The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Darling, what is it? What’s the matter?’

  Her eyelids fluttered open at the sound of the beloved voice. The corners of her mouth tilted in the effort to smile. She was too tired to move. Too tired to speak.

  ‘Dr Serrado is here, sir.’

  The servants and Nancy left the room quietly. Only Ramon and Zia’s maid remained. It seemed an eternity before the doctor re-emerged with Ramon at his side. Again, unasked, she followed in his wake as he escorted the doctor to the corridor leading away from Zia’s private rooms. He had forgotten her existence. She remembered Boston and her father, and understood.

  The doctor departed and Ramon turned in search of her. She was there, only yards away, and his thankfulness was apparent. He took her in his arms and for the first time she had the sensation of giving solace instead of receiving it.

  ‘Dr Serrado says there’s nothing seriously wrong. It isn’t a heart attack or a stroke. She’s simply exhausted: physically and emotionally. She needs a long rest.’

  With his arm still around her, they began to walk back to Zia’s suite. ‘She’s been working sixteen hours out of twenty-four and at her age it’s too much. People don’t see it as work, but it is. Receiving people, hostessing, doing all the paperwork, seeing the hotel runs smoothly. Not going to bed till dawn. That staff and guests are happy. The only directrice Sanfords has is Zia.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘Villiers will take over the paperwork and our autocratic guests will have to adapt to a new hostess.’

  ‘But who? You’ve just said that Zia did everything herself. That she had no deputy and no one to replace her.’

  The familiar wicked gleam was back in his eyes as he paused at Zia’s bronze-studded door. ‘True, and even if such a person existed, she would be a poor replacement for my mother. To hostess Sanfords a woman needs brains, beauty, wit and charm. She needs to be at ease with royalty and government ministers, film idols and artists, millionaires and megalomaniacs. She needs to be able to scintillate and sparkle in a roomful of the richest and most beautiful women in the world.’

  He smiled his devastating smile. ‘She needs to be you,’ he said, and led her through the doorway.

  ‘Under the circumstances …’ Villiers was saying as they entered.

  Ramon’s smile vanished. ‘My mother is ill! If you have anything to say, say it to me in my office, later.’

  Villiers retreated with as much dignity as he could muster. The blazing anger in Ramon’s voice indicated that he was within an inch of being evicted manually.

  ‘Stupid fool,’ Ramon said under his breath, as he struggled to regain his temper for his mother’s sake. Villiers was usually superhumanly efficient and tactful. His mother’s collapse had obviously affected him. There could be no other explanation for his uncharacteristic behaviour.

  He neared the bed, leading Nancy by the hand. Zia lay sunken against her embroidered crèpe de chine pillow cases and, despite herself, smiled faintly. They were both so magnificent; both so beautiful; both so blatantly happy. They saw only the smile and not the pain behind it.

  ‘Nancy will hostess for you.’

  They stood together, already a team. Tessa would have been in his shadow. Nancy shone with a flame of her own.

  ‘Jack Cameron arrived this afternoon,’ she said weakly.

  Her son’s strong face was impassive. ‘Don’t worry about Jack Cameron. Don’t worry about anything.’ He had not told her he loved the woman at his side: he had no need to.

  Zia closed her eyes momentarily to summon extra strength. She had to tell them. It was her duty to do so. They could not continue to live in their Garden of Eden unaware of the serpent about to destroy their happiness with its evil and malignancy.

  She was too weak and besides, Villiers had shown her the cable. Boston’s mayor was on his way. He would deal with the situation. He would tell them.

  ‘Old sins,’ she murmured as she slipped into sleep. ‘Old sins …’

  They waited a few minutes and then, leaving Zia’s maid sitting at her bedside and a nurse sitting beside the door, quietly left.

  ‘If Jack has arrived I must see him immediately.’

  ‘We’ll see him together.’

  ‘No. I owe it to him to see him alone. Later, perhaps, we can all talk together though I doubt if Jack will want to. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about any more.’

  ‘I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to let you out of my sight.’

  She could feel the heat throbbing beneath her skin as his fingers touched her naked arm.

