EIGHTEEN

LONDON—MARCH

“Lord preserve me from civil servants!” Alistair Duncan was walking along the sprawling corridors of the Office of Fair Trading. The Meeting to resolve a client’s advertising problems had been a waste of time. Limpet-like, the civil servant had stuck to his mandate; not a question had been answered, not an inch had been given.

Cocooned unreality left behind, Duncan joined the quickening pace of the commuter rush hour in a wet Chancery Lane. He steamed dry in the fug of the Central Line. Everywhere, there was numb resignation. Strap-hanging was a past, present and future. The Somerset hills seemed a million miles away as he surfaced to the roar of the Bayswater Road.

He wondered if Hélène had checked in at the hotel. His pulse quickened as he enquired at Reception. Yes, she had arrived.

He quickly showered and changed before knocking on her door.

“Qui est là?”

“Room service.” Hélène’s beautifully delicate features appeared. She looked stunning in a simple but fashionable outfit. For a second she looked puzzled and then she flung her arms around him, crushing the posy of flowers which he had bought downstairs. They stumbled into her room. The door closed.

The taxi purred into the wet darkness of Charlotte Street as the couple entered L’Etoile Restaurant, heavy with its whispered reminders of a life-style long past.

Seated at their table they were enveloped in an immediate intimacy of atmosphere which drew them closer together. It had been difficult in the hotel.

From the arrival of menus and Camparis the hands held across the table took on a special meaning. Tongues were loosened and there was so much to discuss. It wasn’t until the arrival of the coffee and vintage port that Duncan would even talk about Goodhart’s case. Then he recounted the strange journey through Northern France and the dangers which he had faced on the boat.

“And will you win the case? You certainly deserve to, mon chéri.”

“Maybe. We have got some good evidence now. Bouchin is going to have a rough ride in the witness box. He won’t like being questioned about his détour to see the girl at Vitré. It was incredible to find that the demure young girl of the photograph had become the pin-up girl.”

“Jealous?” She commented, moving her head closer. She tapped him on the nose. “Aleestair, you are jealous.”

“Me? You must be joking, she was as subtle as a naked light bulb and likely to end up the same shape the way she spends her afternoons!”

“And me … Am I your type, Monsieur?”

“Bien sûr.” Their eyes met for a moment. “Shall I get the bill now?” She nodded, clasping his hand tightly, her leg nestling against his under the table.

On the hotel’s eighth floor, Duncan recalled his doubts at La Rochelle, when he had tried to judge Hélène’s intentions. He had no such doubts this time. Nothing had been said, nothing implied. Yet to share her room seemed the most obvious and natural thing. They went in together and stood by the window. Across the Park they could see Big Ben.

“Must be striking midnight,” Duncan said, looking at his watch.

“It’s the most timeless clock in the world,” she replied. “It’s a symbol. Probably the symbol of stability in England. Your country lurches from crisis to crisis, yet, whatever happens, that old clock reminds the world that times can change, but still leave dignity.”

“Remind me to buy you a post card of it,” Duncan laughed. She pushed him playfully.

“Don’t you take anything seriously?”

“It has been known.” He pulled her close and their lips met, her head arched back to meet him. His arms searched under her coat and helped her ease it off. He found her body warm, vibrant and comfortable. In turn, her hands were running up and down his spine, sending alarmingly potent messages in all directions.

It was all so gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing hasty, for, after all, they had waited a long time. Every second of seduction was savoured, every inch of exploration was a journey. When at last they were both naked, Duncan swung his arms under her legs and carried her to bed.

“Shouldn’t we shut the curtains?” She asked.

“Pigeons can’t see in the dark,” he replied. He didn’t really know—or care.

For the lovers, anonymous in the weekend City, pleasures were simple. They enjoyed the park, the establishment shops of St James’ and the labyrinth of Shepherd’s Market. On Saturday night they went to the Villa Dei Cesari. The food and the Thames were at their best as they planned for the next day.

Sunday was tinged with sadness knowing that Monday would be there when they awoke. Parting in that chilly dawn was painful. One fevered embrace and promise for the future followed another, yet it was only 6.15 when Duncan left the warmth of Hélène’s nakedness to drive back to Bristol. It was later than he had intended; sooner than he wanted. Somehow the prospect of the week ahead seemed less appealing than usual.