THE wedding date for the Hammond marriage was set for September, although according to Alan, Enid had wanted to make it much earlier.
"I must say I was surprised Lance didn't agree," he remarked. "But he's
adamant in wanting Mrs. Rogers at the wedding and she's gone on a cruise to Japan until the end of August."
"How strange to delay a wedding because of another woman," Rose said.
"That's Lance all over. Some of the happiest times he had as a schoolboy were at Helen Rogers' home and he's more concerned that she's at his wedding than his own mother. Enid didn't take too kindly to the wait, of course. She's eager to become Mrs. Hammond Jr."
Rose looked at the tablecloth. Alan had called to order his usual flowers for Lance and had persuaded her to slip out for a cup of coffee. Atlhough the wedding was still a long way off there were many things to prepare and Alan was slowly becoming inundated under a mass of detail.
"The affair is supposed to be a quiet one and yet the wedding list is already as long as my arm."
"Where will they live when they're married?" Rose asked.
"Lance has a house in London. I was hoping that once he settled down he'd stay in town and take over the business again. His uncle is running it at the moment."
"You're a bit idealistic if you expect marriage to change your boss," Rose said dryly. "He's a playboy and he'll always remain one."
Alan did not reply, and Rose stared out across the promenade. Couples were strolling by and beyond them on the beach the deck-chairs were full. How narrow the stretch of sand was, she thought. What was there about the Cote d'Azur that made people rush to it and hardly bear to tear themselves away again ?
She made a mark on the cloth with her spoon and noticed how brown her arms were against the whiteness of the linen. She was almost as dark-skinned as a native — indeed, when she went for an evening stroll by herself she was often accosted by gay young Englishmen or Americans on holiday, who would make improper suggestions to her in excruciatingly bad French. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she recalled the look on the face of one
particularly persistent young man when she had told him exactly where he could go — in faultless English!
"What's the joke?" Alan asked suddenly.
She shook her head and stood up. "I must be getting back. The sunshine makes me forget I've a job to do."
"Well, you don't have to work on Sunday. So how about joining a party aboard the yacht? The invitation's endorsed by my boss — so that should make you happy."
Rose was taken by surprise and Alan read her silence as acceptance.
"I'll pick you up at ten. It's an all-day affair, so don't make any other dates!"
As she prepared a basket of freesias for a money-no- object customer, Rose wondered whether it would be wiser to ring Alan and say she could not go on Sunday and her hand was already on the receiver when she dropped it back into position again. Why should she allow Enid's presence to spoil her own
pleasure? After all, she would love to spend the day on the gleaming yacht that was anchored outside Cannes Harbor.
"I will go," she said aloud. "And blow the consequences !"
"What did you say?" Jacqueline asked.
Rose hesitated. "Alan's invited me to spend Sunday on Lance Hammond's yacht."
"How lucky you are! If only my Philippe worked for a man like zat instead of in zees ridiculous hotel."
Rose smiled. "It wouldn't make you any richer."
"Maybe no, maybe yes. Peut-etre I would fall in love wiz a millionaire. Birds of a fezzer flock together, and ze rich always go where ze rich are. Ma foi, you have ze opportunity to find ze golden calf. Keel him quick!"
"I haven't met any golden calves," Rose said dryly.
Jacqueline looked unconvinced, and knowing there was only one way to end the conversation, Rose turned her back and concentrated on the bouquet she was making.
The holiday season was in full swing and there was a great deal to do. The
demand for flowers was high and each morning she visited the flower market.
It was the time of day she liked best and when Saturday dawned she was up even earlier than usual and drove in the hotel van along the winding streets to the back of the town. Cannes was deserted except for the occasional car, its occupants clad in evening dress, who were returning back to their hotel or villa after a night spent gambling in the Casino or dancing in the small yet elegant cafes along the shore.
Even before she reached the flower market the scent of blooms made the air heady and she breathed in deeply all the strange aromas. How typically French was the scene! How difficult to confuse it with Covent Garden and the shouts of porters and the trundle of lorries and squeaky carts. Here the tempo was
slower, and in the warm air the voices did not sound so shrill.
By now the flower farmers knew Rose enough to realize that she did not like bargaining. If she considered a price too high she would move to the next stall and nothing could persuade her to return to the previous one. Because of this the first price they gave her was the one that they would be willing to accept, and in this way she was able to do her buying much more quickly. Occasionally if she had time to spare she would wander through the food market, looking at the succulent cheeses, sometimes nibbling at a tasty sausage or biting at a piece of crisp bread. No, this could never be mistaken for Covent Garden!
