Acts of Love (20 page)

All was accompanied by trays proffering mountains of herb-scented, buttery rice, some laced with pine-nuts and sultanas, and pyramids of unleavened bread. The desert floor was covered with colourful kilims and cushions. Groups of instrumentalists played Arab music and singers alternated with dancers to entertain. Huge platters of fruit and sticky sweet cakes followed, and pots of coffee, whose aroma mingled with the roasting lamb and herbs to fill the night.

TV crews from Cairo, Paris, and London had accompanied the race from the start, sailing on one of the feluccas, though they had kept away from the
Osiris
. It was a grand spectacular, but for Arianne it paled beside her erotic journey up the Nile and the race of lateen sail-boats that had seemed somehow outside time and the real world. Neither Ahmad nor Arianne wanted that journey spoiled for her. They had agreed that she should leave on arrival in Luxor before the real world engulfed them again.

As soon as possible after their win they discreetly slipped away to drink champagne together in his suite of rooms in the Winter Palace Hotel, with its stunning view of the Nile, overlooking the finish. For the first time in days, they had time for themselves. They bathed together, caressed and kissed and incited each other to rekindle erotic feelings – feelings that still
felt good, but were somehow different, wrong even. They were both vaguely aware of that. Ahmad told her, ‘Second-best times have never been for us. It’s not because we are over, but because the journey up the Nile is.’ He said it with charm and affection.

‘I know,’ she told him with a sense of relief. He sat on the end of the bed and watched Arianne change into her Ralph Lauren clothes, the ones she had arrived in. Emotions were high for them. It was hard to tell what provoked them – the race? a parting? – and it didn’t matter. Rather than have what they had shared on the Nile together spoiled by words and uncertain meanings, they preferred to remain silent about what had passed, their parting, and the future.

Arianne and Ahmad kissed each other goodbye in the rooms, and then one last time on the steps of the Winter Palace Hotel. They descended the few remaining stairs and walked together arm in arm past the waiting horse-drawn carriages that taxied to and from the temples. They crossed the road that separated the hotel from the bank of the Nile. A sea-plane was moored, waiting to fly Arianne back to Cairo, where she would board a flight to London that was being held for her arrival.

The sea-plane’s motors spluttered into life. At the moment they were to part and Arianne was to climb on board, Ahmad pulled her back. ‘It’s been wonderful, you’ve been wonderful. I’ve missed you. For a time I thought this would never happen for us again.’ He seemed almost embarrassed telling her those things.

‘I didn’t know what to expect. In fact I didn’t think; I just wanted to come to you. And I’m happy I did. I’ll never forget these last eleven days, not ever,’ she told him.

‘Arianne, maybe these are our beginnings. A favour?’

‘Anything.’

‘Keep the ring. You don’t have to wear it. A keepsake, not a bond. A token of new beginnings, if that’s possible for us. If not, a bauble from a grateful lover for an unforgettable interlude.’ He slipped it on her finger for the second time. She threw her arms around his neck, and they hugged each other, remaining silent. A moment of deepest sadness came over Arianne. She had to force back tears. He was and would always be her sexual devil – she was as physically attracted to him as ever. Even at this last
moment on the quay she still wanted him erotically. Just being in his arms and feeling the warmth of his body, the smoothness of his skin, his very scent, was enough to excite sexual longing in her. But where was love?

LONDON,
GLOUCESTERSHIRE,
OXFORDSHIRE

Chapter 14

Arianne brought the cup of hot black coffee to her lips. The Fortnum & Mason coffee shop was usually an exercise in Mayfair gentility, with a clientèle of upper-class London shoppers, county ladies, and Jermyn Street-tailored art dealers reading the
Financial Times
. It was West End theatre without a playwright. Its stock company was the crotchety near-pensioner waitresses. After decades of serving the upper-crust they were arbiters of good taste, and terrific social snobs. They had their pets: Terence Stamp now, Rex Harrison once. They had seen it all, over years of smoked salmon sandwiches, champagne, game pies, chicken and mushroom tarts, and all the other delicacies the kitchens could provide for its clientèle.

