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

stood, paced the floor. ‘So you’ve never been to art school. Well, why should we hide it? It’s actually a selling point. “Red Moriarty: an utterly raw, natural British talent!” The media hate anyone who’s accomplished. But they love the Athena myth – the idea that people simply emerge, fully formed, without any effort. You’ll fit in perfectly! As a matter of fact, I’m going to send out a press release!’ She was becoming really excited. ‘What’s art got to do with it? For the past century we’ve been asking the question, “What is art?” And the answer has always been, “Whatever the artist says is art.” Now we’ve pushed it even further. We’re asking, “What is an artist?” Can’t you see, Red? It’s revolutionary!’

      Red seemed unconvinced. ‘Well, if you think it will work.’

      ‘It will. I promise.’ Olivia gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Now, it’s time for you to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Big things are about to happen to you and I want you at your best.’

      Rose walked along the underground platform, staring at her shoes.

      It was like being the only one at the party who didn’t get the joke. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that it was on her.

      Rose looked up. The train pulled into the station.

      But she didn’t get on.

      The doors opened, closed. Off it sped, into the dusty warm darkness of the tunnel.

      In front of her, across from the platform, ten feet high, was a giant poster of Mrs Henderson’s chair.

       ‘Don’t Miss the Next Generation Show at the Mount Street Gallery!’

      Rose stared at it for a long time.

      ‘Fuck it,’ she concluded, turning round.

      Out of the tube station she headed, onto Regent Street, sticking her hand out.

      The cab pulled up, rolled down his window. ‘Where to, darling?’

      ‘Kilburn, please.’

      She climbed in, settled back into the seat, looking at the shop windows full of the latest fashions. Maybe this year she could afford some of them.

      ‘You’re working late,’ the cabby said, catching her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

      ‘Yeah,’ she smiled to herself. ‘We artist types keep strange hours.’

       Love According to Flick

      Flick was waiting for Hughie the next day when he arrived at 111 Half Moon Street. No sooner had he walked in the door, than she took his arm, wheeling him out again.

      ‘Come with me,’ she commanded.

      Once outside, she marched him across the road to a small Italian café, where they ordered coffee and Hughie took advantage of the opportunity to down a second breakfast.

      ‘You’re in the doghouse,’ Flick announced, watching as he polished off two fried eggs, sausage, bacon, tomato, mushrooms and four slices of toast slathered in butter and marmalade in the same amount of time it would take most people to break open and butter a croissant.

      ‘Yep,’ Hughie nodded unperturbed. ‘Never had a job yet where the doghouse didn’t have my name on it.’

      Flick took a dainty sip of latte. ‘Well, let’s see what we can do to get you out. I’ve never asked any of the other boys to help me with a project like this one, Hughie, for the simple reason that it requires a certain lightness of touch; an almost magical belief in the power of romance. Flirting is one thing, but this is quite another. I think you have that unique sensibility so I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself – to me, to Valentine, but also to yourself.’ She placed her cup back on its saucer. ‘Now, let’s start with the basics. What do you think the most potent, erotic part of a woman is?’

      Hughie concentrated. ‘It’s a toughie,’ he conceded, ‘but I’m going to have to say the tits.’

      ‘You’re wrong.’

      ‘Damn! Well, it was between the two—’

      ‘It’s the imagination,’ Flick quickly cut in, ‘the imagination, Hughie. If you can capture a woman’s imagination, then you will have her. But imagination is a strange creature. It needs time and distance to function properly.’

      Hughie nodded.

      ‘Do you understand what that means?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘It means that a seduction that takes place slowly, with only the most exquisite images and experiences for the imagination to work on and grab hold of, will yield powerful results. This is our challenge: to stimulate the senses, evoke love and inspire lust without ever being seen.’

      ‘Tricky.’

      She considered. ‘Not as tricky as one might think. In any good seduction, the person being seduced does most of the work anyway. And remember, I use the words “love” and “lust” but what I’m really referring to is romance.’

      ‘What’s the difference?’

      ‘Oh, there’s a huge difference!’ she laughed. ‘Romantic love is an illusion, Hughie. It can be manipulated, twisted, piled up like a bunch of fun-house mirrors. The very nature of it is deceptive. It promises closeness but the only thing it ever really reveals is the dreams and fears of the person with the obsession. That’s why it’s so easy to control.’

      ‘Hey, that’s a bit harsh! You don’t really believe that, do you?’ he laughed nervously. She painted an altogether darker picture of his noble new profession. ‘I mean, what about love at first sight? Romeo and Juliet and all that?’

      ‘This is why I chose you, Hughie,’ she winked. ‘Because you’re young and fresh and still believe Santa Claus is going to shimmy down your chimney come Christmas Eve. That’s going to come in handy.’ She signalled for the bill. ‘This is a business. We provide a service. And like most service-orientated professions, we exploit a basic human need. In our case that need is the desire to be loved. Most people want to be adored but they don’t want to do anything to get it. They simply want some attractive stranger to come along out of the blue and find them irresistible. If it were any more complicated than that, we’d be out of a job.’

      It sounded a bit too familiar; Leticia was a beautiful stranger who’d seduced him on a bus. One minute he was single, lonely; the next head over heels. But was all the intensity love or something else entirely?

      The question frightened him. He pushed it out of his mind.

      ‘Now,’ she continued briskly, ‘we’ve received a commission for a woman in Chester Square – a wealthy, elegant, sophisticated and very well-known woman named Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray.’

      ‘Married to that tennis-ball chap, right?’

      ‘Exactly.’ She took out her wallet.

      ‘Oh, please! Allow me!’

      Flick looked at him. ‘Do you actually have any money, Hughie?’

      ‘Well, not as such. But I’ve got an Amex card.’

      ‘Why don’t I take a rain check?’ She took a tenner from her wallet, handed it to the waiter. ‘Come on.’

      They strolled out into the sun.

      She slipped her arm through his. ‘You see, the truth is no one ever really falls in love with anyone but themselves. Love is a mirror; a reflective surface projecting who we wish we were. What we’re all waiting for is someone to come along who will show us something new about ourselves that we can adore. And then, because someone loves us, in turn, we love ourselves. Does that make sense?’