his face.

      ‘No,’ he answered quietly.

      This wasn’t quite what Hughie was expecting. ‘Really?’

      ‘Ah, Smith! I have never known the joy of love.’ And he sighed, staring dejectedly at the ground.

      ‘I see.’

      Somehow their argument had derailed, plunging into dark, unexpected and intimate waters. The Marco he knew – the bold, flamboyant master of both Lost Architect and Racing Driver, disappeared. In his place a rather lonely, tired-looking man remained.

      A hot cup of tea was probably in order.

      ‘Listen,’ Hughie gestured to a small outdoor café, ‘how about I buy you a drink?’

      Soon they were sitting at a table and the sad, ironic history of Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol came to light.

      ‘You see, Smith, the difficulty is I am so handsome,’ Marco explained sadly. ‘It’s a curse really. From the moment I was born, I’ve always been irresistible to women. When I was a baby, my mother had to push me with a blanket over the carriage … what is it?’

      ‘Pram?’

      ‘Yes, pram! Even in the height of summer so that I was hidden from strangers trying to kiss me. And when I was a little boy, at school, I had to sit next to a different little girl every day of the week so that they wouldn’t fight with one another.’

      ‘Good God!’

      Marco sighed heavily. ‘All my life I could have any woman I wanted. And I have. But it’s so empty, Smith! You see, the world has no meaning for me. I’ve known beautiful women, successful women, talented women, models, actresses, athletes but I’ve never known a woman who was my match. All the time, I hear, “I love you, Marco!” but I can never really say, “I love you,” in return.’

      ‘But what are you looking for?’

      ‘Fire! Passion!’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘Resistance, Smith! What I want is a woman who doesn’t want me! But look at me: I’m thirty-four now and more handsome than ever! I’m starting to think maybe the woman of my dreams doesn’t exist.’

      They sat a while.

      For the first time, Hughie concentrated on the admiring glances of the women who walked by. He liked to think that some of them were for him, but he had to concede that Marco got more than his fair share.

      ‘This is the only job I can do,’ Marco continued, downing his coffee in one go. ‘In and out; no contact. If I work in a normal profession, I leave a trail of broken hearts. Here, at least I do the world a little bit of good. Waitress! Another espresso, please.’

      The girl fluttered her lashes. ‘It’s on the house!’

      ‘See?’ Marco groaned miserably. ‘It’s hopeless!’ He held up a teaspoon, examining his reflection. ‘If only my nose were larger or my jaw weaker …’

      For a moment, he looked as though he might cry.

      Hughie was relieved when Henry ambled up, on his way to the office.

      ‘Hughie! Just the man I need to see! I’ve got a job for you.’ He paused. ‘Everything OK?’

      Hughie leapt to his feet. ‘Never been better!’

      Marco just blinked.

      ‘OK, well, we’d better get a move on. We’ve got a lot on today,’ Henry said, checking his watch. ‘See you later, Marco! Marco?’

      But Marco was in another world. When they left he was turning his espresso cup around and around on its tiny little saucer, staring into space.

      ‘Let me guess,’ Henry steered Hughie towards a white van parked across the street, ‘he got started on his hopeless quest for love.’

      ‘How did you know?’

      ‘We’ve all been there.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Poor Marco! But more importantly, how you doing, old boy? Feeling better? I was really worried when I left you.’

      ‘Humm …’ Hughie couldn’t decide if playing the wounded lover gave him a certain tragic depth. It certainly required a lot of effort. He changed the subject instead. ‘I’m ready for my first real day. Where do we begin?’

      ‘At the beginning, with flower delivery.’ Henry opened the back of the van and chucked him a T-shirt and hat. ‘Put these on. Once we’re on the road, I’ll brief you. This job’s a good example of a classic mark; married a while, three kids, another one on the way … virtually drowning in domesticity. You’ll see.’ He smiled. ‘The married women of this world need us, Hughie; need us more than even they know.’

       Professional Massagers of the Female Ego at Large (Part One)