The Constant Gardener

Suddenly, without more time passing, everything was late. Gloria had finished dressing but hadn't touched her face, nobody had eaten a thing and it was past lunchtime, Woodrow was waiting outside in the Volkswagen, Justin was standing in the hall clutching his freesias — now bound into a posy — Juma was waving a plate of cheese sandwiches at everyone and Gloria was trying to decide whether to tie the mantilla under her chin or drape it over her shoulders like her mother.

Seated on the rear seat of the van next to Justin with Woodrow on the other side of her, Gloria privately acknowledged what Elena had been telling her for several days: that she had fallen head over heels in love with Justin, a thing that hadn't happened to her for years, and it was an absolute agony to think he would be gone any day. On the other hand, as Elena had pointed out, his departure would at least allow her to get her head straight and resume normal marital services. And if it should turn out that absence only made the heart grow fonder, well, as Elena had daringly suggested, Gloria could always do something about it in London.

The drive through the city struck Gloria as more than usually bumpy and she was too conscious for her comfort of the warmth of Justin's thigh against her own. By the time the Volkswagen pulled up at the funeral home, a lump had formed in her throat, her handkerchief was a damp ball in the palm of her hand and she no longer knew whether she was grieving for Tessa or Justin. The rear doors of the van were opened from outside, Justin and Woodrow hopped out, leaving her alone on the backseat with Livingstone in the front. No journalists, she recorded gratefully, struggling to regain her composure. Or none yet. She watched her two men through the windscreen as they climbed the front steps of a single-story granite building with a touch of the Tudors about the eaves. Justin with his tailored suit and perfect mane of gray-black hair that you never saw him brush or comb, clutching yellow freesias — and that cavalry officer's walk he had, and for all she knew all half Dudleys had, right shoulder forward. Why did Justin always seem to lead and Sandy follow? And why was Sandy so menial these days, so butler-like? She complained to herself. And it's time he bought himself a new suit; that serge thing makes him look like a private detective.

They disappeared into the entrance lobby. "Papers to sign, sweet," Sandy had said in a superior voice. "Releases for the deceased's body and that kind of nonsense." Why does he treat me like his Little Woman suddenly? Has he forgotten I arranged the whole bloody funeral? A gaggle of black-clad bearers had formed at the side entrance of the funeral home. Doors were opening, a black hearse was backing toward them, the word HEARSE gratuitously painted in white letters a foot high on its side. Gloria caught a glimpse of honey-varnished wood and yellow freesias as the coffin slid between black jackets into the open back. They must have taped the posy to the lid; how else did you get freesias to sit tight on a coffin lid? Justin thought of everything. The hearse pulled out of the forecourt, bearers aboard. Gloria had a big sniff, then blew her nose.

"It is bad, madam," Livingstone intoned from the front. "It is very, very bad."

"It is indeed, Livingstone," said Gloria, grateful for the formality of the exchange. You are about to be watched, young woman, she warned herself firmly. Time to chin up and set an example. The back doors slammed open.

"All right, girl?" Woodrow asked cheerfully, crashing down beside her. "They were marvelous, weren't they, Justin? Very sympathetic, very professional."

Don't you dare call me girl, she told him furiously — but not aloud.

* * *