Renard felt completely at ease with Tanya; he could be himself without trying to observe social airs and graces which permeated his existence at Balleroy. At the same time he experienced an intrigue, a mystery, with Tanya; he strove hard to understand her views of life. He put more effort into his relationship with her than into that with his wife, Janine. Janine was of no importance to him; just a means to an end. He had no feeling for her. With Tanya it was different.
Soon after he and Tanya had embarked on their relationship, he had bought an apartment on the Rue Falguière, near the Gare Maine-Montparnasse. It was a simple one-bedroom apartment, not expensive, where he could stay on the occasional weekends or night when he could pretend he had to go to Paris on business. But it was regarded as strictly Tanya’s apartment: he had allowed her to furnish it as she wanted and invite whomsoever she wanted there, provided it did not conflict with his arrangements. The situation would not have suited most women but it satisfied Tanya; it freed her from having to earn a living so that she could pursue her interests.
‘Whoever makes the first airship crossing of the Atlantic will pick up a great deal of publicity,’ explained Renard, pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘And chérie, publicity ensures business.’
Tanya smiled.
‘It is important to you that your Charles de Gaulle becomes the first airship to fly, isn’t it?’
Renard looked serious.
‘Very important. If it doesn’t, then I shall be a pauper again. I will not have that.’
He patted the seat beside him and when she sat next to him he turned and took her face between his two large hands and kissed her softly.
‘I promise you, chérie, that I shall succeed.’
He frowned suddenly.
‘You did get your visa for tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, Charles. Everything is in order.’
His face relaxed. He knew how vague Tanya could be at times. He did not want the trip to Montreal to have any hitches. It was an important trip; a very important trip.
Chapter Thirteen
When the Boeing 747 landed at Kennedy Airport, New York, Tom Saxon was drunk. Not incapably drunk, but drunk enough for his slurred speech and slowness of response to be noticed by the stewardess. As she bade farewell to the passengers as they left the aircraft and walked down the covered gangway into the terminal building, she nudged the chief steward and nodded to Saxon’s unsteady gait. The chief steward grimaced imperceptibly, and continued smiling and thanking the other passengers for flying with the company.
The immigration officer, seated in his cubicle, took the landing card and passport from Saxon and flicked it open. He looked up and saw Saxon leaning against the structure of the cubicle, swaying uncertainly. The immigration officer sniffed. There was usually at least one passenger, coming off the long haul of the Transatlantic flight, who had succeeded in drinking himself into a semi-coma. Not that the immigration officer was teetotal but, Jesus! you should learn how to handle your liquor when entering a foreign country. He sniffed again and the waft of stale alcohol confirmed his suspicions. He checked the visa stamp slowly. He hadn’t really expected it to be out of order. He glanced at the landing card details and asked Saxon for his work permit.
Hell! The guy was an airline pilot, going to work for some company in Portland. He made a mental note not to fly with that company. Then he smiled charitably. Maybe the man had just been on a bender. Airline pilots worked hard and were known to go overboard once in a while.
‘Will there be someone to meet you outside, sir?’ he enquired politely as he stamped the passport.
Saxon frowned and tried to concentrate.
‘What?’
‘Are you being met, sir?’
‘Oh, no.’
The immigration officer heaved a sigh and signalled to a porter.
‘Tell Dave to process this guy as soon as possible, before he passes out. Get him to the lobby and into a cab, okay?’
The porter nodded. He knew the standard drill for anyone coming off a Transatlantic flight who had over-indulged themselves.
The immigration officer handed Saxon’s passport across and smiled automatically.
‘Hope you have a good stay, sir. Good luck.’
Saxon grabbed the passport and nodded.
The porter manoeuvred to his side.
‘This way, mac. Which is your baggage?’
Saxon swayed after the man to the baggage claim area where what seemed a myriad suitcases were whirling around at alarming speeds on a circular conveyor belt. He pointed and the porter expertly grabbed two cases as they rushed by.
‘This way, mac.’
He guided Saxon across to the customs tables. Dave, who usually dealt with ‘floaters’, the name given to inebriate passengers, was already processing a couple who seemed to resent his questions and his request to inspect their bags. The porter sighed. There was always someone who felt a customs office was an unwarranted intrusion into their private lives; they were usually people who had something to hide.
Across the concourse the immigration officer had processed two more people when he stared at the British passport he was proffered.
“Miss Ashton?’
He was looking up into the face of an attractive blonde.
‘Yes.’
‘It says on your documents that you are working for Anglo-American in Portland?’
‘That is correct.’
The immigration officer glanced across to where the porter was steadying the swaying form of Tom Saxon as they waited to clear customs.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said, turning back to her, ‘do you know a Wing Commander Saxon — he’s a pilot with Anglo-American?’
Claire Ashton shook her head, frowning.
‘I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t started to work for them yet.’ The immigration officer shrugged.
‘Sorry, it was just a thought, miss. That’s Wing Commander Saxon over there … ’ Claire Ashton looked in the direction he indicated. She saw a rather lean, handsome man, with an unruly mop of curly blond hair, standing supported by a porter. ‘As you can see, miss,’ grinned the immigration official, ‘he is rather the worse for indulging too liberally in the inflight refreshments. I thought if you knew him you might be able to keep an eye on him until he gets to his hotel or makes his connection to Portland.’
