by Anne Weale
Actually, apart from Mrs Nicholson, Chiara and Pierce, everyone had either roared with laughter or been convulsed with giggles. But he hadn’t seen the joke. She could still remember the icy look in his eyes and the unamused set of his mouth.
The demonstration held everyone mesmerised by the clever way in which, with unpromising materials, Marisa Challoner created an arrangement worthy of a luxurious drawing room. As she worked, she chatted about her most exciting commissions. The five-hundred-pound bouquet to be sent to a film star. The recording star’s lavish wedding for which, out of a million-dollar budget, a hundred thousand dollars had been allocated for flowers. The summer cruise in a millionaire’s private yacht which she had been asked to decorate with flowers worthy of the haute couture clothes worn by the guests for dinner.
It was when, at the end of her talk, Mrs Challoner looked round the room and asked, ‘Any questions?’ that Holly forgot about keeping a low profile and was one of the people to raise a hand.
Before she had time to reconsider this rash act, she had caught Mrs Challoner’s eye.
‘Yes, what’s your question?’
Stating it, Holly knew she was now engaging the attention of the one person in the room whose notice she had wanted to avoid. Increasingly aware of a pair of ice-chip grey eyes focused on her face, she scarcely heard a word of Mrs Challoner’s answer to her query.
When, during the next question, she sneaked a quick glance at Pierce, he was still watching her. As their eyes met, he inclined his head, a clear signal that he had recognised her and would come over when the proceedings finished.
A succession of eager questions gave her ten minutes to brace herself for the encounter. She wondered what he would say. Perhaps he would ask about Chiara. As photographs of her stepsister were often in the gossip sections of the glossies and the tabloids, he could hardly fail to know that his affair with her had led on to other relationships of an equally ephemeral nature. In Holly’s opinion he had set Chiara on the road to her present life of reckless pleasure-seeking with other people picking up the bills. Most of them older men. Some of them married.
Holly was repelled by her stepsister’s way of life. It caused her almost as much pain as if Chiara were hooked on drugs. They had argued abut it endlessly, Chiara refusing to see why she shouldn’t make the most of her one asset, her looks.
Around her, people were putting on coats and agreeing it had been a fascinating experience, well worth the cost.
‘It’s been a long time,’ said Pierce, looming over her. ‘How are you, Holly?’
She was astonished that he remembered her name, even if it was an unusual one. ‘I’m well... And you?’ she responded, with frigid politeness.
‘Very well, thanks. Are you living in London now?’
‘I came up specially for this. I’m based in Norfolk.’
‘Are you married?’
She shook her head.
‘Working?’ he asked.
‘I’m a garden designer.’
‘It must be a satisfying job...providing you can get enough commissions to keep you going. Has the economic downturn been hard on you? Or do you work for a firm sufficiently well-established to survive the hard times?’
‘I work for myself. I’m surviving. How about you? Still wheeling and dealing?’ She couldn’t disguise her contempt for a life spent manipulating the profits of other people’s hard work.
‘You could say that. Not quite in the same way as when Chiara and I were together. How is she? Still a playgirl, or has she settled down now?’
‘It was you who made her a playgirl.’ Holly hadn’t meant to start a row with him here, but his casual enquiry riled her, reviving the impotent animosity she had felt towards him before.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Pierce said equably. ‘Chiara had several amorous adventures before I came on the scene. A girl with her looks was bound to attract a lot of men. She knew the score. You were the one with romantic illusions about life.’
There being no one close to them, she said in a low, angry voice, ‘Considering we hardly spoke to each other, I consider that statement a bloody impertinence.’
It was rare for her to use swear words, but the bold way he had confronted her, as if expecting a welcome, made her furious. She longed to cut him down to size.
He said, ‘Chiara often talked about you. She was worried that you would be hurt...that you weren’t equipped to cope with people who didn’t share your ideals. She felt losing your mother very young, and then your father, had made you vulnerable. I didn’t agree. I thought you sounded tougher than you looked.’
