Authors: Roberta Latow
Life with Artemis was always easier when other people were around, and that was just the way the day went. Easy. Arianne listened to Artemis play the piano while relaxing in front of the open fire in the drawing room, the dogs lying at her feet. The men were charming and amusing: they brought out the best of fun in Artemis. She was clever and flirtatious with them. Lunch had been English Sunday lunch at its finest. And after lunch, when Artemis and her guests retreated to the bridge table, Arianne did go down to the stables and take Chattanooga out for a ride through the park with the two larger dogs, the mastiff and the black-and-white Great Dane running behind.
The ride had been exhilarating, and life somehow seemed richer to Arianne on that Sunday afternoon. When the bridge party broke up, there had been tea and scones, cucumber, egg and cress sandwiches, a rich sand-torte, and tiny chocolate éclairs. After tea there was a ride to the station with one of the bridge guests while the remaining three decided to play one more rubber with a dummy hand. As she left the flat Arianne had laid a note on the table for her mother. Her new telephone number.
Arianne watched the suburbs of London flash by. And when she stepped from the train into the bustle of Paddington Station, she was reminded of the sheer variety of worlds to be experienced that a day in her present life would offer her. Arianne Honey was enjoying her life again. She was gratefully aware of it.
The following week Arianne did not visit Artemis. Artemis had other plans. But the week after that she did go to Chessington Park. She found Artemis restless, and some what vague – terribly preoccupied with plans to go sailing in the Caribbean with a friend, evasive about the friend; planning her wardrobe for a stay with another friend, who had a house on one of the Windward Islands. But of which island or of its owner there was no hint. Artemis never travelled alone; the faithful butler-chauffeur Hadley was to accompany her. Little had changed since Gerald and she had travelled.
For most of the day Artemis was offhand with Arianne. At teatime she seemed to calm down, and mother and daughter enjoyed their tea, sandwiches and cakes in front of the fire in the drawing room. At one point she smiled at Arianne, and said most charmingly, ‘No Christmas or New Year together this year. You have a good heart, Arianne, like your father. The same generous spirit. It is remarkably good of you to love me. After all, I have rarely failed to put myself before you from the day you were born.’
‘Was my birth such a trauma?’ Arianne asked, trying to make light of that rather heavy truth. The lightness was in her eye.
Artemis was quick to understand. She had always appreciated Arianne and Arianne’s father continuing to love her in spite of her evident indifference to them. The morsel of love she was able to feel for Arianne had always sufficed the girl. Artemis had found that clever in Arianne. It had bound them together and yet allowed them freedom from excessive family closeness. That would only have bred contempt.
Mother gave daughter a wry smile. ‘I have always thought of any birth as rather more a miracle. A baby, a pup, a foal.’
That triggered a conversation about all the animals Artemis
had nurtured in her lifetime, which led her into remarking, ‘Yes, I always did have a way with animals and lovers. Still do.’ Did that imply that she might at present have a lover? She simply rambled on about the animals, eventually changing the subject. ‘You will be doing something nice over Christmas, I am sure.’
So typical of Artemis. Not asking but telling Arianne. That way Artemis need not get involved. She was notoriously good at not getting involved in other people’s affairs.
Artemis became very good company as Arianne’s visit was coming to an end. At last, Arianne had to make a dash for the train, but, fast as the taxi travelled, she missed it. There seemed little to do but return to Chessington Park and an Artemis who would not be pleased. Sudden reappearances do not fit into a mother’s organised life.
When the taxi rounded the fountain, its lights picked out Artemis returning from a walk with the dogs. At the sight of Arianne in the taxi, Artemis’s face looked more displeased than surprised. She pointed to the entrance and proceeded there on foot while the taxi followed. Arianne stepped out of the taxi.
‘You’ve missed your train.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘There’s not another from our station.’
‘No.’
‘Well then, what to do? Go on to a larger station where the trains are more frequent? Stay …’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ben Johnson returning his uncle from a day out. Sir Anson emerged from the car and greeted Artemis and Arianne. The Porsche’s motor was still running while Ben greeted them from the driver’s seat, and Artemis, the dogs scrambling around her feet, bent down to ask Ben, ‘Back to London now, Ben?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arianne has missed her train. It makes her return quite complicated. Taxi to Swindon or Chippenham or Oxford – who knows where? Sunday timetable and all that. A lift would be very helpful.’