Claire frowned.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know him. You say he’s a pilot with Anglo-American?’
‘That’s it, miss.’
‘Well, I’ll see if I can help him.’
‘Thanks, miss.’
The immigration officer stamped her passport, smiled and wished her good luck with her job.
Claire gathered up her suitcases, placed them in a trolley, and wheeled it across to where Saxon stood, trying desperately to focus in front of him. He looked rather like a little boy, lost and pathetic, thought Claire. He was also a very attractive man, lean and blond. A bit like her father when he was younger.
‘Wing Commander Saxon?’
Saxon made the effort to turn, screwing his eyes up as he looked at her.
‘Who are you?’
His speech was rather slurred.
‘I am Claire Ashton. I work for Anglo-American. My father is Sir Ashley Ashton.’
Saxon tried to grin. The grin turned into a leer.
‘Have you been sent to meet me?’
The girl shook her head.
‘No; apparently we travelled over here on the same aeroplane without knowing it. I gather you are en route for Portland.’ The porter who was steadying Saxon grinned.
‘’Scuse me, miss, but this guy should be en route for a hotel and bed. He ain’t in no fit state to make the connection to Portland in his condition.’
‘What d’you mean?’ demanded Saxon belligerently. ‘Are you saying that I’m not sober?’
The porter gave a stage wink at Claire.
‘Ain’t implying anything, mac. But maybe this n
ice young lady would like to keep an eye on you until you get to a hotel, eh?’
Claire studied Saxon for a moment before nodding.
‘I’m staying over in New York tonight and flying up to Portland tomorrow. It will help break up the jetlag.’
‘Sounds reasonable,’ conceded Saxon stiffly.
‘Okay, mister,’ the customs official called Dave was waving him through.
The porter whispered ‘floater’, laconically. Dave sighed, checked Saxon’s passport and looked over his baggage. Then he glanced up at Claire.
‘Are you with this guy, lady?’
‘We’ve just met,’ said Claire primly. ‘But we are both employed by the same company so I’ll make sure he gets to a hotel alright.’
‘Okay, lady.’
Dave gave a cursory glance at her baggage and waved them through.
The porter escorted them outside the building and summoned a yellow cab. The large rusting vehicle lurched up and the porter dumped their bags inside. He grinned as Claire passed him a tip.
‘Where to, lady?’ demanded the driver.
‘Can you take us to a moderately-priced hotel on Manhattan?’ she asked.
The driver smiled broadly.
‘English, ain’t you? Want a cheap hotel? Okay.’
He threw the cab into gear and sent it speeding away from the terminal building like a frustrated racing-driver. He glanced into the mirror.
‘Looks like the trip was too tiring for your husband, eh?’
Claire looked sideways at Tom Saxon. His head was bent forward on his chest and he was snoring gently.
She smiled.
‘It seems to have been,’ she replied.
It wasn’t long before the driver deposited them on the sidewalk in front of the George Washington Hotel on Lexington and 23rd Street. He helped Claire in with the luggage and, having failed to fully rouse Saxon, half-walked, half-dragged him into the lobby.
Claire never reasoned out why she decided to book one room under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Saxon. She was impulsive and hardly ever questioned the reasons why she did anything. The man at the reception desk handed her a key.
‘Fifth floor, ring down if you don’t like the room,’ he said disinterestedly.
A porter helped her with both the luggage and Saxon.
They deposited him on the bed and he lay sleeping while Claire showered and changed her clothes. Then she went downstairs and found a small fast-food restaurant next door to the hotel and ate a meal. When she returned to the room, Tom Saxon was still deep in an alcoholic sleep.
She stood examining his face for a while. So he was a pilot with Anglo-American? She didn’t even know whether he was married. Was he a permanent drunk or was he just recovering from a once-off bender?
Well, she did not want to be alone; not alone in a strange country. She had no qualms about taking a room with this strange man if it meant she didn’t have to be on her own. She wished he would wake up, talk with her, but it was enough that he was there.
She began to haul off his jacket and trousers. She took off his tie and loosened his shirt, removing his shoes and socks. Then she struggled to get him between the sheets. He did not wake once.
Claire looked at her watch. It was only seven o’clock in the evening, New York time. That was midnight English time. It had been a tiring day. She locked the door, slipped out of her dress and slid between the sheets by Saxon’s side. There was something comforting about being in bed with a warm body next to you. She lay looking at him for a moment before turning off the bedside lamp and cuddling up to his recumbent body.
It was still dark when she was awoken by his movements. She was not alarmed, only excited as she felt his hands moving over her breasts and across the flatness of her stomach. She began to respond. They made love anonymously, in the dark, with only their physical selves as a connection. Then it was over. She smiled sleepily and whispered something but he seemed to have fallen asleep again.
When she woke in the morning, she found that Saxon was in the shower. She lay in bed until he came out, a towel around his waist.
