The Constant Gardener

"You are the matter, Sandy," Gloria retorted fearsomely. "I want no circumlocutions, please. No diplomatic sweet-talk, thank you. No courtesies of any kind. We're both grownups. Did you, or did you not, have an affair with Tessa Quayle? I warn you, Sandy. I know you very well. I shall know immediately if you're lying."

"No," said Woodrow simply. "I didn't. Any more questions?"

"Were you in love with her?"

"No."

Stoical under fire like his father. Not budging an eyebrow. The Sandy she loved best, if she was honest. The kind of man you know where you are with. I'll never talk to Elena again.

"Did you make up to Ghita Pearson while you were dancing with her at Elena's party, or not?"

"No."

"Elena says you did."

"Then Elena's talking bilge. What's new?"

"She says Ghita left early in tears because you pawed her."

"Then I assume Elena is pissed off because I didn't paw Elena."

Gloria had not expected such straight, unequivocal, almost reckless denials. She could have done without "pissed off," and she'd just stopped Philip's pocket money for saying it, but Sandy might be right all the same. "Did you stroke Ghita — feel her up — did you press yourself against her — tell me!" she shouted, and gave way to a burst of tears.

"No," Woodrow replied again, and made a step toward her, but she brushed him aside.

"Don't touch me! Leave me alone! Did you want to have an affair with her?"

"With Ghita or Tessa?"

"Either of them! Both of them! What does it matter?"

"Shall we take Tessa first?"

"Do what you want!"

"If you mean by "affair" go to bed with her, I'm sure the idea occurred to me, as it would to most men of heterosexual appetite. Ghita I find less appealing, but youth has its attractions, so let's throw her in too. How about the Jimmy Carter formula? "I committed adultery in my heart." There. I've confessed. Want a divorce or can I have my Scotch?"

By which time she was doubled up, weeping helplessly with shame and self-loathing, and begging Sandy to forgive her because it had become horribly obvious to her what she had been doing. She had been accusing him of all the things she had been accusing herself of ever since Justin slipped into the night with his suitcases. She had been working out her guilt on him. Mortified, she hugged herself and blurted, "I'm so sorry, Sandy," and "Oh Sandy, please," and "Sandy, forgive me, I'm so awful," as she struggled to release herself from his grasp. But Sandy by now had an arm round her shoulders and was helping her up the stairs like the good doctor he should have been. And when they reached the drawing room she gave him the key to the drinks cupboard and he poured a stiff one for both of them.

Nonetheless the healing process took its time. Suspicions so monstrous are not laid to rest in a day, particularly when they echo other suspicions that have been laid to rest in the past. Gloria thought back a distance, then another distance. Her memory, which had a way of going off on its own, insisted on retrieving incidents that at the time she had dismissed. After all, Sandy was an attractive man. Of course women would make up to him. He was the most distinguished-looking person in the room. And a little innocent flirtation never did anyone any harm. But then memory kicked in again, and she wondered. Women from previous postings came to mind — tennis partners, baby-sitters, young wives with promotable husbands. She found herself reliving picnic parties, swimming parties, even — an involuntary shudder — a rather drunken nude swimming party in the French Ambassador's pool in Amman, when nobody really looked, and we all ran shrieking for our towels, but all the same…

It took Gloria several days to forgive Elena, and in a way, of course, she never would. But then Elena was so unhappy, she reflected, with her generous side. How could she not be, married to that dreadful little Greek and trying to make up for him with one seedy affair after another?

* * *

Otherwise, the only thing that slightly bothered Gloria was what precisely they ought to be celebrating. Obviously it had to be a Day — like Independence Day or May Day. Obviously it had to be soon, or the Porters would come back, which was not what Gloria wanted at all. She wanted Sandy in the limelight. Commonwealth Day was looming but it was too far away. With a little doctoring, they could have an early Commonwealth Day that got in ahead of everybody else's. That would show initiative. She would have preferred British Commonwealth Day, but everything has to be cut down to size these days, it's the age we live in. She would have preferred St. George's Day, and let's slay the bloody dragon for good! Or Dunkirk Day and let's fight them on the beaches! Or Waterloo Day or Trafalgar Day or Agincourt Day, all resounding British victories — but unfortunately they were victories over the French who, as Elena acidly pointed out, had the best cooks in town. But since none of these days fitted, Commonwealth Day it had to be.