  ‘I must,’ she said, and turned from him before she could weaken.

  The man desired by countless women desired her. He loved her. It was a heady, intoxicating thought that filled her with wonder. She was no longer Nancy Leigh Cameron, or even Nancy Leigh O’Shaughnessy. She was simply Nancy: the woman Ramon Sanford loved. She knocked on the door of Suite 17 and at Jack’s brusque command, entered. He had been a stranger to her for years. Now he, too, faced a stranger. She had always been beautiful and poised: now she was radiant. A glowing goddess in a simple white dress, exuding sex appeal from every pore.

  ‘Hello Jack,’ she said, and closed the door behind her.

  He stared. He had expected to find her pale and showing signs of stress. From the moment of their Chicago-Hyannis telephone call, he had attributed her behaviour to a temporary derangement caused by the onset of an early menopause. Jack Cameron knew nothing about menopause, except how to spell it, but it was the only explanation his unimaginative mind could think of. He had lived with Nancy for eighteen years. He knew her. She was level-headed, sensible, as beautiful as a marble sculpture and as responsive. The idea of her acting recklessly was ludicrous. The idea of such recklessness being caused by sexual passion, an absurdity. Sexual passion was not part of Nancy’s make-up. He ought to know: he was married to her. He had half expected that she would be relieved at the sight of him, would welcome being rescued from her folly. He had already checked out two gynaecologists – one in New York and one in Washington. What he had not expected was to be confronted by a woman totally self-assured, showing not the least sign of stress or remorse and very little similarity to the woman he had last seen. The wife he had last seen, he mentally corrected himself.

  For one insane moment he had reacted to her as if she was a stranger and his reaction had been entirely sexual. It wasn’t a feeling he associated with his wife. Nancy’s cool, orchid-like beauty had been lost somewhere between the New World and the Old, to be replaced by a glowing lushness, like that of a full-blown rose.

  He said stiffly, ‘I’ve come to take you home. The inconvenience has been considerable. I’ve spoken to Dr Claire at the Haversham Clinic and he thinks it best that he treat you for a little while.’

  She had been going to move forward and take his hand. Instead she sat on one of the gilt chairs and crossed slim, sun-tanned legs. Naked legs. Her husband averted his eyes and smoothed down his hair and adjusted his cuff links.

  ‘Dr Claire is a gynaecologist, not a blood specialist.’

  Jack had forgotten all about blood specialists. He said testily, ‘I’m perfectly aware of Dr Claire’s qualifications, Nancy. I’ve spoken to him about your condition …’

  ‘What condition? I only have one and Dr Lorrimer is treating it.’

  He adjusted his cuff links again and toyed with the silver-backed brush and comb on his dressing table.

  ‘I’ve no desire to hurt your feelings, Nancy, but you are thirty-five years old and I’m assured by Dr Claire that such things do occur.’

  Nancy stared at him in utter fascination. ‘Do you mean that you really believe I’m suffering adversely from an early menopause?’

  He was glad that she’d said it. He found the word distasteful. ‘Of course. What else?’

  She began to laugh and a slow red flush stained his neck and face. He slammed the hairbrush down.

  ‘I fail to see anything amusing in this s
ituation. You’ve made an utter fool of yourself and you’re going to do so no longer. I’ve already ordered that your bags be packed.’

  Her laughter ended as she looked across at the man who was her husband. He was so rigidly formal. Even now he wore a dark suit, more suited to the Senate than a sub-tropical island. His hair was beginning to thin slightly and was immaculately slicked down with brilliantine. The regular, all-American boy features were blurring and losing their attraction. He was beginning to develop a jowl and his body was softening. Another five years and he would no longer have a waistline.

  She said without anger, ‘I don’t need the services of Dr Claire. I’m sorry you have come so far on a wasted journey. I did ask to speak to you before I left America. It was you who couldn’t find the time.’

  ‘I hardly imagined you’d go haring off, making a public exhibition of yourself!’