Sleet was tapping on the windows, swirling round the corner and all but knocking at the doors. Few people had braved the weather. There were whispers from staff huddled together behind the serving counter, but hardly a word from the few people scattered around the room tucking into their mid-morning repast. Arianne amused herself with the idea that they were all in a Terence Rattigan play, waiting for the lights to dim and the play to begin.

She was waiting for someone to come through the street door in a flap of wet Burberry and dripping umbrella, and an icy gust of cold air. Arianne imagined the sound of an audience clapping for that person – the lead actor claiming centre-stage. It was almost too perfect when Terence Stamp did arrive, not through the street door but through the entrance that led into the ground floor and its luxurious food hall. Staff sprang to life as he took his usual table. Arianne had to lower her eyes and concentrate on controlling, her amusement. Was her play-script coming to life?

She was amused but didn’t dare look up, frightened that the
other members of the audience might attribute her presence there to more than a need of coffee and escape from the cold, driving sleet of a grey morning. They must not detect that she was there for a slice of life as much as for a slice of lemon-mousse pie.

Her lowered eyes watched someone refill her cup with steaming black coffee. She heard him say, ‘Does madam take cream or milk?’

His question, the tone in his voice, his playing the waiter in Fortnum’s coffee shop: it brought a smile to her lips and she raised her eyes to gaze into his. The recognition between them was immediate. Unmistakable. Her immediate reaction was to feel lucky and very grateful. Her heart was beating out all sorts of messages. She listened to them and it was a joyful thing, a great feeling. A glow came to her cheeks and she gave him an utterly charming laugh, covered her mouth with her hand to still it and shyly lowered her eyes again to break their gaze.

He felt unimaginably happy, that it was a serendipitous meeting. Her kindness was perfect, her veracity perfect, her relaxation perfect. On meeting her again this time, he was overwhelmed by a sense of her exceptional pleasantness. It was all there, energy and intelligence, expressiveness, the best voice, the best body, the best face, an infectious smile and laugh – dazzling.

His face was handsome and made blank for his role as bored, subservient waiter. He hardly looked the part he was trying to play, even with his props: the silver coffee-pot in his hand, the large, white napkin neatly draped over his arm. The black sand-washed silk shirt, red-and-black check braces and grey flannel trousers gave him away. The sensual, yet loving kindness emanating like an aura from him, seemed magnetically charged. It was drawing her to him. She tried to suppress a giggle instigated by his continuing in his role. But she managed that only long enough to say, ‘Just black, please.’ Then it escaped.

He finally abandoned the part he was playing and smiled at her – a smile filled with affection. ‘Hello.’ That was all he could manage.

Yet it was an intimate greeting that went straight to her heart.
She didn’t even try to hide the emotion in her own response. ‘Hello, Ben Johnson.’

Beyond him she saw the group of tittering silver-haired ladies in their firm-fresh Fortnum’s uniforms, men’s eyes peering over the tops of newspapers, women’s from under fashionable winter fur hats. Was it or wasn’t it a score? she could almost hear them thinking. Not Terence Stamp; he was buttering his toast. Briefly he gazed her way and gave her an amused look. He knew it was a score. ‘How did you persuade them to entrust you with that napkin and their precious coffee-pot?’ A little more control was in her voice now.

‘Years of generous tipping, and lots of charm.’ He too had somewhat recovered himself.

He placed the coffee-pot on the table and removed the napkin from over his arm. Ben liked the way Arianne was looking at him. ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating with his eyes and a nod at the chair that he would like to join her.

‘Oh, please. Please do.’ She drew the chair back for him.

Their delight in each other was interrupted. ‘I didn’t say you could keep the pot, Mr Johnson, or the service cloth.’ The waitress tried to act grumpy, but a twinkle in her eye gave her away. ‘Your jacket, Mr Johnson.’

