The Flower Garden

by Margaret Pemberton

  Syrie stared at him in amazement. ‘What’s been happening here? For the last three years all you’ve done is tell me how frigid and passionless she is. How you wished you could divorce her without damaging your future. Now all of a sudden you’re leaping to her defence and making her out to be an upper class Jean Harlow.’

  Jack was breathing hard as he buttoned his shirt. ‘Are you quite sure that Sanford did not accompany her when she left New York?’

  ‘Positive. Anyway, the idea of him and your wife as lovers is ridiculous. He’s as handsome as the devil and twice as dangerous. His women are all fast livers.’

  Jack adjusted his bow tie and slicked his hair, his face grim. He was beginning to think that Nancy would fit quite well into that last category. He said tersely, ‘It would be better for you to eat in your room tonight.’

  ‘What the …’ she began amazed, but the door had already slammed behind him.

  She crushed out her cigarette and lit another with a trembling hand. For three years she had managed and manipulated Jack Cameron. She had foreseen all events and she had the future carefully planned out. She had no real desire for Jack and Nancy to divorce. If they did so, Jack would no longer have a future of power to look forward to. She wanted to share that future. Already, she was indispensable. She had brains and ambition and her ruthlessness was absolute. Many women in history had been the true power behind royal thrones; she intended to be the power behind the desk in the Oval Office. Behind the American throne.

  She inhaled deeply. If Jack and Nancy divorced there would be no such future. If Jack no longer depended on her sexually, but was reconciled with his wife, there would be no such future. Nancy Leigh Cameron had to be made to come to heel. Syrie smoothed her skirt and walked through Sanfords’sumptuous drawing rooms on to the balcony where several couples and groups lingered over drinks before going in to dinner. She sat unobtrusively in a corner, ordered a dry Martini and listened. Nancy Leigh Cameron had been at Sanfords for over a week. Syrie needed to know what she had been doing in that time: she needed a hold over her lover’s wife.

  I’m faced with an impossible choice,’ Ramon said, a meaningful gleam in his eyes. Her hands circled his neck, her lips bruised from his kisses.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked in the soft, whispery, honey-filled voice that melted his spine.

  ‘Make love to you now and have you hostess in what you stand up in or deny myself the pleasure and allow you to change.’

  ‘My initiation as Sanfords’hostess would be a catastrophe if I were to wear this. You’ll simply have to deny yourself the pleasure. Until later.’

  They kissed again and he said, ‘The list for Zia’s private dinner party is on the desk. The Grand-Duchess Nadejda Livada is guest of honour. The other guests are Count and Countess Szapary, Mr Blenheim, Princess Louise, the Earl and Countess of Montcalm, the Sultan of Mohore and his rather incredible-looking companion, and the Lothermeres.’

  Reluctantly he let her go. She rang for Maria and glanced through the list. Against every name were biographical details. The bottom names had been crossed through entirely. They were those of Prince Nicholas Vasileyev and Samantha Hedley.

  Her dress was a Grecian swathe of tobacco-coloured silk, her only adornment her pearls. Her skin had a satin soft gleam, her eyes sparkled, her hair shone. Maria adjusted a fold in the softly falling skirt, sprayed her with perfume and stepped back to survey her.

  The hotel was full of rich and royal women but not one of them had a shadow of her mistress’s effortless beauty. Her pride in Nancy temporarily took her mind off Luis.

  Since their encounter in the laundry room he had not spoken to her, though he had seen her many times. Maria knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. She could sense it. She could sense too that he was waiting for her to make the first move, because she was a maid and Luis Chavez did not associate with maids. He would associate with her though, she knew it. But only if she gave to him what he received all too easily elsewhere and from the most surprising sources. Maria had no intention of behaving in a like manner. She was a good Catholic girl and her virginity was for her husband and her wedding night. All the same, his eyes when they met hers were bold and black and frankly appraising, and it was hard to remain indifferent and turn away coolly as if he did not exist.