  ‘I told you exactly what I was going to do. I told you I was in love with Ramon Sanford and that I was leaving you for him. I also tried to tell you that I would do so in a way that would not jeopardize your career …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ His face was mottled. ‘I’m a family man! I want to be president. I have to be a family man! A beautiful and faithful wife is essential! Why else do you think I married you?’

  The words hung in the air for a long time. At last she said quietly, ‘I thought it was because you loved me.’

  He was struggling, one emotion after another chasing across his face: regret, rage, bewilderment.

  ‘I did love you, Nancy. I do love you. Now let’s pack your bags and leave.’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘No. You’ve never loved me, Jack. You married me because I was suitable and I imagine that you have been grateful for the fact that until now I have remained suitable. But gratitude isn’t love.’

  ‘Gratitude?’ he said exasperatedly. ‘You make it sound as if it’s a retiring speech. “We have been grateful for the services of …”.’

  ‘It is in a way. I’m not going back with you. I’m not going to be the public prop that will turn you into a family man for the nation to admire. You’ve never been a family man and you never will be. Family men spend time with their wives. They enjoy the company of their children. They care.’

  ‘I care, but I’m a very busy man!’

  ‘If you cared, you wouldn’t have needed a long line of mistresses. I’d have been enough for you. If you cared you would have had more sensitivity than to bring your current mistress with you when trying to recover a recalcitrant wife.’

  ‘Syrie isn’t …’

  ‘Of course she is.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’m tired of lies, Jack. I’m tired of pretending and I’m not going to do it any longer; nor do I want you to either.’

  ‘Then why lie about Sanford?’ Confusion had given way to anger. He was the one accustomed to being in control and Nancy, who always did as she was told, had somehow taken over. ‘You didn’t leave New York with Sanford. He didn’t sail on the Mauretania. You came here to make your stay more credible, but it’s a fantasy. A fantasy of a sick, frigid mind.’

  She halted, staring at him, her blood chilling.

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’ve always been a cripple in bed, Nancy. I know it and you know it. A man like Sanford wouldn’t look at you twice.’

  She said regretfully. ‘No. I’m not the sexual cripple Jack, you are.’

  He laughed again and poured a tumblerful of whisky, drinking it as if it were medicine. ‘Not me, Nancy. Not me. Let me tell you I’ve screwed more women than your pea brain can count. Sure I’ve had affaires. Sure I’m having an affaire with Syrie. I was having an affaire when I married you. I can make love anytime, anywhere, anyhow.’

  ‘You’ve never made love,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve coupled, but you’ve never made love in your life.’ And she walked away from him, out of the room and out of the hotel. She needed fresh air. She had expected a scene and some unpleasantness, but she had not expected to feel contempt for him, or pity. When he had said he had a mistress when they were married, he had been telling the truth. Her marriage had been a sham from the beginning. So many wasted years. She looked down to where the sea gleamed silkily in the moonlight. If it hadn’t been for Dr Lorrimer’s frankness, it would have been a wasted life.

  She turned in search of Ramon. Time was precious. There was a dinner party to hostess in place of Zia; a painting to finish and another one to start; a man to love and be loved by.

  Jack loosened his tie, swore and poured himself another tumbler of whisky. He felt as he had once done playing baseball when he had been smashed in the groin and left half senseless. His well-ordered, carefully structured world was falling to bits around him. She had always been amenable, always done what he had asked. The whole conversation had teetered from its planned course into chaos. Why the hell had he lost his temper? Why had he told her about Carline? No. He gulped the whisky. He hadn’t told her about Carline. He had only said he had had a mistress when he had married her. Hell! If she found it was one of her bridesmaids there would be no chance of her returning to America with him. The whisky seemed to be having no effect at all. The conversation was not at an end, of course. She would return with him in the Aquitania. They would finish the cruise. It could be quite pleasant. There had been something about her, as she stood before him, something he hadn’t been aware of for a long time, if ever. His sex throbbed. Had she seen? Had she been aware? Hell, she was his wife. Did it matter if she had? A reconciliation. He hadn’t thought of his coming for her as that, but now it seemed a good idea. He had booked a double suite on the Aquitania and a single one for Syrie. Of course, on the journey here, the double suite had been occupied by himself and Syrie. Hell. He drained the glass. There could be no reconciliation with Syrie in attendance: not now Nancy knew. Syrie would have to return to America direct.