Ben stood up and the short, plump, elderly waitress, after draping his brown leather coat over the other empty chair at the table, insisted on helping him on with the rust and chocolate-brown cashmere, subtle but frightfully elegant, tartan jacket. Arianne and Ben seemed suddenly to have been taken over by his co-conspirators. Another waitress arrived with a cup and saucer and placed it in front of Ben, along with a pedestal dish offering croissants, and a small pot of whipped cream. The white-haired waitress was obviously smitten with her long-time customer. She poured coffee for him and spooned a large blob of cream on to the surface. Side plates arrived. As if by magic a pair of silver tongs appeared, and with a flourish she attended to the croissants. ‘Our Mr Johnson does like his whipped cream.’ Then she vanished to her post behind the counter.

‘Alone at last,’ he told her with a broad smile.

‘Well, not quite.’

They looked around the room. People were pretending that
they were not interested in seeing what came next. ‘I did make rather a spectacle of myself. But I wanted to surprise you with more than, “Well, hello there, fancy meeting you here.” It just didn’t seem enough. I wanted to impress you.’

‘Well, you certainly have.’

He seemed delighted. As was usual with them, conversation then faltered. They were quiet and sipped from their cups. He broke off a piece of croissant and spooned some whipped cream from his cup into his mouth. Then he asked, ‘Have I really?’

‘Really what?’ she asked, delighted to be sitting next to him, to watch him. She was, as she had been on other occasions, warmed by his presence.

‘Impressed you with my performance.’

They were being flirtatious with each other. She kept thinking, Oh god, this feels so good; and he: The trick is knowing what’s important and what’s not. And she knows this is the most important meeting of our lives.

It was true, she did know that. Because she was a woman free of neuroses, anxiety, or the usual insecurities, she knew how important this reunion with Ben was. She accepted that, and that she had fallen in love. It made her feel quite giddy.

He reached down into her lap, took her hand and raised it, then lowered his head to kiss her hand. She closed her eyes. It was only for a second and a little sigh escaped her.

‘When I woke up this morning, it never occurred to me that I might fall in love in Fortnum & Mason’s. Why now?’ They were gazing into each other’s eyes as he said it. He still holding her hand.

‘Because love comes when it chooses,’ came the answer, and he was grateful he was in the right place at the right time to catch it.

The happiness in his face was a joy for her. She watched him throw his head back and laugh aloud, not raucously, but with a genuine glee that he was unable to repress. It drew the attention of his waitress, and he beckoned her to the table. ‘Two bottles of champagne, Miss Dulcie. Krug, vintage. One for this table and one for you.’

‘That’s very generous, Mr Johnson, but not necessary.’

‘Oh, yes it is, my dear Dulcie, yes it is.’

Suddenly it was all so easy for them. They wanted to talk and talk. Nothing was too important, too banal, too serious, too silly. ‘How was your Christmas?’ he asked Arianne.

‘Splendid. And yours?’

‘Really good.’

She told him about the Nile race. He told her about skiing in Aspen. Neither talked about Christmas lovers – not to be evasive, but because for the moment they didn’t matter. Ben and Arianne were too busy getting into each other: that wonderful time when after falling in love you want to crawl into the other person’s skin to find out who and what they are, and what and who – if anything – you can be to each other.

The champagne was followed by a second bottle and then smoked salmon sandwiches – many delectable smoked salmon sandwiches. Soon they were back on coffee, and tiny pots of chocolate mousse. Finally he asked her, ‘What made you come out on a day like this?’

‘Work.’

‘The books?’

‘You remembered.’

