Hughie smiled.
Any job where your employer buys you a drink on the first day has to be good.
They crossed the street and Valentine led him up a narrow alleyway. At the top, Shepherd’s Market emptied onto a tiny square and in one corner there was a pub called the Adam and Eve. The sign had a picture of a man and woman divided by an apple. They stepped inside and as Hughie’s eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness of the half-empty bar, he recognized a familiar face. She was sitting at a table in the corner, sipping a glass of white wine.
‘It’s you!’ Hughie was surprised by how pleased he was to see her.
She smiled.
‘Allow me to introduce my assistant, Mrs Flickering. Flick for short.’
She gestured to a chair. ‘Take a seat, Hughie.’
‘What will you have?’ Valentine asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know …’ Surely this was a test; the right answer was probably to order a soft drink.
‘I’m having Scotch but that’s probably a bit old for you. A pint of something?’
Hughie relaxed. ‘Yes, please.’
Valentine went to the bar. They were alone.
‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,’ he said softly.
Flick traced her fingers along the edge of her glass. ‘And yet, here we are. Life’s a funny old business, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll say.’ He shifted, unsure of how to continue. ‘The other day in the park … what happened …’
She stopped him. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t take it personally. All part of the interview process, Hughie. I’ve been through it a hundred times.’
‘I see.’ He looked crestfallen.
‘Why so serious?’ she laughed. ‘Surely you’re relieved!’
He let out a sigh. ‘But how many times do you meet a stranger you can talk to?’ The directness of his gaze was unnerving. ‘That you really want to talk to?’
‘Well, yes, but the thing is …’ He had a knack for creating instant intimacy; disorientating her with his artlessness. She’d never encountered anything quite like it.
Valentine came back with the drinks and sat down.
‘Cheers, Mr Venables-Smythe!’ They raised their glasses. ‘Congratulations on your appointment!’
‘Thank you!’ Hughie beamed.
They beamed back.
‘So,’ he ventured, ‘what is it exactly that we do?’
Valentine looked at him closely. ‘You’ve received one of the greatest honours of your life. You’ve been chosen; hand-selected to join one of the oldest and most secret professions in the world.’
Hughie felt uneasy. ‘Not … the Oldest Profession?’
‘Hardly!’ Valentine bristled, offended. ‘We are professional massagers of the female ego. We notice, flatter, attend to the delicate matter of romantic yearnings, that despite science and technology and sexual revolutions of all descriptions, still linger, languishing, in the human soul.
‘In short,’ Flick cut in, ‘we flirt.’
‘And we are master craftsmen at our vocation,’ Valentine added proudly.
‘You mean we pick up women?’
‘Rule number one,’ Flick outlined, ‘you absolutely, categorically do not pick up women.’
‘Not under any circumstances. We flirt, Hughie, make women feel good about being alive. We notice them. Smile. Talk a little. Pay them some attention.’
‘And then leave,’ Flick added. ‘Rule number two: always know your exit.’
Things were looking up. He wasn’t going to be a rent boy after all.
Still, his new profession wasn’t entirely clear.
Valentine sensed his confusion. ‘Let me start at the beginning. Imagine,’ he made a bold, theatrical gesture with his hands, ‘one day a lonely, dejected woman is waiting for a tube train or queuing in a shop when suddenly she’s aware that a well-dressed, handsome young man is looking at her. Perhaps she turns away, pretends not to notice. But he’s unable to stop staring. She grows flushed, excited. And at last, just as she’s about to leave, he stops her. And stammering shyly, pays her a kind, warm compliment. “I just had to say, what lovely blue eyes you have …” and so on. To us, it’s nothing. But to her, a perfect stranger would have been struck by her charm and beauty – a charm and beauty that she’d imagined she’d all but lost.’
‘So, where do we find these women?’ Hughie asked, taking another drink.
‘That’s Valentine’s area of expertise,’ Flick explained. ‘He has connections all over the world. He’s the one who manages the enquiries. We have a great many repeat customers. The same husbands have been coming to us for years.’
‘Husbands!’ Hughie choked on his lager.
Flick thumped him on the back. ‘Yes, that can be a bit of a shock.’
‘Let’s face facts, shall we?’ Valentine proposed. ‘Nowadays, the only thing that keeps a marriage together is the intervention of strangers. Normally those strangers are likely to be an army of counsellors and therapists. But we can achieve tremendous results from a few well-timed words. Everyone, no matter how old they are or how long they’ve been married, needs someone who sees them as an object worthy of desire. It’s just that one’s spouse isn’t always likely to provide it.’
‘The key point is,’ Flick explained, ‘we break the cycle. A woman who’s been flirting is an entirely different creature from one who feels rejected and unappreciated. Instantly, the dynamic shifts, and with a little effort on the husband’s part, the rough patch is over.
‘You see, said wife,’ Valentine continued, ‘otherwise known as the Mark, will be having a highly charged clandestine experience. A completely harmless, entirely manufactured experience, but a thrilling one nevertheless. And the most natural response in the world will be to treat her husband with extra care and affection to mask her little secret.’ His eyes sparkled in the dim light. ‘Et voilà! Domestic harmony is once more restored.’
‘But … but that’s dishonest!’
Valentine tilted his head to one side. ‘Is perfume dishonest?’
‘What?’
‘We don’t naturally smell like crushed rose petals and jasmine, do we? And yet who would begrudge us a little harmless artifice? Honesty is only of value to doctors or lawyers. But in marriage, it can be fatal.
Of course, we don’t always do married women,’ Flick took a sip of her