  He was beginning to feel cooler now. Logic was taking over. She had discovered his affaire with Syrie and reacted by telling him she loved another man and was leaving him. It had been a bluff, of course, and he hadn’t risen to it. He should have done. He should have raced to Hyannis like Rhet Butler on his way to Tara. That was all it had needed. Now, thanks to his temper, it would need much more. She now knew that Syrie wasn’t the first. He’d tell her he’d been lying; that his pride had been hurt. What else had he said? His head was beginning to buzz. He sat down on the bed, the whisky bottle grasped tightly by its neck. He’d called her a sexual cripple. He groaned. That would take more than a few words to remedy. As for what she’d said to him … He stood up and the room swayed around him. She hadn’t meant it, of course. It had only been a form of self-defence. Nancy had always been clever with words. He would tell her he loved her. Why the hell hadn’t he said it before? He hadn’t said it, because it wasn’t true and he’d wanted to teach her a lesson. Make her feel ashamed at the trouble she had caused, cut her down to size. Christ! If ever he’d misjudged a situation, he’d misjudged this one. He’d always known there was more to Nancy than met the eye. He remembered the nakedness of her golden legs and the outline of her breasts and reached between his legs to ease the tightness of his pants. He never remembered seeing her like that before. She was always silk stockinged for the Washington parties and balls, or trousered for her long walks at Hyannis. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her undressed for years, and that he had been missing something. Separate bedrooms had been his idea. He needed a dressing room of his own, privacy. Besides, sharing the same bedroom was a middle-class convention, and whatever else he was, he certainly wasn’t middle class.

  He began to strip off his clothes. He needed a shower. He would go to her suite and apologize: be charming and loving. The Aquitania sailed in two days’ time. They could enjoy the delights of the Mediterranean and return to America without one rumoured word of a split being uttered.

  He turned on the shower and swore again. Shit. If one word of this leaked out he would not only have lost any chance of a future presidency, h
e’d have lost any chance of further government responsibility. Eleanor Roosevelt’s code of morals was notoriously tight. Nancy had to return with him. He towelled himself dry. He’d handled the affair badly, but it was nothing that couldn’t be put right. He should never have mentioned her age or Dr Claire. She had been jealous and he had done nothing to relieve her jealousy. He had been a fool. Well, he wasn’t going to be a fool again. Too much was at stake. He needed a stylish wife with class and breeding. He’d got one and he damned well wasn’t going to lose her.

  ‘How did it go, darling? Was she weeping and contrite or just completely deranged?’ Syrie asked, entering the room and slipping her arms around his waist.

  He shook her off irritably. ‘My wife’s sanity has never been called into question.’

  Syrie raised her eyebrows. ‘My, my, we are defensive, aren’t we?

  What’s the matter, darling? Was Miss Frigidaire more unreasonable than usual?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop referring to my wife by such stupid nicknames.’

  Syrie’s ice-green eyes narrowed. She lit a cigarette before saying, ‘You were the one who christened her “Frigidaire”. What happened?’

  Syrie was privy to his most intimate secrets – professional and personal. For once he had no wish to confide in her.

  ‘I blew it, thanks to you.’

  ‘Me?’ She stared, fine auburn hair parted decorously in the centre and rolled up and over in the nape of her neck. Her suit was pale grey, her shirt pristine white. She was the epitome of the perfect secretary. Only the exquisite cut of the Dior suit and the sheer silk of the blouse indicated that she was also something more.

  ‘You and your idiotic statement that Nancy was suffering from an early menopause.’

  Syrie suppressed a smile. She would have liked to have seen Nancy Leigh Cameron’s reaction to that remark.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told her,’ she said indifferently. ‘The truth can be hurtful. No woman likes to feel she is growing old and sexless.’

  Jack struggled into his trousers and glared at his twenty-three year old mistress. ‘My wife is not growing old, and she’s far from sexless.’