‘Streetwise enough to see through you,’ she retorted. ‘I knew you would ditch Chiara as soon as she began to bore you. I didn’t like you then, Mr Sutherland, and I don’t want to know you now. I’m amazed you have the gall to approach me. If you had a shred of conscience, you would have slunk out of here with your tail between your legs.’
Then, as she was about to add a frosty ‘Excuse me’ his Japanese friend appeared at his elbow. Speaking perfect English with hardly any accent, she said, ‘I am ready to leave when you are, Pierce. Perhaps we can give a lift to your friend. They say it is raining outside now.’
When Pierce introduced them, politeness forced her to mask her annoyance with him while she spoke to Mrs Shintaro.
‘Did you come here by car or taxi, Miss Nicholson?’ the older woman enquired.
Holly was tempted to lie. But if it was raining heavily she didn’t want to get soaked looking for a cruising taxi in an area where there might not be many, if any, for hire.
The previous afternoon she had been to the Bankside Gallery to see an exhibition of paintings of gardens. It, too, was south of the river, on the far side of Blackfriars Bridge. Afterwards, outside the gallery, an elderly lady walking with the aid of sticks had been almost in tears because of the dearth of taxis to take her back to the West End. Afraid of being mugged, she had begged Holly to stay with her. When, after a long wait, a taxi had finally appeared, she had insisted on giving Holly a lift in it. Now, in spite of her reluctance to prolong the encounter with Pierce, perhaps it made sense to accept a lift in Mrs Shintaro’s limousine.
Five minutes later, sharing the back seat of the limousine with Mrs Shintaro while Pierce sat beside the driver, Holly was glad she had. The rain was bucketing down, and as they crossed Vauxhall Bridge she saw a pedestrian’s umbrella blown inside out by the wind gusting down the river.
‘It was kind of Pierce to come with me for, although I speak English well, with any technical subject there are always unfamiliar terms,’ said Mrs Shintaro. ‘He is a brilliant linguist and, as you may have noticed, was a great help to my compatriots whose English was not very good.’
‘I thought it brave of them to come. What did they think of the demonstration?’ Holly asked. ‘Mrs Challoner’s way of doing flowers is so different from ikebana.’
‘You know about ikebana?’ Mrs Shintaro looked surprised.
‘I don’t know much,’ said Holly. ‘Only what I read in a book by Shusui Komoda.’
Pierce turned to join the conversation. ‘Holly tells me she’s now a garden designer, Fujiko. The last time we met, five years ago, she was at college and I was dating her sister who is two years older.’
‘You make it sound like a boy-and-girl romance,’ Holly said coldly. ‘It wasn’t like that and you know it. You were thirty to her twenty-one, and you seduced her.’
She hadn’t meant to revile him in front of Mrs Shintaro and the driver, but the angry accusation came out before she could stop it.
‘I didn’t seduce her,’ Pierce said calmly. ‘That was done in the back of a car by some upstanding young guy called Matt, or it may have been Mike. He enjoyed it. She didn’t...and for a fortnight afterwards she went through hell, thinking she might be pregnant. With me she knew where she stood, she had a good time and she ran no risk of pregnancy.’ Smiling slightly, he turned to the older woman. ‘I hope these intimate details don’t s
hock you, Fujiko, but this may be my only chance to correct Holly’s misapprehensions.’
‘I have lived in the West too long to be shocked or surprised by anything,’ she said mildly. ‘Is it true you treated your girlfriends unkindly when you were younger?’
‘On the contrary, I was exceptionally nice to them. If you were to ask Chiara, I’m sure she’d tell you she had a very good time with me. We went to the Seychelles together. I gave her a Cappuchino sports car. We attended a lot of parties where she could show off the clothes charged to my account. Just before we called it a day, I bought her a ring she wanted.
‘Chiara never gave me any presents,’ he added drily. ‘Except herself, of course. But apart from her face and her body she didn’t have much to offer. Her general knowledge was limited. She had very few opinions. It was like making conversation with a rather dim fifteen-year-old. She may have improved since then, but five years ago I found her seriously boring.’