  Viscountess Lothermere was still continuing her daily lessons and Maria’s quick eyes had noticed that when the viscountess took her afternoon nap, Luis was never to be seen. The viscountess also relieved her maid of her duties from one to three every afternoon. In the pool the viscountess seemed hardly aware of her coach’s presence, but Maria had her suspicions. There was another one too. An elderly Czech countess who summoned him to her side time and time again when sunbathing in a ridiculous dress that exposed grossly fat legs and arms.

  There was a knock on the door. Maria answered it to a bellboy carrying an envelope embossed with a coat of arms on a silver salver. She took it and handed it to her mistress. It read: I must see you. Vere.

  Before Nancy had refolded the letter there was another knock. This time a giant basket of orchids and birds of paradise and a note reading: I love you. Nicki.

  A husband, an ex-lover, an ex-would-be lover. Life was getting very complicated. Nancy put the letter and card to one side and as she did so there came a third knock.

  ‘Mr Cameron wishes to see you,’ Maria said apprehensively.

  Nancy glanced at the small, ebony-cased clock on her desk. She had ten minutes before she was due to receive Zia’s guests.

  ‘Please show him in.’

  Jack was already in. He glared at Maria and, at a nod from her mistress, Maria left the room.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to continue our previous conversation,’ Nancy said quietly. ‘I don’t want to hear any more about your mistresses, past or present, and I don’t want any more personal abuse.’

  ‘It was anger, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it.’

  Nancy knew the new tone of voice very well. She had listened and believed in it for years. It was Jack being conciliatory.

  ‘There haven’t been other women. It’s true about Syrie …’ He had decided there was no point in denying his affaire with Syrie. Nancy knew of it. She didn’t just suspect. To deny it would make everything else he said less credible.

  ‘And the judge’s wife in New York in 1919? And Fiona Rice in Washington in 1929, and Helen Jefferson in New York in 1931?’

  He could feel the sweat break out on his forehead.

  ‘If you knew, why didn’t you say?’

  Despite her intention to be cool and controlled her temper flared.

  ‘Because I thought it was my fault you went to other women! I thought it was something lacking in me!’ Her flare of anger and emotion released his.

  ‘And so it bloody well was! What did you ever do in bed?’

  ‘I tried!’ She had thought it was all in the past, all forgotten. Insanely, tears were streaming down her face. ‘I tried. I’d never been made love to when I married you. On our wedding night I was shy and apprehensive. I didn’t know what to do or what to expect. What I didn’t expect was that you would come to our room, disgustingly drunk, and order me to take off my clothes as if I were at a school medical!’ The tears had turned to sobs. ‘I didn’t expect to be hurt. To undergo some loveless form of examination that left me injured and bleeding! You never once, in the whole of our married life, tried to make sex pleasurable for me. You never kissed me, touched me for my pleasure, loved me with words. All you ever did was take. As if I was a whore in a brothel that you’d paid for!’

  ‘You’re out of your mind. You don’t know a thing about sex and bed and you never will. If I was such a lousy lover, how come I had the long line of mistresses that you don’t dispute? How come Syrie is mad for me?’

  Her anger fled to be replaced by pity. ‘They used you, Jack. They used you for your money, for prestige, or to make someone else jealous.’ She was about to tell him why Syrie was his mistr
ess, but stopped herself in time. He didn’t deserve that. Without her, he would need Syrie Geeson.

  ‘No way, Nancy. No woman has ever used me. You’re living in a fantasy world. Sure, you’re beautiful, but you’ve as much sex appeal as a cube of ice. The only knowledge of bed that you have comes from books. You’re frigid and passionless and no man worthy of the name would waste his time with you!’

  ‘I’ve always regarded myself as worthy of the name,’ a dangerously quiet voice said lazily from the doorway. Nancy gasped and Jack whirled round, the colour draining from his voice.

  Dark eyes studied Jack’s face, then moved slowly and insolently downwards. ‘I don’t, however, see one before me now.’

  ‘What …? How …?’ Jack was blustering incoherently, turning from Ramon to Nancy and back again as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘It’s true then?’ he spluttered at last. ‘You and Sanford? You and my wife?’ He lunged at Ramon and he was caught by the wrists, his arm twisted behind his back so high that Jack cried out in protest.

