Authors: Kathleen Tessaro
“Thanks.” Ricki took a deep drag, leaned back on her elbows. “How can I help?”
Olivia said nothing.
“It must be hell,” Ricki added, after a moment.
“It is hell.”
“Heartbreak is the worst.”
“Heartbreak?” Olivia looked across. “I’m not heartbroken. No, my pride is broken. My faith in humanity is broken. But my heart? Actually,” she paused, feeling the swell of something else beneath the pain and rage, “my heart is free.”
They sat a minute, smoking in the last of the late-afternoon sun. It was quiet; peaceful; no more dribbling of the ugly fountain.
Then something occurred to Olivia. “You usually come in the morning, don’t you? What are you doing here so late?”
For a while, Ricki didn’t answer, but concentrated, carefully flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette. Then she took something out of her pocket, passed it over.
Olivia’s heart leaped.
It was a cream-colored card.
“
Fancy dinner?
” it read.
She looked at Ricki in amazement. “Was it you?”
Dark eyes sparkling, Ricki exhaled slowly.
“Would you like it to be?”
L
eticia stepped over the piles of paper spread out on the floor of her shop. Some of it was from Amy, who was busy filing through years of Leticia’s accounts, but quite a lot was from her boys who were coloring in pictures, using Leticia’s old scrap paper and best drawing pencils. They were good boys really, and they knew the drill now. Every Wednesday afternoon she would close early, Amy would bring them from school and, while she waded through the paperwork, they played. Then they all went out for pizza and ice cream.
Amy’s organizational skills were nothing less than miraculous. Her involvement had transformed the business, in more ways than one. Of course, normally Jonathan had the boys when she was working but at the moment he had a big case on. And to her surprise, Leticia enjoyed having them around; enjoyed the fact that after years of believing there couldn’t possibly be a maternal bone in her body, she looked forward to seeing them. And they wanted to be with her too; they trusted her.
Leticia passed Amy a hot mug of tea. “So, is it a disaster?”
“No,” she took a sip, “not a disaster. In fact, you have more money than you realize. You just have to stop spending it like water.”
“Ah. I knew there was a rub.”
Amy smiled up at her. “We’ll get there in the end. The new M & S range will set you back on track. You just have to be careful now. A few more beans on toast and a little less sushi.”
“Point taken.”
It was strange doing the new Vane Mummies maternity range for a chain like M & S; completely against her ethos. But after struggling to create a workable piece for Amy, she’d discovered she enjoyed the challenge. And she’d fought too hard to figure out the solutions of an elegant maternity nightdress (which were considerable), not to capitalize on them. It was refreshing too, to work with a team of people; others who were enthusiastic. After years of being entirely self-propelled, the support felt luxurious; she hadn’t realized how lonely and exhausted she was.
Even Leo was impressed.
“I told you you were meant for better things!” he gloated, sitting up in bed, paging through the glossy new season’s catalogue.
“Yes, but nursing bras?” She adjusted his pillows.
“That’s how it goes, sunshine!” He peered over the top of his glasses. “One minute designing them, the next, wearing them!”
She just laughed, shook her head.
He was ever the optimist.
Pausing to look over Angus’s shoulder, Leticia tried her luck again. “Is that Thomas the Tank Engine? Or Percy?”
Angus gazed up sadly. She was hopeless. “James, of course!”
The door swung open.
“Hey, Johnny!” Amy climbed off the floor to kiss her husband hello. The boys clambered around his trouser legs. “What are you doing here?”
Jonathan enveloped them in a universal bear hug. “Got off early.” He smiled at Leticia. “Hope you don’t mind. I just thought maybe we could all go over to that new hamburger joint for an
early supper.” He kissed Amy’s forehead. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”
Amy looked to Leticia eagerly. “Is that OK with you?”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Jonathan added. “Goes without saying.”
“Perhaps another time,” Leticia smiled. “I’ve still got plenty of work here. And this is a real treat—you don’t normally get off early, do you?”
