Mistress By Arrangement. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      ‘Maman,’ she acknowledged with resignation. Just what she needed.

      ‘Are you still in bed, cherie?’ There was a slight pause. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

      Seven, maybe eight, she hazarded, sparing a quick glance at the bedside clock before drawing a sharp breath. Nine.

      ‘You are alone?’

      Michelle closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘No, Maman. Two lovers have pleasured me all through the night.’

      ‘There is no need to be facetious, darling,’ Chantelle reproved, and Michelle sighed.

      ‘I’m sorry. Blame it on lack of sleep.’

      ‘I thought we might do lunch.’ Chantelle named a trendy restaurant at Main Beach. ‘Shall we say twelve?’ And hung up before Michelle had a chance to confirm or refuse.

      ‘Grrr.’ The sound was a low-pitched growl that held a mixture of irritation and compliance. She could ring back and decline, except she knew almost word for word what Chantelle would say as a persuasive ploy.

      Emotional blackmail of the nicest kind, she added mentally as she replaced the receiver and rolled onto her stomach.

      Lunch for her mother inevitably meant a minuscule Caesar salad, followed by fresh fruit, a small glass of white wine and two glasses of water. Afterwards they would browse the trendy boutiques, drive the short distance to Marina Mirage, relax over a leisurely latte, then wander at will through the upmarket emporiums.

      It was a mother-daughter thing they indulged in together on occasion. Michelle was under no illusion that today’s invitation was a thinly-veiled guise to conduct an in-depth discussion about her association with Nikos Alessandros.

      In which case she’d best rise, shine and meet the day. Routine chores and the weekly visit to the supermarket would occupy an hour and a half, and she’d need the remaining time to shower and change if she was to meet her mother at noon.

      Chantelle ordered her favourite Caesar salad, and mineral water, while Michelle settled for something more substantial.

      ‘Antonia and Emerson have insisted we join them on their boat for lunch tomorrow.’

      Sunglasses shielded her mother’s eyes, successfully hiding her expression. Although Michelle wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

      Chantelle had conversation down to a fine art. First there would be the pleasantries, some light humour in the form of an anecdote or two, followed by the main purpose of the meeting.

      ‘That will be nice,’ Michelle commented evenly.

      ‘We will, of course, be back in time to attend the Gallery exhibition.’

      This month’s exhibition featured an up and coming local artist whose work had impressed both Gallery partners. Arrangements for each exhibition were made many months in advance, and it said much for the Gallery’s reputation that they had bookings well into next year for future showings.

      Emilio possessed an instinctive flair for what would succeed, and their combined talents and expertise had seen a fledging Gallery expand to become one of the most respected establishments on the coastal strip.

      Invitations had been sent out to fifty patrons and their partners, the catering instructions had been given. All that remained were the final touches, and placement of the exhibits.

      Something which both she and Emilio would attend to this afternoon and complete early tomorrow morning. ‘Do you have any plans for tonight, darling?’

      Michelle wound a portion of superb fettuccine marinara onto her fork and held it poised halfway above her plate. ‘An early night, Maman.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’

      Did she? ‘You know how much effort Emilio and I put into each exhibition,’ Michelle said lightly. ‘There are so many things to check, and Emilio is particular with every detail.’

      ‘I know, darling.’

      Chantelle considered education as something important for Michelle to acquire. The private school, university, time abroad to study at the Sorbonne. Except she really wasn’t expected to do anything as a result of such qualification and experience.

      The Gallery had been viewed as a frivolous venture. Michelle’s partnership with Emilio Bonanno was expected to be in name only, something she quickly dispelled as she steadfastly refused to join her mother on the social circuit, confining herself to the occasional charity dinner or gala, much to Chantelle’s expressed disappointment.

      You could say, Michelle mused, that for the past three years her mother had graciously accepted that her own social proclivities were not shared by her daughter. However, it didn’t stop Chantelle from issuing frequent invitations, or, for the past year, indulging in subtle matchmaking attempts.

      ‘I think you’ve succeeded in making Jeremy jealous.’ Chantelle took a sip of mineral water, then set down the glass. ‘He wasn’t quite himself after you left last night. Has he telephoned you this morning?’

      ‘No,’ Michelle responded evenly. ‘I don’t particularly want to hear from him.’

      ‘Because of Nikos Alessandros?’

      ‘Nikos Alessandros has nothing whatsoever to do with it.’

      ‘He’s quite a catch, darling.’

      She chose to be deliberately obtuse. ‘Jeremy?’

      ‘Nikos,’ Chantelle corrected with a tolerant sigh.

      ‘As I have no intention of indulging in a fishing expedition, whether or not he’s a catch is totally irrelevant.’

      ‘Do you have time to do a little window shopping?’ Chantelle queried. ‘I really think I could add something to my wardrobe.’

      To give her mother credit, she knew when to withdraw. ‘I promised Emilio I’d be at the Gallery at two-thirty.’

      Chantelle savoured the last mouthful of cos lettuce, then replaced her fork. ‘In that case, darling, do finish your pasta. We’ll share a coffee later, shall we?’

      Clothes, shoes, lingerie, perfume. Any one, or all four, could prove a guaranteed distraction, and Michelle accompanied her mother into one boutique after another in her quest to purchase.

      An hour and a half later Chantelle held no less than three brightly emblazoned carry bags, and there was no time left to share coffee.

      ‘See you tomorrow, darling. Don’t work too hard.’

      Michelle placed a light kiss on her mother’s cheek, then watched as Chantelle stowed her purchases in the boot before crossing to slide in behind the wheel of her Mercedes.

      It was almost two-thirty when Michelle entered the Gallery. A converted house comprising three levels, it had been completely renovated. Polished wooden floors gleamed with a deep honey stain, and the walls were individually painted in several different СКАЧАТЬ