When Rose reached the market this warm Saturday morning the sun had not yet risen over the hills and the harbor was shrouded in shadow, although far out on the water the Hammond yacht was caught in the first, early morning rays. Rose wandered from stall to stall, pausing occasionally to touch a delicate bloom. All too soon she had finished her buying and while her driver supervised the loading of the van she leaned against an upturned basket and watched the colorful scene. Suddenly she noticed a small cart rumbling towards her. She did not know the owner, who was an ancient crone with a face as lined as old leather. All she saw were the exquisite roses bunched tightly together:
hundreds and hundreds of pink and scarlet heads.
The cart stopped and the old woman climbed down and smoothed her skirts.
Rose walked over to her.
"I have not seen you here before, madame," she said in French. "I must compliment you on your roses."
The woman beamed. "I have never come here before. Until now my son has sold all our flowers to the local chateau. But this week I decided we were not
getting enough for them, so I came here instead. It took me three hours to drive, but I hope le bon Dieu will look after me."
Rose glanced at her watch. It was barely seven o'clock, so the woman must have left home long before dawn. She looked at the roses again. They were as beautiful at close range as they had appeared from the distance. The woman had been right in coming to Cannes; she would certainly get a better price here. Idly Rose wondered what the chateau had paid for them. Very little, probably — merely enough to cover the cost of the growing. They had never thought that so old a woman would have the determination to take her goods elsewhere.
Rose wished she had not bought all the flowers she required for that day. If it had been Monday she would have taken the roses too, but because it was Sunday tomorrow and the shop was closed, she ran the risk of the flowers remaining unsold.
"You would like to buy them?" the woman asked eagerly.
"You are rather late," Rose said gently. "Next time…"
"I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, mademoiselle, I must try and sell these."
Rose watched the cart creak away and then turned towards the hotel van. It was empty and she knew that the driver had slipped off for a glass of wine.
With a sigh of exasperation, for she knew it meant a delay of another ten minutes, she wandered round the market again. The cartload of roses still remained unsold and the old woman was beginning to look frightened.
"It is as you say, mademoiselle. I arrive too late."
"I'm so sorry," Rose said, and as she saw the moisture in the faded eyes her own eyes filled with tears. She turned away and would have stumbled had not an arm reached out to support her.
"Buying the roses?" said a deep voice.
Before she looked into his face Rose knew it was Lance Hammond. In white dinner jacket he seemed taller and blonder than ever compared with the swarthy porters and vendors around him.
"I have already done my buying," she said firmly. "Are you looking for something?"
"My bed. Enid and I were at the Casino with some friends, and they decided they needed some onion soup to revive them. I couldn't face the thought and said I'd meet them out here." He sniffed. "Although I must say the smell of the flowers is just as sick-making."
Rose felt the familiar surge of irritation towards him. "I prefer the perfume of flowers to the artificial perfume most women wear."
"Tut tut," he said and putting his hands in his pocket teetered backwards and forwards in front of her. "What do you use, my little Rose — essence of thorns?"
She was too annoyed to reply. Behind her the old woman watched and, sensing the electric atmosphere, misinterpreted the reason and ambled
forward. "You have been looking for Mademoiselle, hein? A lovers' tiff? Maybe you would like to buy some of my roses?"
Lance narrowed his eyes and although he looked at the old woman he was speaking to Rose.
"She must think I'm a pretty soft touch."
"Her story could touch your heart if you had one," Rose retorted. "She's driven for three hours on a wooden cart that would shake out your bones, let alone hers, just in the hope of selling her roses for a few centimes more per bunch than she could get in her village."
"Is that so? Then why don't you buy them?"
"Unfortunately I've already completed my orders. The shop isn't mine, Mr.
Hammond, and I have to account for what I spend."
"The mademoiselle is most kind," the old woman interrupted. "She was crying when the monsieur came along — crying for my flowers."
Lance looked quizzically at Rose, and she bit her lip and turned away. With relief she saw her driver climb into the van and she hurried towards him.
As usual, Saturday morning was a busy one. Not only was Jacqueline fully
occupied but so was the extra assistant whom Rose engaged to give a hand for
a few hours during the weekend. It was not until lunch time that she was able to slip away and she decided to lie down for half an hour before going for her usual swim.
Humming under her breath she went in the lift to the top floor and unlocking the door to her bedroom, walked in. Amazed, she stared around her. On the table, on the window ledge, on the dressing table and in the four corners of the room were vases filled with roses. Lance had bought all the old woman's stock and sent them to her!
She knew immediately that he had done so out of pique, annoyed that she had the power to irritate him with her sarcasm. "But I don't care why he sent
them," she said fiercely as she buried her face in a cluster of blooms. "The main thing is that the old woman sold them!"
Promptly at ten o'clock the next morning Alan called for her at the hotel in a cream colored Cadillac and as she climbed in she remembered the first time she had ridden in it, when Lance Hammond had taken her to the villa to pick roses.