‘Yes.’ It surprised him that he did remember, not only her work but everything about her. She had registered with him every time he had seen her, but he had not taken her into account for love. Who had been looking for love? Certainly not he, neither those other times nor this morning when he had walked into Fortnum’s. Who chooses the time or the place, the person to fall in love with? Love dictates. And all his adult life his ego had demanded that he believe he was the one to make the choices in love. How had he missed it, the one truth? Love chooses. You do with it what you can. All morning, ever since his appearance at her table and that immediate recognition between them, he had felt as if he had found the other half of himself, that he had become whole as never before in his life. It had all but overwhelmed him. He had not imagined that one half of himself had been missing.

They were doing it again, as they had done several times before: lapsing into silence, looking half-inanely at each other. She was less overwhelmed than surprised that love should choose to happen to her again, that she should feel from the depths of her soul, once again, a oneness with another human
being that nothing in the world could separate. Ben was real, he was there, he was alive – and he was hers. She had to touch him. Feel the warmth of his body. Usually a woman who showed only a fraction of what she was or had, what she could be; one who believed that for her it was better to do nothing than to show too much of herself, or make too much of herself, she was unable to resist. She reached out and took his hand. She caressed it, turned it over and covered her mouth with it, kissing the very centre of its palm. Her face turned rosy and she lowered her eyes as she replaced his hand on the table exactly where she had taken it from.

Ben had never experienced such a profound gesture of love from any of the women he had believed himself to be in love with. Certainly he had never received such passion or love from his wife Clarissa as Arianne had imparted to him in that kiss. He realised that Arianne was and always would be more than he would imagine her to be – that she was unpredictable in the best sense, yet ever consistent. He saw her as a cool woman, always in control of what she revealed of her character. He realised now how right he was about that, while the fires that smouldered within Arianne Honey had now been confirmed by that kiss. A pure, yet sensuous kiss that told him, ‘Ben, I love you.’ It was so much more profound than the mere words, for the time and place she had chosen to say it in. Was he being fanciful? A tiny sigh with a tremor of passion in it escaped her. It was followed by a smile that had been kissed by the angels. He gazed into her eyes and saw sweet contentment, and that nearly brought tears to his own. No, not fanciful, just a man in love. Where had she been all his life?

‘What brought
you
out on a day like this?’ she asked.

‘A bottle of perfume. A friend’s birthday.’

Of course, she thought, there had to be a woman in his life. But strangely it didn’t matter to her; she knew it would be all right. He would make it all right.

He raised his arm and signalled for the bill, then abruptly stood up, taking her with him by the hand. ‘Come with me.’ He looked at the bill briefly, signed the tab and patted the waitress on the shoulder. With coats draped over their arms, they walked up the steps to the ground floor of the store and the bank of lifts.

In the perfumery Arianne discovered to her amusement that he was a man who liked to shop for women. He seemed to know a great deal about scent. He chose a large bottle of perfume, Patou’s classic, Joy, and an equally large bottle of Jolie Madame. When he had signed the bill and they had been wrapped and placed in small, elegant shopping-bags, he handed one of them to Arianne.

‘You really don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘I know,’ he told her, and kissed her lightly on the lips. He slipped his arm through hers and they walked to the lifts where he helped her on with her coat and hat, then slipped into his own coat.

‘Do you have to go back to work?’ he asked.

She began to laugh, ‘I haven’t been
in
to work yet. I seem to have been derailed along the way.’

‘Does it matter? Have I ruined something for you?’ There was concern in his voice, and she liked that.

‘Two weeks ago it might have been a problem. I had a boss to answer to then.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I come and go as I please, although I do work closely with my colleagues there. It was a sort of promotion. I tendered my resignation; they didn’t want to lose me; and although I wanted a more independent role in my work, I didn’t really want to leave and go on my own. You see, I am not very ambitious or aggressive. I am only just learning to be assertive. Artemis thinks I’m … well, it doesn’t matter what Artemis thinks. Now I work there as if I am working on my own, and deal with my clients and my discoveries through Christie’s. It suits me.’ Slipping an arm through his, she studied his handsome, open face and asked, ‘And you? Do you have to go back to work? What will your boss say?’