caught her attention. Picking up another photo, she looked hard.
No, she wasn’t just imagining it: there was an unmistakable sadness in Olivia’s eyes; a kind of helpless resignation.
Sadness?
Flick pulled out a few more recent clippings and lined them up one next to the other.
There it was – the same forlorn quality, which had eluded her at first, was now instantly apparent in each one of them.
What did Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray have to be unhappy about? Her life was charmed! Flick concentrated harder.
Again she looked at Olivia’s clean, coiffed, blonde hair, trim neat figure, elegant, impeccable clothes. Then she spotted her smile; the gritted teeth, tension running along the whole length of the jawline, grinding the back molars together. She could practically feel the strength of will that kept Olivia together; a thick, cold terror of exposing herself in any way, shape or form.
Sitting back in her chair, Flick pressed her hands together under her chin.
What was she so afraid of?
Suddenly it came. ‘She has a secret!’
But what?
A lover?
An addiction?
A child?
Again, she examined Olivia’s face for clues.
Then, looking into the frightened eyes of one of the richest women in the world, Flick recognized something from her own modest childhood: Olivia was ashamed.
As a good Irish Catholic, Flick had been raised with shame, like a cucumber pickled in vinegar and spice. She knew what it was like to be saturated by it so completely that it was almost impossible to tell where you ended and guilt began. In fact, her childhood had been filled with large, powerful, creative women, all pretending to be small, cheerful and uncomplicated – frightened of what might happen if they let themselves go. And it was shame that had accomplished this feat so effectively – binding them like corsets. Shame for being strong, shame for being interesting, shame for being human. It had baffled and frustrated her as a little girl but it infuriated her now.
Then Flick thought over the long, painful years she’d spent posing as a likely, sanitized version of herself and of how lonely and empty it had been – even, or perhaps especially, during her marriage. She’d always told herself that one day soon, when she felt better about herself, more comfortable, she’d be a bit freer with her husband, a bit more willing to show him who she really was. But he’d died before she ever dared to try. In fact, it was only in her solitude and through her strange association with Valentine that she came to know herself at all.
Such a waste!
Flick had never been particularly ambitious, never had any grand dreams of conquering the world. But here, in the quiet of 111 Half Moon Street, she saw an opportunity to accomplish something of real and lasting importance. Perhaps there was a way of liberating this woman from herself. Of freeing her from whatever secret it was that held her so tightly in its grasp.
Was it possible that something as slight as a flirt could succeed in so great a task? Could a woman be seduced into a freer, more daring version of herself?
She wasn’t sure. And it wouldn’t be easy: she’d need help, inspiration.
One thing was certain: the fragile future of Olivia Bourgalt du Coudray now rested firmly in her old-lady hands.
‘Well?’ Leticia peered over Sam’s shoulder as he examined the pipes underneath the bathroom floorboards with a torch. ‘What is it?’
‘A leak.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ he looked up at her, ‘funnily enough it’s the same leak I looked at before only now it’s worse.’ Sitting back on his heels, he wiped his hands with a rag. Two days’ stubble darkened his jaw; his hair, badly in need of a trim, curling almost to his shoulders. He’d been doubling up, working for private clients during the day while spending nights installing bathrooms and kitchens in a new luxury development in Willesden. All he wanted right now was a strong cup of tea. Not that he was likely to get one from her. ‘What did you think would happen? That it would just repair itself?’
‘There’s no need to be rude.’
‘I’m not being rude, just realistic.’ He rummaged around in his bag, straining to see. ‘Look, any chance of turning the lights on?’
‘Not today.’ She concentrated on the floor. ‘No electricity.’
‘If you need a good electrician …’
‘No, I don’t need a good electrician!’ This was all so humiliating. ‘It has to do … to do with the bill.’
‘Miscalculated?’
‘Unpaid,’ she mumbled.
‘Ah,’ he made a face. ‘I don’t mind telling you that’s not the sort of information a tradesman likes to hear.’ He got out his torch again. ‘The best thing for me to do right now is turn the water off at the mains. I don’t suppose you know where the stopcock is?’
She stared blankly at him.
‘Nah, didn’t think so.’
His back smarted as he got up. Too much time curled into cramped spaces. He headed for the workroom.
Leticia trailed after him.
‘So what are you going to do?’ She sounded like a child.
‘Fix it.’ He looked under the sink.
‘But … you see,’ how could she put this? ‘I’m having something of a cash-flow crisis. Just a temporary one, but all the same …’
‘Sell some more knickers.’
‘It isn’t that easy.’
He scanned the room. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, for starters,’ she informed him haughtily, ‘they’re tailor made. Depending on the design they take days to produce.’
‘That’s not very savvy, is it?’
Her eyes widened. Who was this person?
‘Savvy isn’t the point!’
He located the stopcock in the boiler cupboard. ‘In business, savvy is the whole point. You should get a commission. Flog your stuff to one of the big chain stores.’
‘I’m a designer not a businesswoman,’ she corrected him.
‘And it shows. Look, how you