‘That’s vile of you,’ Holly exploded. ‘I’ve never heard a more disgusting example of blatant MCPiggery.’ She turned to the woman beside her. ‘You may not know the expression. MCP means male chauvinist pig and Pierce has to be the king of them. Would you please ask your driver to stop and let me get out? Another minute in this car and I’m liable to lose my temper.’
‘No, no, it’s raining too hard. You will be soaked to the skin,’ said Mrs Shintaro. ‘I have a better idea. We will all go to my apartment where you two can quarrel in private and get to the bottom of this matter. For I have to tell you, Miss Nicholson, your description of Pierce does not match my knowledge of him. My late husband, who was a good judge of character, thought very highly of Pierce. He has qualities not often found in Americans and Europeans. Whatever happened with your sister was some time ago. He would not treat her badly now. Of that I am certain.’
Ignoring Pierce and forcing herself to speak quietly, Holly said, ‘I’m sorry you’ve been involved in this clash between us. It was bad luck our paths crossed again. But I’m sure Pierce couldn’t care less what I think of him. I don’t like him and never shall. If your husband did and you do, then I hope he won’t ever let you down.’
Diplomatically changing the subject, Mrs Shintaro said, ‘I’m interested to hear you are a garden designer. England and Japan are both famous for their gardens, although, of course, they are very different in style. Where did you train for your profession?’
It was difficult to resist the warmth of her interest. She fixed her liquid dark eyes on Holly’s face as if she were genuinely eager to have her question answered.
‘I took a course at Denman’s,’ said Holly. ‘It’s a beautiful garden in Sussex where a well-known gardening writer has set up a school of garden design. After I’d got my diploma, I won a national competition for garden design and that led to two commissions. In the early stages, there’s a lot of luck involved. But I had secretarial skills to fall back on if things went badly. I could always earn my living as a temp. That’s someone who does office work on a temporary basis,’ she explained.
‘You sound very practical and sensible, but you must also be artistic. All the great gardeners are artists. Who has inspired you? Whose work do you most admire?’ asked Mrs Shintaro.
This was a difficult question to answer without knowing how much, if anything, the Japanese woman knew of the history of English gardening and its most famous practitioners. But it sooned emerged that Fujiko Shintaro was far more knowledgeable than a great many English people and had visited many of the finest gardens in Europe.
Their conversation flowed with unexpected smoothness. Had it not been for Pierce’s presence, Holly would have relaxed and enjoyed talking to one of the most interesting people she had ever encountered. She had always been drawn to the Japanese and sensed that in Mrs Shintaro she was privileged to meet someone special from whom, in other circumstances, she could have learnt much of value to her.
It seemed the liking was mutual, for, when the car drew up outside a canopied doorway in an elegant street not far from Grosvenor Square, Mrs Shintaro said, ‘If you are not in a hurry, I would like you to see some paintings in my apartment. My driver will take Pierce home now and when we have finished talking he will take you wherever you wish to go.’ To Pierce she added, ‘We shall see each other at Catrina’s opening on Friday. Thank you for coming with me this morning.’
He turned to her, smiling. ‘It’s always a pleasure to be with you, Fujiko.’ His smile disappeared as he focused on Holly. ‘Give my regards to Chiara when next you see her. I should be surprised if she shares your feelings about me. Try to be less judgemental, Holly. The first time we met, I liked you very much. Now you seem rather priggish...not an attractive characteristic.’
His sardonic tone made her livid. For the first time in her life, she experienced a powerful impulse to apply her fist to someone’s face with all the force she could muster.
But Mrs Shintaro was already alighting from the car. Repressing her anger, Holly moved along the seat to be ready to step out after her.
When Pierce said, ‘Goodbye,’ she ignored him.
Fujiko Shintaro’s penthouse apartment was the most luxurious place Holly had ever seen.
‘Before I take you on a tour of my pictures, let’s have some coffee, shall we?’ her hostess suggested. ‘But first you may like to wash your hands.’
She took Holly to a beautifully appointed cloakroom and left her to take off several layers of clothing made unnecessary by the central heating.
