The Flirt. Kathleen Tessaro

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      The woman was checking her watch, folding up her paper, pushing it back into her bag…

      Then something caught Hughie’s eye.

      ‘God! Excuse me…is that the cricket score?’

      The woman looked up at him. ‘Pardon me?’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He grinned. ‘I’m rude, I know. It’s just,’ he gestured to her paper, ‘that can’t be the cricket score! I mean, this is still England, isn’t it? I am awake, aren’t I? When was the last time you saw a score like that?’

      The woman unfolded the paper again from her bag and laughed. ‘I don’t know. It’s not a sport I follow’

      ‘May I? Nice shoes, by the way’

      ‘Oh! Thank you. Of course you may’ She offered him the paper and he took it, his fingers brushing lightly against hers.

      ‘Shane Warne! God, those figures are insane! I reckon he’s made a pact with the devil. So you don’t do cricket? What do you follow? Wait,’ he held up his hand, ‘let me guess! Football! Beckham’s latest haircut, tattoo, fashion statement!’

      ‘God, no!’ she laughed again. ‘No, not my cup of tea, at all.’

      ‘Rugby then. Large men in tight shorts.’

      ‘Not rough enough.’

      ‘Tennis.’

      She wrinkled her nose.

      ‘Golf!’

      She pretended to yawn.

      ‘Championship Tibetan goat hurling!’

      ‘Only the Tibetans know how to really hurl a goat,’ she sighed wistfully.

      ‘You’ve obviously never seen the Spanish have a go.’

      She laughed.

      He felt his nerves steadying.

      Actually, she was easy to talk to; much easier than many girls he really fancied. And she had lovely eyes; a mixture of green and grey. When he concentrated on them, she could’ve been any age at all. Then it occurred to him that all he was doing was acting—just playing a part.

      And he started to really enjoy himself.

      ‘OK, OK.’ He frowned in mock concentration. ‘Horse racing!’

      Her eyes flickered.

      ‘You cheeky devil! You play the horses! I know I’m right!’

      Suddenly she was giggling. It was a delightful noise; unrestrained and girlish. ‘Only occasionally,’ she admitted. ‘I’m Irish,’ she added. ‘I was raised with it!’

      ‘Raised with it, my arse!’ He tapped her knee with the rolled-up paper. ‘You’re a thrill junkie! Don’t deny it! Look at how your eyes light up!’

      And they had. Years seemed to have dropped from her; her face was glowing as she laughed again. ‘Everyone has a vice or two,’ she said, looking away coyly.

      ‘Thank God!’ He leant in. ‘I have a confession.’

      ‘What?’ She tilted towards him.

      ‘The truth is, I’m not really into cricket either.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘You’re not one of those dreadful cricket frauds I’ve been reading about, are you? Pretending to know how the game’s played, babbling on about wickets and overs, parading around with picnic hampers filled with nothing but bunched-up old newspaper’

      ‘Named and shamed!’ Hughie hung his head. ‘Don’t hate me! It’s just, how else was I going to get the chance?’

      ‘The chance at what?’

      He had intended to lock her with an intense, sexy stare but then something happened that surprised Hughie; something that had only happened a few times in his acting career, when he was completely lost in the role. A strange rush of feeling flooded through him. His cheeks burned. ‘The chance to talk to you.’

      For a moment, she said nothing. A delicate thread of intimacy wrapped itself around them.

      ‘Why would you want to do that?’ she asked quietly.

      His blue eyes caught hers and he blushed even harder. ‘It’s just, well…’ he fumbled, ‘it doesn’t happen very often. I mean…It’s not every day someone like you just…appears…out of nowhere…’

      ‘Someone like me?’

      ‘Yes, someone so…lovely. You have a certain way about you. I really like talking to you.’ He was aware, even as he spoke, that it was true.

      For a moment, it looked as though she might say something. But then an odd expression clouded her face.

      It wasn’t quite the effect he was going for.

      ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ he apologized.

      She shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she was silent.

      Fuck, he thought. I’ve buggered it up.

      Shrugging his shoulders, he pushed his hand through his mop of blond hair and gave her one last smile. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?’

      But she just blinked.

      He stood, handed her back the paper.

      Oh, well, he thought, as he ambled up towards the tube entrance. That’s fucked.

      Maybe there’s a job going at HMV or something.

      Flick sat very still, for a long time, on the bench in Green Park. It had been a beautiful early-autumn day, and now it was just beginning to fade, mellowing into that time of evening when the light drains from the sky. The people around her were moving slowly, enjoying the last of the hazy warmth.

      But Flick sat frozen.

      She felt unusual, disorientated, flustered even. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who was accustomed to feeling flustered. After all, she’d been through this process a hundred times over the past twelve years. Normally these auditions were either excruciating or comical. But today was different. This young man had stirred something inside her; something she’d almost forgotten existed. He’d managed to disturb her entire equilibrium in a way that left her feeling exposed, vulnerable but at the same time exhilarated.

      Valentine walked down from Piccadilly and sat next to her. He handed her a takeaway coffee. ‘Well…?’

      This is where the two of them would usually dissect the whole adventure and more likely than not, have a good laugh. Instead, she frowned.

      Hughie had reminded her of someone.

      ‘Flick…’

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