does lightly.’
‘Not at five grand a pop!’
‘Sometimes people like a second opinion. A female perspective, so to speak.’ He traced his fingers casually along the edge of the desk. ‘A mother’s opinion is often invaluable in a case like this one. If I remember correctly, your mother always possessed impeccable taste.’
‘Yes, well …’ Hughie hadn’t intended even to tell his mother let alone ask her opinion. She’d undoubtedly object on the grounds that he should be doing something more constructive with his money, like paying his sister rent or buying food.
‘If you were to bring her in, perhaps?’
Hughie frowned.
‘Two thousand five hundred!’ Mr Bryce blurted out suddenly. ‘You can have the earrings for half their normal price, contingent, of course, on the circumstances I’ve just mentioned!’
‘You mean, my mother …’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ He waved his hand in front of his face, as if it pained him to hear the details repeated again. ‘I think we understand each other, Mr Venables-Smythe, do we not?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He really was incredibly highly strung. Hughie felt for him. Reverting to a bit of Old Harrovian charm, he inclined his head politely and extended his hand. ‘And I’m very sensible, Mr Bryce, of the generosity of your extremely kind offer.’
It seemed to calm him down.
Mr Bryce shook it gratefully. ‘Excellent! Excellent indeed! I will put the earrings to one side, shall I? And I look forward to seeing you in the next few days. Here,’ he produced a card from his inside pocket, ‘take my number. I’m always available, always available!’ He patted Hughie on the back, opened the door, shook his hand another three times before ejecting him from the shop.
Back on the street, Hughie imagined Leticia’s expression as she opened the dark navy box; the gasp of joy as she discovered the beautiful diamond earrings glittering inside. He could see them, framing her face, lost temporarily in the tangle of her dark hair and then emerging again, dazzling as they caught the light. And then he imagined the look in her eyes.
That was what it was all about.
Then he bumped smack into Marco, striding up Bond Street, furious.
‘Hey! You’re late!’ Marco shouted. ‘I said ten o’clock! In the morning, right! I can’t work this way, understand? Ten o’clock is ten o’clock! Not eleven, not two!’ He stopped quite suddenly. ‘Wait a minute! You,’ he waggled a finger in Hughie’s face, ‘you’ve been looking at jewellery! I can tell!’
Hughie started. ‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong!’
Was he psychic?
‘I’ve got it all wrong, eh? Look, what’s that?’ He brushed a few crumbs from Hughie’s lapel. ‘And this?’ He jabbed at a bit of chocolate on Hughie’s chin. ‘And is that champagne I smell? You don’t get that at McDonald’s, do you? You’ve got a woman, Smith! I know it!’
‘Smythe! Venables-Smythe!’
‘Smith, Smythe, whatever you’re called, you’re in big trouble!’
‘I was just looking! Browsing, that’s all.’
Marco snorted. ‘Men don’t browse for jewellery!’
‘Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong! I’ve just been dumped. Ask Henry if you don’t believe me. I’m a dedicated flirt. One hundred per cent.’
Marco looked unconvinced.
‘It’s for my sister,’ Hughie lied.
‘You’re lying!’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re playing with fire. Love is not a toy!’
‘Oh, please! All of you go on about it as if it were the Plague! So, I was looking at earrings. So what? You act as if I were mainlining heroin!’
‘Ahhh! Now I see! You’ve never been in love. That’s why you’re so cock-like!’
‘Cocky.’
‘Whatever! You have no experience of the madness; no respect for the danger! You, Smith,’ he poked Hughie firmly in the chest, ‘are arrogant!’
Hughie took exception. ‘Well, you, sir,’ he poked Marco back, ‘are obviously frigid!’
‘Frigid!’ A wild look flared in Marco’s eyes. ‘You accuse me, Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol – the King of Love – of being frigid?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are mad! Insane! I am a master flirt! The finest in London!’
‘Ah, yes! But for all your flirting, Marco, have you ever once dared to fall in love?’
‘Love?’ Marco snorted. ‘Love!’
‘Yes, love!’
Marco hesitated and in that moment, his Italian bravado deflated before Hughie’s eyes. His shoulders fell forward beneath his impeccable black wool Prada suit; his eyes dimmed by melancholy. Even his lustrous dark curls sagged around his face.
‘No,’ he answered quietly.
This wasn’t quite what Hughie was expecting. ‘Really?’
‘Ah, Smith! I have never known the joy of love.’ And he sighed, staring dejectedly at the ground.
‘I see.’
Somehow their argument had derailed, plunging into dark, unexpected and intimate waters. The Marco he knew – the bold, flamboyant master of both Lost Architect and Racing Driver, disappeared. In his place a rather lonely, tired-looking man remained.
A hot cup of tea was probably in order.
‘Listen,’ Hughie gestured to a small outdoor café, ‘how about I buy you a drink?’
Soon they were sitting at a table and the sad, ironic history of Marco Michelangelo Dante Spangol came to light.
‘You see, Smith, the difficulty is I am so handsome,’ Marco explained sadly. ‘It’s a curse really. From the moment I was born, I’ve always been irresistible to women. When I was a baby, my mother had to push me with a blanket over the carriage … what is it?’
‘Pram?’
‘Yes, pram! Even in the height of summer so that I was hidden from strangers trying to kiss me. And when I was a little boy, at school, I had to sit next to a different little girl every day of the week so that they wouldn’t fight with one another.’
‘Good God!’
Marco sighed heavily.