They drove along the Croissette until they reached the harbor. A slight breeze had blown up overnight and the water was whipped into little waves. She
looked out at the yacht and wondered whether she had been wise to accept the invitation.
"Afraid of feeling seasick?" Alan asked. "A bit."
He grinned. "It's nothing to worry about. You won't feel a thing once your're on board."
Although she doubted this, she made no reply and followed him down the harbor steps and into a motor launch. It belonged to Lance, and she did not need Alan to tell her that his employer was a devotee of speed. Indeed
anything suggesting speed appeared to enjoy the man's affection: fast cars, fast boats, fast women. Her thoughts stopped abruptly. Why was she always thinking of Lance? What was the matter with her? She stared straight ahead and as the yacht drew nearer, realized that even though it had looked large when viewed from the shore it was even larger when one went alongside. They stopped directly underneath a ladder and Rose climbed up it and found herself on the deck. Farther along a group of people were lounging in deck- chairs and as she glanced their way one of them stood up and came towards her.
Even without her seeing the face, the arrogant set of the shoulders told her it was her host. It was the first time she had seen him dressed so informally, the blue shorts and shirt enhancing the blondness of his hair and the brownness of his skin. No wonder all the women from here to the Italian Riviera had fallen under his spell.
Irrationally shy at meeting him, she looked out over the water, unaware of the enchanting picture she herself made. Her skin was tanned almost as deeply as his, and her usually pale cheeks were heightened by a healthy glow which served to increase the translucent quality of her eyes. She was wearing one of the dresses she had bought in the little shop owned by Madame Henriette, a jade-green dress of silk shantung, its simple lines emphasising the rounded slenderness of her body.
"Not sorry you've come already?" a voice enquired at her shoulder.
She swung round, chin held high. "Certainly not. I was just looking at Cannes.
I've never seen it from this angle."
He followed her gaze and looked at the town nestling around the bay and stretching long concrete fingers along a narrow strip of beach, while in the distance loomed the mountains and the olive groves, and the tall dark trees that one came across so unexpectedly everywhere along the coast. A seagull swooped overhead uttering its strange shrill cry, and as Rose followed its flight against the burning blue of the sky she felt a sudden thrill of happiness. It was difficult to analyze and inexplicably, she was afraid even to try. Today was a day torn out of time, a day during which she too was going to pretend to be one of the idle rich.
"Don't let's stand here," Lance said. "Come over and I'll introduce you to the others."
From a distance she had thought there were a great number of people on the yacht, but as she followed Lance across the deck she realized there were only four others apart from herself — two men and two women who seemed to know each other very well, if the badinage that passed between them was anything to go by. They were very friendly and tried to include Rose in their conversation, but as their talk ranged from the day that Georgie fell into the water at Cap Ferrat to the afternoon when Gigi had had frightful migraine at the Chateau Madrid, Rose felt out of her depth.
To her surprise Enid was not present, but Alan, when he joined her after a few
moments, seemed to guess her thoughts and told her that Enid did not like the sea. Although she would spend the day on the yacht she refused to sleep
aboard and stayed at Mrs. Hammond's villa.
"Does Tino Barri stay there as well?" Rose asked.
Alan looked at her curiously. "Yes, he's been a house guest of Mrs. Hammond's for the last month. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Rose said quickly. "I — I just wondered."
Feeling that Alan was not satisfied with her reply she deliberately changed the conversation. Yet she was aware that he was looking at her speculatively, and because of it she moved away from him and talked with unusual animation to the young man on her opposite side.
The morning passed in idle chatter and sunbathing, and she was surprised when at noon Enid had still not put in an appearance. Indeed, it was not until one of the guests asked what had happened that she learned that the girl did not intend to join the yacht at all that day.
"Enid's not fond of the sea," Lance said, "and only comes aboard as a great favor to me."
One of the men grinned. "She won't even do that once she's hooked you."
There was general laughter at this and Lance grinned. "You wouldn't like to have a little bet on that, would you?" he asked.
"What sort of bet?"
"A hundred pounds to a penny that after three months of marriage Enid will be as crazy about the sea as I am."
The man burst out laughing. "I'll take you on. That's one bet you're going to lose."
"No, it isn't," Lance said. "You wait and see."
A steward came round with cocktails and Rose took hers and carried it over to the rail, sipping it as she looked at the blue water. White horses rode astride
the sea, and yet there was only a gentle rocking motion beneath her feet. 'I'm loving it,' she thought to herself. 'I'm loving every moment of it and I wish I need never go back to land again.'
"What are you thinking?" Lance said softly at her side. "I was looking at your
"What are you thinking?" Lance said softly at her side. "I was looking at your