Among the many works of art which Holly saw during her time at the flat, one she particularly liked was a large bronze hand embellished with an elaborate bracelet or cuff and having a strange design engraved on the palm.
‘Is this Japanese?’ she asked, admiring it where it stood, the palm upturned, on a tabletop of thick glass.
‘No, that was found in Nepal by my grandson,’ said Mrs Shintaro, smiling. ‘He has fallen in love with the mountains of the Himalaya. He noticed the hand in a Nepalese market. It was being used as a container for screws. He thought I would like it and bought it for me. It is one of my dearest possessions because he and I are very close. His mother was my youngest daughter. She married an American. They both were killed in a tragic accident when Ben was only eight years old. I did my best to comfort him and later, when I lost my husband, he did the same for me. It was through him that we met Pierce, who has a similar hand he also found in Nepal.’
When Holly made no comment, she went on, ‘Pierce is also mad about mountains. With some men, they are a passion as powerful as love or religion.’ She paused. ‘If your sister doesn’t feel any anger towards Pierce, why must you dislike him so strongly, Holly? Anger is a corrosive emotion. To hate someone for a long time is not good for the soul.’
‘I haven’t done that,’ said Holly. ‘Until today I had almost forgotten his existence. I was angry years ago, but you can’t boil with rage indefinitely. The fact remains that even if he wasn’t the first, it was Pierce who made Chiara realise her beauty was...well, to put it bluntly, a marketable commodity. Since her affair with him, her life has been a succession of liaisons with rich men. She doesn’t love them. She uses them, the way Pierce used her. Wouldn’t you feel as I do if he had done that to your daughter?’
Mrs Shintaro nodded. ‘I’m sure I should feel very angry. How did your parents react?’
Holly explained that Chiara had only one parent—a mother not noted for her wisdom. When she had filled in their background, she said, ‘Perhaps Pierce is a split personality who lives the way bigamists do, keeping different aspects of himself in separate compartments. He may not parade his girlfriends in front of his other friends.’
‘It’s possible, but I doubt it. He appears to have an unusually open nature. He often says things other people find shocking...as he did this morning. He was very frank about his relationship with your sister.’
‘Egotistically frank!’ said Holly. ‘He sounded proud of himself...as if giving Chiara a car and
taking her to the Seychelles made everything all right. The man has no morals at all. To him, women are commodities, not equals.’
‘My views on equality are naturally different from yours,’ said Mrs Shintaro. ‘We are of different generations and cultures. All I can say is that to earn Pierce’s respect a young woman would have to have exceptional qualities, because he—’ She broke off as her Japanese manservant entered the room. He bowed before delivering a message.
Mrs Shintaro answered him in Japanese before turning back to Holly. ‘My butler has reminded me that I have a luncheon engagement, which will be a great deal less enjoyable than lunching with you. However, I hope there’ll be other opportunities. Do you come to London often?’
‘I sometimes stay with my sister when she’s at a loose end. She could come and stay with me, but she isn’t keen on the country,’ said Holly as they crossed the room.
‘I should like to meet you again,’ said her hostess. ‘I’m interested in young people and especially in those, like yourself, who have chosen unusual careers. If you’ll write your address in my visitors’ book, we can keep in touch.’
On the train back to Norfolk, Holly wondered what Fujiko Shintaro would have said about Pierce had her butler not intervened.
She spent most of the journey thinking about him and about the old saying that a leopard never changed its spots. Anyway, just because their paths had crossed this morning, it didn’t mean they would do so again. His world and hers were poles apart. Nor did she think it likely that Mrs Shintaro would keep in touch with her.
Remembering her mention of her grandson, Holly wondered what Ben was like. Often people with mixed blood were exceptionally good-looking, combining the most attractive features of both the races in their genetic make-up. Having American blood in him, he would probably be much taller than his mother and his grandparents, but perhaps retain the subtle ebony-ivory colouring that Holly had always found attractive, especially in babies—dear little solemn-faced bundles who, when sometimes she passed one in a pushchair, she felt an impulse to scoop up and cuddle.