“Ever since the du Coudray divorce proceedings began, life has got a lot easier for me. I’ll tell you, it’s a hell of a lot easier working for the wife than the husband. Now, grab your stuff, guys. Who’s this?” He picked up Angus’s drawing. “That looks like James, the red engine! Am I right?”
Angus beamed. “It is!”
Jonathan rubbed his head. “Brilliant stuff, mate!”
Leticia watched as they gathered everyone and all their stuff together and headed out to the car.
Closing the door, she locked it, pausing to pick up a few stray pencils from the floor.
Everything was different now, and yet, still so much of her outward life was the same. A familiar wave of grief washed over her. Taking a deep breath, she arranged the pencils back in their box.
She was unexpectedly tired.
Maybe she wouldn’t work tonight. Maybe she would walk home instead.
Or maybe, she thought, pausing to turn off the lights in the main shop, she might visit her parents in Hampstead Garden Suburb. A bowl of hot chicken soup, crammed with matzo balls, and plenty of gossip was just what she needed on a cold November night.
She picked up Amy’s mug and headed back into the work-
room. Staring out of the window at the tiny garden in the back, already bathed in the darkness, she washed up the cups in hot soapy water.
I’ll pick up some bread on the way, she decided. Now, to cab or not to cab? Instantly she thought of Amy’s expression when she handed her the receipt and laughed out loud. OK, OK! The bus then.
Moving automatically, she wiped the counter clean, arranging the boxes of sugar, biscuits, tea…There alongside the expensive tins of Darjeeling and Earl Gray stood a great big box of PG Tips.
T
he ad appeared in the back of
The Times
just before Christmas. It read:
Handsome, well-educated, outgoing young men required for daring new business opportunity. Please send CV and photo to:
M. M. Flickering
12 Summerhouse Drive
London, NW3 2EZ
Hughie was sitting at his usual table, the one next to the window in Jack’s Café, armed with a pen he’d nicked from Clara, his mobile phone which was running out of credit, and enjoying a strong cup of builder’s tea and a full English breakfast. It had been a while, months actually. But nothing had changed; the food was as deliciously greasy as ever.
Spotting the ad, he circled it, and leaning back, lit a fresh cigarette to celebrate.
A daring new business opportunity; just the ticket! And M. M. Flickering…could that be who he thought it was?
A little red-haired waitress came over, handed him the bill.
“I say,” he smiled up at her, flashing his wonderful dimples. “You don’t by any chance take Amex, do you?”
“Sure.”
He blinked in surprise. “Really?”
“Is that a problem?” There was something in the way she was looking at him that made him wonder if by any chance he’d rubbed her up the wrong way. She stared at him, hands on hips. “I mean, you had intended to pay, right?”
Just then his phone rang. “Pardon me,” he apologized, grateful to take the call. “Hello?”
“Hughie, where are you?”
“Dad? I’m having breakfast. Where are you?”
“I’m at the church, Hughie.”
“Really? What time is it?”
“It’s almost twelve. The rehearsal’s in ten minutes, and your mother and I are expecting you to be on time. Are you wearing a suit?”
Hughie was not wearing a suit.
“The Goring requires a suit and tie for the rehearsal lunch. And I know for a fact that you own one. By the way, Jez is still knitting the wedding dress. Clara’s put on a few pounds—too much pasta, I suspect—and he’s had to expand it. Your mother is extremely distressed. It’s all I can do to keep her away from the brandy. Are you smoking?”
“No.” Hughie stubbed it out. “I’m on my way, Dad. May be slightly late.”
“You’re the best man, Hughie! Really, the sooner you learn to grow up and act like an adult—”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” Hughie smiled, “just like calling you Dad.”
Then his phone ran out of credit.
Two tables over, Sam was reading an email on his laptop from Ricki. She was in Boston with her girlfriend, meeting the family. He chuckled. They sounded a nightmare! Ricki was more than a match for any stuck-up American socialites but he missed her.
“Hey, that’s a nice bit of kit!” Rose said, delivering his beans on toast.
“Yeah,” he folded the lid down proudly. “Thought I’d splash out. Great for all my accounts and invoices. So,” he stirred some sugar in his tea, “how’s the course?”