Arianne felt terribly foolish. All she had done was miss a train. Artemis was working it up into a drama. It was not so much her words as the inflection in them, the body language. Pleading,
seductive. Several sentences later Arianne was feeling like a fragile package that needed careful delivery. She half wanted to protest. But the alternative on a Sunday really was a long detour by road in pursuit of a train that ran into London.
Ben looked past Artemis to Arianne. He smiled at her. ‘But of course. With pleasure,’ he told her.
‘Oh, good, Ben.’ No one standing there could have missed the relief in Artemis’s voice. Ben bent across the brown leather seat to open the door for Arianne. Artemis, still organising Arianne’s departure, saw her daughter hesitate, then fumble in her handbag in an attempt to settle her bill with the waiting taxi-driver. Artemis took over, saying, ‘No, don’t bother about the taxi, Arianne. Anson will take care of that, won’t you?’
Without a word of protest, the tall, elegant diplomat removed his wallet from his pocket and strolled over to pay for the taxi. He seemed both amused and delighted to do Artemis’s bidding. Arianne had no time to think that an odd thing for Artemis to do: she was being rushed into the Porsche by her mother. ‘Now, do hurry, dear, it’s very kind of Ben to play rescue.’
To protest at being taken over and organised because it suited her mother that she be gone? Impossible. That had always been Artemis’s way. As Arianne walked around the smart-looking sports car with its black duck soft top and elegant, cream-coloured body, she could not but admire Artemis. Artemis had them all doing her bidding in a matter of minutes.
Ben watched Arianne slip elegantly into the seat next to him. Her legs caught his attention. They were long and shapely, very sexy legs encased in sheer, sand-coloured nylon stockings. The skirt she was wearing, a rich, deep, coral-coloured suede, rose up past her knees when she sat down. He was very much aware of her body as she hoicked herself up off the seat to pull the skirt back down over her knees.
Once settled and comfortable she sat quite still, clutching the small leather shoulder-bag in her lap and looking straight ahead into the darkness of early nightfall. Ben revved the motor and, putting the Porsche in gear, rolled it slowly forward. He reached through the open window next to him and touched his uncle’s arm, ‘Thanks, Anson, for a great day. I’ll call you about next week.’ Then they sped around the fountain and off down the
avenue of trees. Halfway down the drive he realised that Arianne had made no attempt to buckle herself into the seat. He stopped the car, and she turned to look at him for the first time since she had taken the seat next to him. It was dark and they could only just make out the details of each other’s face.
Ben could sense more of Arianne than he could see. He was aware of a certain tranquillity, and a quiet female sensuality. He liked what he sensed in her. He flicked a switch on the dashboard. A light went on inside the car. She turned her head to look at him. They gazed at each other. He was surprised at how pleased he was to have her there. His first words to Arianne were spoken as he bent across her and found the end of the seat belt, stretched it out and buckled her in. Something about her made him smile, made him want her to be pleased to be next to him. ‘You forgot to buckle up.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed embarrassed. He clicked the lock closed. Slipping his hand under the belt he slid it along the angle of strap crossing her body to make certain it was straight and she was comfortable. Then he switched off the light and they were once more off down the drive.
They had driven more than ten miles to the motorway and about the same distance on the M4 racing towards London and still they had not struck up a conversation. It was not a matter of uncomfortable feelings. Quite the contrary.
Arianne felt comfortable in the sports car and in Ben Johnson’s company. She snuggled into her waist-length denim jacket trimmed in the same coral-coloured suede as her skirt. Lined in black knitted cashmere, it felt warm and cosy. She liked sitting in the dark, the scent of the leather seats, the feel of the sports car racing over the tarmac, a man physically so close to her. And she liked Ben’s silence, the not having to make small talk. It had been so long since she enjoyed that particular sensation, the company of an attractive, sexy man, in the real world. It was a new and tempting perception for Arianne. She had been reliving her intimate life with Jason for so long that she had forgotten about other men, and that they might interest her again as they had before she had met her husband. At fleeting moments when she had been with Ahmad that morning at breakfast in Claridge’s, she had sensed that special kind of pleasure. But they had been
just that: fleeting moments that vanished as quickly as they had been sensed. Possibly because she had not, at that point, let Jason go. Had not been free to live and love again.
Ben Johnson flicked the indicator rod on the steering wheel, changed gears, and pressed down on the accelerator, as soon as there was a clear stretch of road. The 356B Porsche pulled out from behind a Rover and shot forward with speed and assurance, remaining for some time in the fast lane. The M4 was swarming with weekenders returning to London.
