Kathleen Tessaro - The Flirt

Behind him Jack Pollard, his marketing director, was negotiating an exclusive display with the buyer; gesturing wildly, virtually battering the poor woman into submission with his enthusiasm. But Arnaud, restless, excused himself, wandering alone through the maze of exercise bikes, yoga mats, rowing machines—an endless parade of products aimed at the preservation of youth. How depressing. There was some woman in her fifties trying to balance on a ski machine. ‘It’s too late!’ he wanted to shout at her. ‘Give up!’

Rounding a corner, he came face to face with an older man. The man barred his way, glaring at him. What an old shit, Arnaud thought. He was about to say something when he realized with horror that it was a mirror.

Those were his lined features, his thinning hair, his sagging shoulders. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. Then he turned anxiously to see if anyone else had witnessed his discovery.

He was alone.

Backing away from the mirror, he averted his eyes, moving quickly into another section. Rage, unholy and mountainous, boiled up inside him. The events of the past year had clearly ruined him, draining away his mental, emotional and physical well-being. And he thought of Olivia, of how she had failed him. If only she were a proper, functioning woman, things would be different!

For it is true to say that, while Arnaud hated himself, he despised Olivia even more.

He kept walking, barely noticing where he was going.

Of course he could have plastic surgery but then everyone would know; his insecurity would be revealed for the entire world to see. Besides, it was pathetic; one of his oldest friends, Fabrice, had succumbed and now he looked positively bizarre—tight bits here, saggy bits there—his facial expression was one of permanent surprise. It was impossible to hold a conversation with him without being offended.

It wasn’t a dignified solution. Was there a dignified solution?

More and more, Arnaud began to think not.

He turned a corner into the ski department.

He hated life; hated everything about ageing and being old.

If only he could begin again.

That’s when he saw her.

She was trying on a fur-lined Prada ski jacket, pouting and posing in front of the mirror. Almost six foot tall, with long black hair, a round face and enormous brown eyes, she radiated a languid, almost bored sexuality. Her jeans were skintight, emphasizing to great effect her model’s figure. She couldn’t be more than twenty-four.

Arnaud was mesmerized.

‘I don’t know,’ she sighed, speaking in a thick Russian accent. ‘Is so expensive!’

‘And yet,’ pointed out the sales assistant eagerly, ‘it will never go out of fashion. It’s an investment piece.’

‘Everything goes out of fashion!’ she snorted, turning again to examine her lovely profile with the hood on. ‘Nothing lasts in this world! Nothing.’

Then she caught Arnaud’s eye. In an instant, she recognized him and determined to seize her chance.

‘Isn’t that right?’ she challenged, fixing him with a sultry stare, full of pornographic promise. Then, just as quickly, she removed it.

(Hot, cold, scalding, freezing; here was a girl who knew how to hook a man.)

Arnaud couldn’t believe his luck. This sexy young woman wanted him! In a few seconds she’d managed to obliterate months of self-doubt.

He’d obviously been oversensitive about the business with the mirror.

Leaning back casually against the counter, he dug his hands deep in his pockets, grinning. When he was younger, he’d possessed a pair of captivating dimples; he did his best to flash them now. ‘I think you’re too cynical.’

‘No. I’m a realist. So. What do you think?’ She licked her lips, slowly zipping up the front. ‘I want a man’s opinion.’

He held her gaze. ‘I think that you are too beautiful not to have exactly what you want.’

She laughed, tossing her mane of black hair over her shoulder. (Here’s what I look like in the throes of passion, she signalled.) ‘Easy to say, but hard to do!’

He had a vision of her, writhing above him, dark hair across her bare chest.

Out came his wallet. ‘Allow me.’

Her eyes widened.

‘On one condition, of course,’ he handed his credit card to the stunned assistant, ‘you must allow me to drive you home.’

Jonathan Mortimer Esq. of the solicitors Hawes and Dawson, paused at the bottom of the stairs and rubbed his eyes.

It was late.

He’d struggled through another supper with his most important client, Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray and one of his yes men, Jack Pollard, securing a private dining room at the Garrick Club at short notice. Arnaud had insisted on bringing some Russian escort along. What should’ve been an hour or two at most discussing yet another merger, dragged into three while they groped and pawed one another. It was so tedious; rich people were like toddlers with their constant demands for attention.

Now all he wanted to do was go home. But the thought of climbing the stairs, his wife Amy’s back turned pointedly towards him as he got into bed, made him hesitate.

Why was being married so bloody difficult?

They’d had yet another argument this morning. He couldn’t even remember what set it off—only that it had escalated into dangerous territory too quickly. There was only one scene they played out nowadays. He was unsure exactly what it was about, only that it was bitter and full of tension.

So instead he wandered back into the bar of the Garrick Club and, slumped into one of the decrepit leather armchairs, began working away on his fourth Scotch.

All around him the comforting noises of men acting like men lulled him, tugging away at the frazzled threadbare edges of his soul. That was what gentlemen’s clubs were for; a last refuge from any form of female-ridden reality.

Swallowing a thick, amber shot in one, he reflected on the state of his life. If he’d bought it in a shop, he’d demand a refund immediately; it was clearly not as advertised.

And it was all Amy’s fault.

He remembered the plans they’d made, when there were only two of them, tucked into bed in his Chelsea bachelor pad; the picture Amy painted of a large, comfortable family house filled with song and laughter, like The Sound of Music; the discreet, grateful army of cheerful nannies, demure cleaners, and cheeky au pairs serving delicious meals round the dining table where adults and children would share a quiet hour of civilized conversation…

Then he thought of the mouldly Marmite sandwich and Stickle Bricks he’d discovered wedged into his briefcase this morning by one of the boys. Of the pokey, overpriced house they were all crammed into in the less fashionable environs of South London. Of the sullen Spanish au pair who regularly ate all the ice cream.

This was not that vision.

You only had to look at Amy and she conceived again. Three children under nine and now another one on the way! Of course he loved the children. That wasn’t the issue. The real crime was Amy’s. She’d abandoned him; the delicate, devoted woman he’d married had evaporated early on in the first pregnancy. Overnight she’d been replaced by a wisecracking, middle-aged Shakespearean wet nurse, complete with the matching body of cartoon proportions.

He’d been left to fend for himself; relegated to a marginalized authority figure, endured for his only useful quality—his ability to fund this extravaganza.

It was unfair.

And he was lonely.

He tried to focus on his watch.

Just time for one more drink.

The bar was still quite full, despite the late hour. Jonathan was having trouble attracting the waiter’s attention. He stood up, legs unsteady. Lurching forward, he tumbled straight into a fellow member reading a copy of the Financial Times.