“Great! I’ve got this fantastic idea for my end-of-term project. I’m going to make one of those blue plaques like they have on houses where famous people lived except it will say, ‘Red Moriarty works here,’ and I’m going to stick it on the front of the café. And then people will be able to come in and watch me work!” She looked thrilled. “Don’t you see? It’s a living installation!”
“Or just another London café.”
“Oh, Sam!” She rolled her eyes. “You’re not even trying to understand! See, it’s all about who we think we are; identity and the value of work; fame and our obsession with status…” She stopped. “I’m wasting my time with you, aren’t I?”
“Yup,” he nodded. “I’ll never get it. Let me know when you make something I can hang on my wall. Hey,” he laughed. “I should’ve bought that fucking chair while Mrs. Henderson was still alive!”
She swatted him with her tea towel. “You couldn’t afford it now! It went to a Japanese collector. It’s covered all my fees at the Slade.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “So there!”
“Order up!” Bert called.
Hughie counted out the change in his pocket, pulled on his coat.
“Leaving so soon?” The red-haired waitress was back; she plopped an order of toast down at the table opposite.
Hughie nodded to the pile of coins on the table. “Seems I didn’t have to resort to the plastic after all.”
“Humm,” she poked through, adding it up.
There was something about her, he decided. The color of her hair, her delicate porcelain features; she looked like the heroine of a pre-Raphaelite painting. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before.
He leaned back casually against the counter. “Would you like to have a drink sometime?”
She stared up at him. “Are you serious?”
“Here.” He jotted down his number on the back of his bill and handed it to her. “Give me a call. The name’s Hughie. I haven’t got any phone credit at the moment.” He crossed, swung the door wide. Cold wind rushed in, rustling the papers of the regulars. “But I will have,” he assured her, turning to regale her with one last radiant smile. “Soon!”
The door closed.
“Order up!”
Shaking her head, Rose slipped the number into her apron pocket, headed back to the kitchen.
Out on the streets of Kilburn, Hughie tucked the paper with its promise of daring future employment under his arm, scanning the horizon for a bus or a cab or maybe even a stray tie that he could wear to the rehearsal lunch.
The sun sparkled, clear and bright. The day beckoned, full of potential greatness and unknown adversity.
Anything might happen, he reflected with satisfaction, stepping over some squashed plums by the fruit seller’s on the corner. Anything at all.
Meanwhile, in a comfortable corner of Mayfair, Valentine Charles was reading the classified pages of
The Times
with serious concern. Across the Channel, in the South of France, Arnaud
Bourgalt du Coudray dozed in a bath chair in the grounds of an expensive rest home where he’d retreated after discovering his wife in bed with the gardener. While still closer to home, on the streets of Belgravia, Emily Ann Fink sauntered to her shop, the drawings for her new range of silk bespoke boxer shorts tucked under her arm, to discover that someone had left her an anonymous note.
So life jogs on, as surely it must.
But that is another story.
I’d like to thank Lynne Drew, Claire Bord, Carrie Feron and Maxine Hitchcock at HarperCollins and Jonny Geller at Curtis Brown for their unparalleled editing, guidance and support.
I’d also like to thank Jill Robinson, Debra Susman, Kate Morris, Gillian Greenwood, Liza Campbell, Juliet Nicholson, Bernadette Hoffman and Stephen Harris for sharing their considerable talent, experience and hope with me. Thank you for generously allowing me to steal all your best ideas.
Finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my friends Dr. Matthew Knight, Dr. Nora Whitehouse Brennan, Annabel Giles, Frances Geary, Jennifer Ward, Bob and Ragni Trotta, Karen Tippet, Keely Deller, Hannah Deller, Trisha Valaydon, Margie Dane and my family, Edward, Anne, Michael and Patrick Tessaro and Martha Nelson. Your actions speak so much more eloquently of love than my words.
Originally from Pennsylvania,
KATHLEEN TESSARO
studied drama at Carnegie-Mellon University. After ten years working as an actress, she trained as a drama teacher and a voice coach before writing her debut novel,
Elegance.
She lives in London with her husband and son.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.