  ‘Yes, it’s true.’ There was no laziness in his voice now. Even Nancy felt herself chilled at the tone. ‘I’m in love with your wife. After hearing your opinion of her I feel not the slightest trace of conscience: only incredible amazement that any member of my sex could be so blind and stupid.’ He let go of Jack so suddenly that Jack stumbled, clutching his bruised wrists.

  ‘She has to come back with me,’ Jack repeated stubbornly. ‘I’m going to be president. I have to have a wife and no scandal.’

  Ramon laughed, this time with genuine amusement. ‘You’ll never be president. You couldn’t even govern a flock of sheep.’

  He held out his hand to Nancy. ‘Our guests are waiting.’

  ‘In a few minutes. I’ll catch you up.’

  His face was impassive. He didn’t bother to look at Jack Cameron as he left the room.

  Jack groaned, holding his arm. ‘Sonofabitch! The mother-fucking sonofabitch!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She stood a few yards away from him. She wanted to go to him: to offer assistance, but knew that if she did so it would be utterly rejected.

  ‘I told you when you were in Washington,’ she said again, feeling an overwhelming helplessness. ‘I told you I loved him but you didn’t believe me. You didn’t believe me because you found it incredible that any man would find me desirable. I don’t believe you’ve ever truly seen me, Jack. You’ve certainly never known me. I don’t want any bitterness. Despite what Ramon says, there’s no need for your career to be jeopardized. I can’t explain now because it would take too long and Ramon and the grand duchess are waiting for me. We’ll speak together tomorrow.’

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ Jack Cameron repeated, and turned away from her and towards the whisky decanter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nancy had never felt less like playing the part of a scintillating hostess in her life. She knew the reason for Jack’s uncharacteristic lack of composure and she knew it was not grief at losing her, herself. Only what she represented to him. Nevertheless, it was hard to turn her back on him and join Ramon in Zia’s private dining room. Silver gleamed on white napery. The name ‘Sanford’ was not embroidered on the intricately folded napkins or exquisite tablecloth, but woven into their centres, and surrounding the name was the crest of the de Gamas. Ramon’s father had taken the name of Sanford for financial expediency but he had never forgotten that he had been born the son of the Visconde de Gama, a minister in Queen Maria’s government and scion of one of the most prestigious families in Portugal.

  Afterwards she could hardly remember what had been said or taken place during the whole of the evening. She had felt like an actress, word perfect in her part, her mind elsewhere. For the first time since her collapse at the Metropolitan Opera House, she felt unutterably tired; completely drained of energy. It was the first recurrence of her illness since she had left New York.

  Countess Szapary, too, looked strained, but for different reasons. Georgina’s eyes met hers often as the meal progressed and there was sympathy in them. The little countess would have liked to make a confidante of Georgina Montcalm but her husband’s eyes were so watchful … She felt them on her again and began to peck dutifully at the salmon mousse.

  The grand duchess was as heavily perfumed as the Queen of Sheba, her short fingers hidden by vast rings, a Fabergé brooch emblazoning her vast bosom. Her personal footman stood behind her chair, white-gloved and gloriously liveried in scarlet and gold. She scarcely spoke. There was no one of equal rank to speak to. Szapary was a mere count. The Lothermeres, the Montcalms and Princess Louise foreigners. Mr Blenheim was unforthcoming and besides, exiled kings were below her contempt. They should stay and die in their countries as hers had done.

  The conversation was saved by Marisa, the Sultan of Mohore’s companion, smoothly blonde and soignée and dressed in clinging black crèpe that gave way to revealing net, from a position fractionally south of her breasts to a perilous line skimming her hips.

  Viscount Lothermere’s breeding deserted him. He gazed in rapt attention at every sinuous movement. His viscountess smiled distantly, her mind elsewhere.

  Mr Blenheim seemed not to hear most of the grand duchess’ remarks. Marisa’s navel showed clearly beneath the black net. It occurred to the ex-royal that a ruby or emerald would look very well placed in such a strategic position. He decided he would no longer play the part of a recluse. Europe would soon be shaken up like a giant jigsaw and, when the pieces were reassembled, it was quite possible that he would regain his throne. A potential reigning monarch had far more pull than an obscure Eastern sultan, however rich.

