The Flirt - Kathleen Tessaro

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‘Water can be fed in from a tall black slate waterfall here at the back, against this wall. See, the aluminium catches the light, contrasts with the density of the slate. Really stunning! And in the summer when the grass is bright green, it’s like a silver blade, cutting the lawn in two. Placed high enough it makes the most wonderful, rolling sound, you know, no burbling or babbling brook bullshit, but something strong, soothing…What do you think?’

      The vision of a blade of water slicing across the lawn intrigued Olivia. And Ricki’s enthusiasm was compelling. ‘Oh, yes! That sounds beautiful! There’s only one thing: my husband will hate it.’

      Ricki laughed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘So what?’

      ‘You don’t know my husband,’ Olivia smiled wryly. ‘It’s safer if we go for something a little more traditional.’

      ‘Let me guess, a seashell bird bath with a peeing cherub on top?’

      ‘Yes, that sounds more like what he was expecting,’ she admitted.

      Ricki shook her head, looking at her hard with those large black eyes. ‘Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is play it safe. We could do something really interesting here—something bold.’

      To her surprise Olivia blushed. ‘Well, yes, but…’

      ‘Pardon me, madam.’

      It was Gaunt again.

      ‘Simon Grey from the Mount Street Gallery is waiting in the drawing room. He doesn’t have an appointment but he says it’s a matter of some urgency.’

      ‘Of course.’ She turned back to Ricki. ‘I’m sorry, I must go.’

      ‘So, it’s peeing cherubs all round?’

      ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid so. Lovely to meet you.’

      Ricki tilted her head. ‘And lovely to meet you.’

      Heading back into the house, Olivia felt perplexed. Simon, here, at this hour? How strange.

      Simon Grey was the curator of the Mount Street Gallery, which she generously helped fund for the promotion of young artists. At his urging, she’d recently become chairman. They were opening their biggest show ever in two weeks’ time: The Next Generation, featuring the work of a controversial new performance artist named Roddy Prowl.

      Art was one thing that ignited Olivia’s whole being. She often regretted she had no ability herself. Not that she’d ever dared to take a drawing course. But when she first expressed a desire to paint at the age of nine, her parents steered her firmly towards the old masters.

      ‘This is painting,’ her mother explained, removing a bit of lint gingerly from her daughter’s otherwise immaculate school uniform. ‘So don’t even try.’

      ‘When a Van der Lyden attempts, a Van der Lyden succeeds!’ her father boomed in his gin-soaked voice.

      They suggested art history instead. ‘So much more useful and infinitely less messy than dabbling with paint.’

      Perhaps this is what inspired Olivia’s appetite for the postmodern.

      She pushed open the drawing-door door. ‘Simon. Oh, dear! Simon?’

      Normally fastidious and fearsomely arranged in the manner of only the truly visually gifted, Simon’s state of disarray was shocking. His sleek dark hair was all on end, his trademark Paul Smith scarf askew; he paced the floor like a caged animal. In an instant, she knew something was terribly wrong.

      ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘Olivia, it’s nothing short of a disaster! Roddy Prowls checked himself into rehab! He refuses to come back!’ Tears filled his prodigiously lashed brown eyes; his long aquiline nose flared red at the end. ‘We have no enfant terrible, Olivia! The entire show is ruined!’

       Free Lunch or a Shag

       Come and have your evil way with me.

      When Hughie got the text message from Leticia, he was busy rifling through his sister Clara’s things, looking for a stamp and already bordering on late for meeting his mother for lunch. He wanted to post his response to the ad in the Stage that morning, and luncheon was a standing date he and his mother had for the first Wednesday of every month at a small hotel in Victoria called the Goring. There the staff remembered Rowena Venables-Smythe and treated her like a society widow. Together they would feast on the enormous roasts, argue and gossip; his mother would try to force him into some sort of employment; Hughie would charm her and leave with whatever spare cash she had in her wallet. The meal itself was one of the highlights of Hughie’s month; he rarely slept the night before for excitement—Scottish roast beef, fluffy Yorkshire pudding, piles of crispy potatoes drenched in gravy, all washed down with something Mum had chosen to impress the wine waiter. (Lunch with Mum was early enough in the day to be manageable. By supper, she was often a bit liquid for Hughie’s taste.)

      But now there was a rival invitation from Leticia. Visions of her long naked limbs, creamy white against the black velvet chaise longue, stretched out for his personal use made him swoon with lust.

      Hughie found himself facing one of the most difficult dilemmas of a young man’s life: free lunch or a shag?

      He tipped out one of Clara’s handbags, found a book of stamps at the bottom and took one. Then he pulled a jumper over his head and bounded out the door—ignoring Clara’s Post-it about not forgetting his keys.

      Of course, it might just be possible to have the best of both these offers. Leticia’s shop was only a few blocks from the Goring. An enterprising young man like Hughie might find himself fucked, fed and funded by tea time.

      All it would take was a bit of finessing.

      Hughie shoved his letter into a postbox and flagged down a passing cab. ‘Hey I say, you don’t take Amex, do you?’

      ‘Fuck off,’ suggested the cabby, driving away.

      Hughie ran to catch the bus, dodging traffic to cross the road in time.

      ‘Single to Victoria,’ he panted to the driver.

      ‘Two pounds.’

      ‘Oh.’ Hughie pulled out a few loose coins from his pockets. ‘As much as that?’

      An old man pushed past him and a woman with a pram.

      ‘What’s that? Seventy? Seventy-three, seventy-four…’

      The driver glared at him. ‘Have you got it or haven’t you?’

      ‘I’ll spot you.’

      Hughie turned. It was Malcolm, Clara’s fiancé.

      ‘That’s very good of you, Malc.’

      ‘Think nothing of it! Glad to help!’

      Hughie climbed to the top deck and Malcolm struggled up the steps after him.

      Malcolm was pretty much the same height and build as Hughie only his centre of gravity resided in his bottom, pulling at him like an undertow. (In prep school he was known as ‘Girlie-Arse Gritton’.) As for his features, everything was just a bit too much; his lips were too thick and red, his nose too long, his eyes bugged out and were framed by strawberry-blond lashes, matching the pinky blond mane on his head. Then, too, he smelt disturbingly of violets.

      He threw himself down next to Hughie, or rather almost on top of him, the seat being too snug for grown men.

      ‘Thanks for paying my fare.’

      ‘Think nothing of it! What are friends for, right? We are friends, you and I?’ Malcolm looked at him eagerly, blinking his bug eyes.

      Hughie hesitated. This wasn’t entirely

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