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

made them drive with both windows down to give Hughie a blast of fresh air and by the time they got out, he was feeling a bit more clear-headed. Henry was right: he’d been temporarily intoxicated and now regretted groping the girl. She was just a kid, after all. From now on he was going to do only what he was told, no more and no less.

      ‘Right,’ Henry stopped before they went in, ‘I’m going to show you the way it’s done. This is the classic shopping flirt, a speciality of mine. And all you have to do is watch, understood?’

      Hughie nodded obediently.

      ‘Good.’ He smoothed down his hair with his hands. ‘This one couldn’t be simpler, Smythe. Each mark will have a particular weakness – jewellery, shoes, handbags … Let’s do scarves today. Anyway, all you have to do is pretend to be shopping for someone else, someone neutral – in my case it’s always a niece or a goddaughter but for you, I should think a sister would do nicely.’ They made their way through the front door, weaving past the crowds of Japanese tourists.

      ‘Not under any circumstances use a girlfriend, for obvious reasons. Once you spot your mark, all you have to do is go directly to the sales assistant – try to choose a man if you can, other women can throw off a good flirt – and ask, quite loudly, to see all the most expensive, exclusive items. Remember, all we’re doing here is giving a little light lift to the ego; we’re observing, making contact and re-framing.’ He scanned the room. ‘Here’s a likely candidate,’ he nodded in the direction of a woman in the corner. ‘Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. We’ll be in and out of here in no time. Now,’ he fixed Hughie with a look, ‘observe my detachment. The skill of a physician, remember?’

      ‘Right.’

      ‘Browse a little. Stand near enough to hear but try not to be too obvious. You might want to make notes.’

      Hughie watched as Henry ambled casually over to a long glass case filled with exquisite silk scarves. There, he parked himself next to a tall bony woman in her late fifties with limp brown hair, sensible lace-up shoes and an ancient Burberry mac belted around her narrow waist.

      Henry smiled.

      She stared back.

      Clearing his throat, he caught the eye of the nearest sales assistant and signalled to him.

      ‘I’d like to see some scarves, please!’ He turned to the woman. ‘I hope I’m not cutting in. Were you waiting to be served?’

      ‘No, no!’ she said, her face flushing a violent shade of red. ‘I was just … just looking.’

      The assistant proceeded to unfold a selection of scarves across the counter. ‘This is the new season’s line,’ he informed Henry.

      Henry tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘Hummm. It’s difficult,’ he sighed. ‘You see, it’s for my goddaughter. The truth is, I feel a bit out of touch. Pardon me,’ he flashed the woman another smile, worthy of Cary Grant himself. ‘Would you be so kind as to give me your opinion? I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to know a thing or two about fashion,’ he nodded to her miserable apparel, ‘and I’d be so grateful for a woman’s insight.’

      ‘Me? Oh, I’m not sure … they’re all so lovely!’

      ‘Well, do you think you might be willing to try one on for me?’ Henry turned to the assistant. ‘Would you mind?’

      ‘Feel free,’ he said.

      ‘You see, she’s awfully young, only twenty-two – about your age, really.’ Henry gazed into the woman’s sad grey eyes. ‘Her colouring’s not as delicate as yours; she’s pretty, of course, just not as soignée as you are. Do you mind?’

      ‘Oh, no! If you think I’ll do. No, not at all!’

      Henry draped the luxurious, cool silk scarf artfully around her shoulders then stood back.

      She flushed again. ‘Well, what do you think?’

      Henry regarded her as if she were nothing less than Botticelli’s Venus. ‘If only Poppy had your style!’ he said at last. ‘Such a neck! Like a swan! And the shape of your chin!’

      ‘My chin?’ She turned to examine herself in the mirror, tilting her head. ‘You, you think I look nice?’

      ‘You are nothing less than a vision!’

      The assistant snorted.

      Henry ignored him. ‘The only difficulty now is: you’ve ruined it for me. It would be a sacrilege to buy another woman that scarf after I’ve finally seen what it really should look like.’

      ‘I don’t believe it!’ she giggled, girlishly.

      ‘It’s true.’ Henry shook his head, smiling sadly. ‘I’m sensitive to these matters. Once I’ve seen perfection, I find it impossible to accept anything less. Poor old Poppy will have to make do with something else.’

      The woman stood mesmerized by her own reflection.

      ‘I suppose I’ll just put these away then,’ the assistant snapped, bending down to reopen the case.

      ‘It’s been an unexpected pleasure.’ Henry bowed again then moved away, nodding to Hughie, who was lurking behind the umbrella display.

      That’s when Hughie saw the woman shove one of the scarves into her pocket with lightning speed.

      He tried to signal to Henry but Henry just glared at him.

      ‘Oh, dear, is that the time!’ She sprinted for the door.

      ‘Allow me!’ Henry, ever the gentleman, rushed to open it for her, watching as she scampered down the street.

      The assistant looked up. ‘Oh, my God! Thief!’

      There was a collective gasp.

      ‘Where?’ Henry looked round.

      ‘There!’ The assistant pointed to him. ‘Thief!’

      Henry blinked. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding!’

      ‘Thief! Thief!’ The assistant shrieked.

      Haif a dozen black-suited security guards appeared, each the size of a small car.

      Hughie lurched into action, bundling Henry out the door, onto Bond Street. ‘Run!’ he shouted, grabbing him by the tie, yanking him along. ‘Come on, old man! Keep up!’

      ‘Oh, bugger it to hell!’ Henry cried, sprinting after him.

       To the Lighthouse

      If you’ve ever held your own newborn child, you will know exactly what Jonathan Mortimer felt like, holding the tiny little girl, curled, fast asleep, in the crook of his arm. I won’t attempt to describe it, but suffice to say, it’s one of the great moments that life has to offer – a brief reprieve when all is well with the world, when mother and baby are safe, when relief and triumph mingle in a way that occurs all too rarely.

      The curtains were drawn around the bed but they didn’t block out the noise of the other women and babies on the ward or the smell of the curry that the Indian woman’s mother had brought to her exhausted daughter in the bed next to Amy’s.

      Still, Jonathan was oblivious. In fact it wasn’t until he looked up, beaming with ridiculous paternal pride at his ‘achievement’, that he noticed Amy was unusually subdued. She was still in a way that was entirely separate from the Hallmark moment he was experiencing, and it frightened him. So he said what he always said when he didn’t know what to say.

      ‘I love you, darling.’

      ‘Is that so, Johnny?’

      She hardly ever called him Johnny. It was a term of endearment that harked