‘Hello,’ she smiled.
He looked down at her quizzically.
‘Hello, er … ?’
‘Claire Ashton, remember?’
He bit his lip and looked abashed.
‘My memory isn’t all that good, I’m afraid. Oh … ’ he struggled hard to recall. ‘Sir Ashley Ashton’s daughter. Er, look, Miss Ashton … ’
‘Claire,’ the girl grinned at his obvious confusion and embarrassment.
‘Look, er, Claire … did I … did I … ?’
She gave a peal of merry laughter.
‘You were the perfect gentleman, Tom Saxon, apart from a tendency to fall asleep due to an excess of alcohol. No, it was I who brought you here and put you to bed and … ’ she grimaced in amusement.
He looked more bewildered now.
‘You did? Why?’
‘Because I thought you would make a damned good screw,’ returned the girl primly.
Saxon’s mouth tightened.
He was still quite inhibited about some things. Anyway, the blonde was young enough to be his daughter.
‘And did I?’ he asked sarcastically.
The girl sighed.
‘Not bad, I suppose. But I would need to conduct a few more tests before I could make an informed judgment.’
She chuckled as Saxon coloured.
‘You’re a bit of a prude, aren’t you?’
Saxon sat on the edge of the bed.
‘No. I’m just rather old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned?’ A hard look came into her eyes. ‘My father is old-fashioned. It’s just another way of saying that you want to dictate and can’t bear it when others make the running.’
Saxon raised his eyebrows.
‘It means that I prefer to do my screwing sober and I prefer to choose my own screws too.’
Claire lay back, hands behind her head, the action causing the sheet to slip so that her small breasts lay naked to his gaze.
‘Well, you’re sober now … ’
The invitation in her voice was unmistakable.
He couldn’t make her out. She was young and very attractive. There was no denying that. And she was Sir Ashley Ashton’s daughter! He didn’t want to blot his copybook with the company right away but … Well, it hadn’t been his fault. The girl was making all the running. She must be some type of nymphomaniac and …
He suddenly leant forward and threw back the sheet from her body.
She did not move; just lay watching him with a half-triumphant smile on her lips.
He bent his mouth to hers.
‘Yes, damn it!’ he whispered. ‘I’m sober now.’
Chapter Fourteen
Samantha Hackerman pressed the doorbell with a decisive gesture. The buzzer sounded faintly and she heard footsteps. Jules Keller, clad in jeans and a check sportshirt, opened the door and smiled warmly at her.
‘Right on time,’ he greeted her. ‘Come in.’
She stepped into the apartment and looked round curiously. Her first impression was of neatness to the extent that it did not resemble a normal bachelor apartment — at least not the ones she had experienced. The place appeared newly swept, polished and tidied. Books on the shelves were ranged in orderly rows, no book stood out from the others and each was placed in sequence of size. All the cushions were placed at appropriate angles on the chairs and couch. Nothing seemed to have been left casually lying around: the room had an unnatural, unlived-in feeling.
Keller shut the door and followed her in.
‘Let me take your coat,’ he said. ‘Would you like a drink? I’ve a wide selection.’
He motioned to a neatly-positioned cocktail cabinet.
She asked him for a Campari and soda. He took her coat, placed it carefully on a hanger and hung it with equal care in a cupboard. Then he proceeded to mix the drinks.
She felt a little guilty as she dropped onto t
he couch.
‘Did you tidy up especially for me?’ she asked, peering round.
Keller laughed disarmingly.
‘No. Most of my friends reckon I have a phobia about untidiness. I just like to keep the place neat and smart, that’s all.’
Samantha took her drink from him with a grin.
‘Well, I’ve known very few bachelors who keep their apartments this tidy,’ she said. ‘In fact, I haven’t known any.’
‘Yeah? Well I did say that I was married once, so I guess that excludes me from the usual run of bachelors, eh?’
He poured himself a whisky and tipped some ice cubes into the glass.
‘Here’s to us, Sam,’ he said, raising it.
‘Us,’ she replied, returning the gesture. After sipping the drink she asked: ‘Where are we going for our meal tonight?’
Keller smiled mysteriously.
‘To a place that is the very mecca of gourmet delights. A place where you can get the best French cooking in America. Chez Jules.’
She frowned.
‘Chez Jules? I don’t … ’ her eyes suddenly widened. ‘Oh, you mean … ?’
He walked across the lounge and opened a swing door which obviously led into a kitchen. A scent of aromatic cooking pervaded the air.
‘Tonight I have decided to put my culinary reputation on the line and cook you a meal.’
Samantha answered his grin.
‘I didn’t realise you added cooking to your other talents.’
Keller assumed a pose.
‘Ma’am, I am so talented that I bore myself. Electronics wizard, aeronautical genius, superb cook, expert tennis-player and lover and a wonderful all-round warm human being.’
Samantha chuckled deeply.
‘I’ll let you know my opinion of your talents later,’ she quipped, colouring as she suddenly realised the double meaning to her words. She had meant, after she had tasted his food, but … He saw her embarrassment and, smiling, sought to cover it up by excusing himself to go into the kitchen.
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