Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro
from such sheer material and cut so cleverly that they draped the body in a provocative, filmy gauze, accentuating the peek of nipples, hugging the curve of hips, lengthening legs; billowing beguilingly with each movement. Because they appeared so innocent and unassuming, they were undeniably erotic. Instead of shouting, ‘Fuck me!’ they whispered, ‘Take me … see … I’m not even looking!’ The cleverest bit was that, while a man couldn’t help but be hypnotized by the erotic undertones, the idea of sex would be his. The pieces compelled a man to act, and made the woman feel languid. She could lie back and lure her husband into action. And a man who initiates sex always feels more virile than one who has it thrust upon him.
Leticia had been taught this invaluable insight along with the rest of her trade by her godfather, Leo. He’d been a West End theatrical costume designer. And like Leticia, he was entirely self-created. He smoked thin, black Russian cigarettes, probably had his nose done back in the sixties and wore his beautiful silver hair loose around his shoulders. His uniform was what he called ‘an Audrey’ – a black cashmere polo neck, black tailored trousers and soft, leather slippers he had specially made. He laughed often and firmly refused to countenance any form of self-pity or pessimism.
He came from a different world – not just a theatrical one but from another age entirely – an age that had no qualms about artifice; that had no desire to appear natural, and understood that a little sleight of hand was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been a dresser to Marlene Dietrich when she used to pin her scalp back under her wig; had sewn sweat guards into Julie Andrews’s gowns in My Fair Lady and even adjusted the sleeves on Vivian Leigh’s costumes so that no one could see her hands shaking after a bad night.
Leticia slipped off her jacket, hung it up on a hook behind the door and looked round with satisfaction. Leo was retired now but he adored the shop. The slipper bath had been his idea. (It shuddered violently if you turned on the taps but it looked exquisite.) He was the only other person who really appreciated her collection of lace or the rare quality of the bolts of beautiful fabric.
If it hadn’t been for him, she might still be languishing in Hampstead Garden Suburb. He gave her a subscription to Vogue when she was eight. When she was ten, he presented Leticia with a little work table all her own in his studio. There she sat, making sketches, watching carefully as the greatest stage divas of the day were transformed from frightened, self-obsessed neurotics into creatures worthy of universal adoration. In her teens, he took her to the theatre, bought her her first cocktail in Kettner’s, showed her how to pluck her eyebrows and move in a way that commanded attention. He taught her the difference between presence, which includes everyone in its warm glow, and attitude, which keeps the whole world at bay.
There was nothing Leo couldn’t render magical. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
She opened her appointment book and examined the names. A romance novelist, a duchess and a rich American woman from Savannah. She didn’t like more than three appointments a day and nothing before 11 a.m. Early morning wasn’t sexy; once you were out of bed and dressed, the weight of the day pressed too hard on everyone’s conscience.
Her phone buzzed. She flicked it open. It was Leo.
‘Angel, how are we this morning?’ he purred, his voice tempered by thousands of cigarettes.
‘Brilliant. Are you coming in today? Please say you’re coming! I’ve got an order for a silk kimono I can’t make drape properly for love nor money. The woman has a bust like a mountain range. I promise to buy you a long, boozy lunch if you can fix it.’
‘Would love to but I can’t. Feeling a bit rough this morning. Truth is I was up late last night playing strip poker with Juan. You remember Juan, don’t you?’
‘That male nurse from Brazil?’ She riffled through the morning post. Another postcard from her parents in Israel. More brown envelopes. How boring. She tossed them unopened into the bin. ‘Didn’t you decide he was too young for you? Does he even speak English?’
‘Don’t be catty, darling. His English has come on a treat. Besides,’ she could hear him lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘we don’t waste our time on conversation.’
‘Please! I don’t want to know all your secrets!’
‘You know them all anyway.’
She smiled. ‘I have one.’
‘Really? What or rather who is it?’
‘Now who’s being catty? His name’s Hughie and he’s delicious!’
‘How old?’
‘Oh, I don’t know … early twenties?’
She heard him exhale. ‘You need a real man, Leticia. Not some boy.’
‘This from you!’ She closed the appointment book firmly. ‘Real men don’t exist. Or haven’t you noticed? Besides, he’s only a fling.’
‘They have feelings, you know.’
‘I doubt it. All men want is sex. Especially young men.’
‘And what about you? What do you want?’
Her fingers ran over a particularly exquisite and costly bolt of French blue silk organdie. ‘Who cares what I want? It’s what I can have that matters.’
‘Emily Ann …’
She winced. ‘You know I hate that name; it’s so impossibly ugly!’
‘Emily,’ he repeated firmly, ‘I’m concerned. These flings are getting to be a habit with you.’
‘And why not? We live in a disposable world. There’s no point in investing yourself too heavily.’
‘You’re too young to be so cynical.’
‘Oh, please!’ She sighed. ‘Let’s not do serious today! I can’t; I’m not in the mood. I just want to have some fun. And Hughie’s fun.’
‘He’s also real.’
‘What am I now, some corrupting influence? No lectures – not today.’
‘I’m only saying that you’ve got to be careful.’
‘Stop, Leo,’ she warned.
He ignored her. ‘You pretend to be tough but we both know you’re not.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Darling, I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt.’
‘What? By Hughie?’ she laughed. ‘See, that’s the whole point! He can’t hurt me! And I can’t hurt him. We have rules, Leo. It’s strictly sex … nothing more.’
‘I’ve got news for you, sunshine. Rules or no rules, you’re not in control of your heart. No one is.’
‘Listen, I’ll call you later. I have heaps to do and if you’re not coming round I’ll have to try to sort out this kimono monstrosity by myself. Speak later? And no more hot Brazilians, understand?’
She clicked the phone shut, pressed her hand over her eyes.
He was being so difficult.
And suddenly, it was back again; the dull ache, pressing hard. It was an ache now, but for at least a year it had been a searing, slicing pain across her whole chest, like someone performing open-heart surgery without an anaesthetic. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep …
Damn him! Why did he have to be so … so judgemental?
She took a deep breath.
It didn’t matter. It was all over now. She was on her feet again, better than ever.
In her workshop, Leticia put the kettle on and lit a cigarette. There was time between the duchess and the novelist to have Hughie come round. And leaning her back against the counter, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.
Hughie was so tall, so young, so classically