Ben had not been too thrilled when Artemis Hardcastle had all but shoved her daughter in the car for a ride back to London. She had been too quick for him to concoct an excuse to drop the daughter off at the nearest railway station with a through-train to the city. Not that he didn’t find Arianne attractive and pleasant. But he owned a fast car: he liked to make the run into London alone. Driving fast and smoothly, with all his concentration on the road, was always one of the pleasures of going to see his uncle. Ben had a passion for cars and driving. His father had had it, his uncle did still. In their younger days, they had raced in some of the more famous rallies around the world. That was now left to Ben, who had been a winner more times than not.
He felt Arianne’s presence, without it being thrust upon him. And that was what attracted him to her. Arianne Honey’s stillness was a luxury he had not experienced before in the many women he had known. Everything about her was calm and pleasant and beautiful. A presence he could enjoy. She cost little effort. No banal chit-chat, no having to play the Don Juan. Time off for a practised charmer with the ladies. He thought of her silence as a gift, or a thank-you note for the ride.
Ben liked the scent of her perfume – it provoked thoughts of other women and their Paris perfumes. It was nothing like Clarissa’s. She had worn Saint Laurent’s Rive Gauche until he had bought her a bottle of Cartier’s Panther, and then she never wore any other perfume. He tried to place Arianne’s perfume, because he did recognise it. Beautiful women he had known and their scent drifted in and out of his mind, but he could not focus the scent Arianne was wearing. They were now in the middle lane of the motorway. A huge lorry was overtaking them and they had a stream of traffic next to them rolling along on the inside lane.
Truckers fancy taking on a Porsche. The lorry’s headlights illuminated the interior of the car for a few seconds as it trundled past them, way over the speed limit. The articulated lorry stirred up a colossal slipstream that trapped the low sports car and made it shimmy and shake. But it was no threat; Ben had the car well under control even at the high speeds at which car and lorry were travelling. He stole a glance at Arianne and she turned her head to face him. The corners of her lips turned up in a polite smile, showing him there would be no hysterics about being sucked under the lorry. Then they were cast once again in the dark night.
Several miles on, Ben, not for the first time since Arianne had sat down in the car, stole a glance at her shapely legs when she changed position in her seat. He amused himself by trying to decide whether it was her sexy legs, a certain look in her eye, the way she walked, her body language the few times he had seen her, or something in her face, that told him that beneath that cool façade there burned a sensuous soul. He liked that, and thought how much fun it would be to uncover it. Ben Johnson loved women: revealing them to himself was the highlight of any chase. He liked to peel back their defences against men and love, to slide into their lives and make love to them. He had always had a penchant for illicit love affairs before he had married Clarissa Carr. He had seen it as his right as a carefree bachelor famed as a fast-living polo player and racing driver, and as a successful voice in the wine world, where his own vineyards in France were renowned, while those in California were respected. His enjoyment of illicit love affairs had enabled him to flee from encounters that might have flowered into commitment or marriage, until Clarissa had trapped him. His playboy reputation worked for and against him. It shadowed his marriage, with tragic consequences. He entered marriage without wanting it or the commitment entailed in it. He had been a selfish man, who had changed under the trial of his wife’s neurosis and the challenges he had accepted in the hope of making her happy. But she could never see or accept the changes in him. And in the end it was that blindness that killed her.
Why, he wondered, was he thinking about that while riding into London with a quiet, beautiful stranger? He didn’t often think about Clarissa and the miserable time he had had when
married to her. She had put them both through hell. Now that she was gone, he liked to remember her as she was when he first met her, a glossy beauty on magazine covers whom women wanted to emulate and men to possess. Anything else was too painful, and Ben was not one to suffer needlessly. That was what he liked about Simone Carrier – she was not into suffering. Not for herself, nor for inflicting it on others. Theirs was a happy-go-lucky love affair, a transient romance that suited them both. They respected each other’s infidelities, their selfishness, their fear of being trapped in a relationship they could not easily walk away from. They had fun and great sex together, and they told themselves that was all they wanted from each other. It had worked for them for nearly a year now.
Arianne pulled up the collar of her jacket and thrust her hand into its slanted pockets. Aware of her movements, Ben asked, ‘Are you cold?’
She shook her head, wanting to assure him that to be in a Porsche was comfort enough. ‘There is a heater,’ he told her.
‘Really, you don’t mind? Just a little to take the chill out of the air might be nice, but don’t even think about it if you’re warm enough. I am not uncomfortable.’