  ‘But how tragic to play the starring part in a film of the magnitude of Golden Dreams and not to see it screened,’ Georgina was saying, after Marisa had given them a racy account of her time spent in Hollywood the previous summer.

  Ramon grinned. He had heard about Marisa’s performance in Golden Dreams from Sonny. Sonny had said that the American public, or indeed any public, were not yet ready for the kind of love scenes that Marisa seemed unable to tone down. The film had been a joy to director, cameramen and male lead, but had ended up on the cutting-room floor, or would have done so if the director had not been foresighted enough to have retrieved it for his own personal viewing and pleasure. As an artist, when Marisa gave she gave her all. Sonny had not yet made her acquaintance but was looking forward to doing so. It would put Hildegarde back on her toes and that particular little lady was getting all too complacent these days.

  ‘A tragedy,’ Marisa agreed, a small pink tongue circling a peach slowly and lingeringly, before biting delicately into it.

  The viscount experienced an erection that nearly lifted the table, and blew his nose furiously.

  ‘But then,’ she shrugged slender shoulders and the lower half of pink nipples were momentarily visible as her dress shifted direction. ‘My life has been a series of tragedies. I lost my parents aboard the Titanic and was only saved by clinging to a crate of champagne.’

  Ramon’s grinned deepened. Marisa’s parents were alive and well and living in Minnesota. ‘My poor first husband died, shot through the head in a duel with a French count who was madly in love with me. When I vowed to leave my second husband, he was so demented that he threw himself from the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘He showed an abysmal lack of taste,’ the grand duchess said icily. ‘Only the working class commits suicide by throwing themselves from the Eiffel Tower. He should have chosen the Paris Ritz or Notre Dame.’

  ‘But he was deranged with love,’ Marisa said imperturbedly.

  ‘He was certainly deranged,’ the grand duchess agreed tartly.

  ‘What did you do after you left Hollywood?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Oh …’ Marisa was vague. ‘I went to England but the only eligible man was the Prince of Wales and the weather was so cold and damp that I did not think it worth my while to stay.’

  ‘How fortunate for the prince,’ Earl Montcalm said sotto voce to Visc
ount Lothermere.

  The Viscount was not listening: the net moved and shifted. Another inch … another fraction … If she raised her arm, reached for a grape …

  ‘To seek the sun I travelled to Madrid and it was there I found my true vocation.’

  The Princess Louise laid down her knife and fork. Surely the woman could not be talking about Holy orders. If so, she would write to the Pope.

  ‘And what was that?’ Ramon asked, aware that Marisa had found her true vocation at a much earlier stage of her life.

  Marisa’s eyes smouldered suggestively at the man rightly nicknamed The Panther. She had been alight with sexual tension ever since sitting at the same table as him. He was magnificent: his hair a curling black pelt, the lines of his mouth sensual – almost brutal. She shivered, seeing in imagination his nakedness: his granite-hard body, his broad shoulders and chest, his lean hips. She had heard about Ramon Sanford’s capabilities as a lover, but though there was a mocking gleam in his eyes when he addressed her, she sensed there was no desire there. It was strange: her eyes had told him of her willingness.

  ‘To be a matador.’

  ‘A bull-fighter?’ Even Charles Montcalm lost his British indifference.

  ‘In Spain I am known as one of the greatest of matadors.’

  ‘But isn’t it frightfully dangerous?’ Serena Lothermere asked with mild interest.

  ‘It is a matter of life and death. Every time I step into the ring and face the bull, it is a battle to the death. His death or mine.’

  ‘I etch,’ the grand duchess said reprovingly. ‘It is a much more suitable pastime. The Tsarina herself was remarkably talented in that direction and Queen Mary is also extremely accomplished.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Serena asked, a strange light in the back of her eyes.

  ‘Of course I’m afraid. Fear is the excitement. It is the edge which gives life meaning. Unless you are afraid of losing your life, how can you appreciate it?’