Objects of Desire

  Objects of Desire

  Roberta Latow

  Copyright © 1995 by Roberta Latow

  For Claude Ury

  who understands that every lady needs

  a knight in shining armour

  With grateful thanks and love

  Roberta

  Make certain your love for me will be long.

  Not in haste, the days of our heat,

  the nights of our lust.

  We are not creatures of the moment,

  but lovers, whose flame burns hot and bright.

  A gift from Eros, more rare than rubies,

  this erotic fever

  – The Epic of Artimadon

  Contents

  Copyright

  HUSBAND AND WIFE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  ANOUSHKA RIVERS

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PAGE COOPER

  Chapter 8

  PIERS HAMILTON STEVEN GEORGE HAZLIT

  Chapter 9

  SALLY BROWN

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  OSCAR KRONER

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  HUSBAND AND WIFE

  Chapter 1

  ‘I don’t mind dying. I don’t mind being dead.’

  Mark Boxer said that to Martin Amis when he was in hospital and dying. He was not a man to blame anyone for anything.

  Robert Rivers had read Amis’s account of that meeting and now he was hearing those very same words from Elizabeth Lacey. She was not his friend the way Amis had been Boxer’s friend. Robert was Elizabeth Lacey’s surgeon, a man in the business of life and death. He was trained not to break down and cry. But he did wonder why it was that essential people of this world were the ones who tried to make it easier for those they were leaving behind; or, as in this case, those who had failed them.

  Robert took Elizabeth Lacey’s hand in his and stroked it. It was physical rather than verbal confirmation that she was indeed going to die. Far better, far kinder, than a doctor’s double talk which evaded the issue.

  Dr Robert Rivers and his patient, the several other doctors in his team and the nurses, had been through so much together. Elizabeth had come to them from London by air ambulance as good as dead, and they had performed near miracles to save her. After months of a slow and painful convalescence, Robert had stood at the entrance to the Harley Rogers Clinic with these same people now standing around her bed and had waved goodbye to her as she walked down the main stairs to her waiting limousine. Once on the pavement, she had turned to face them and give one last wave and a smile of thanks.

  Minutes later, Robert had been walking through the busy lobby of the Harley Rogers Clinic to the lift that would take him to the operating theatre where he was due, when he heard running footsteps behind him, commotion, shouted orders. He had needed no one to tell him. The look of urgency on Nurse Coleman’s face, the sound of it when she had called out his name, had been enough. Together they had raced from the building. His staff had been working on Elizabeth right there on the pavement. Robert took charge. It had always been a possibility that her heart might be too tired, too worn out, to carry on, but there had been no indication that that was the case during the many weeks they had monitored her in the hospital. That had been several days ago. She had rallied once again under his care. But not enough. Now it was just a matter of time, a very short time: days, hours.

  Robert stood for several minutes outside Elizabeth Lacey’s room talking with his colleagues: two doctors, two hospital interns, the floor’s head nurse and Robert’s Nurse Coleman, who was directly responsible for the nursing of his patients. From the private wing of the hospital they went down to Intensive Care to check their patients, and from there to the wards where the less affluent patients received the exceptional medical care the hospital was world famous for.

  Several hours later Robert shook hands with the last of his patients and walked from his examining rooms to his office. Nurse Coleman removed the stethoscope from his neck, walked around him and reached up to help him off with his white coat. She held his waistcoat out for him and he slipped his arms through the arm holes and began buttoning it. She was at the ready, holding his jacket for him to slip into.

  Nurse Coleman and Dr Rivers had been conducting this final ritual of his working day for more than ten years. She was not only very astute about the emotional state of his patients but just as sensitive to the state of her idol’s feelings at any given moment, as was Mrs Winkler, Robert’s secretary.

  After a brief knock at the door Mary Winkler entered the office with a smile, carrying a cup and saucer and a plate containing one Ry-King, lightly buttered, a paper-thin slice of baked ham neatly covering the crispbread. She placed them on his desk. Looking up at him, she told Robert, ‘No emergencies. All the calls can wait until morning except one. The palace wants to know the date you plan to fly to Morocco for the King’s check up? I’ve pencilled in the twenty-fourth to the thirtieth of next month. You could do with an extra few days away.’

  ‘No appointments?’

  ‘There are always appointments. But none that I can’t juggle around.’

  Robert ran his fingers through his hair, then pulled down on his waistcoat. It fitted perfectly over his slim muscular body. A broad-shouldered man of only average height, almost embarrassingly handsome, looking more a cinema version of what an eminent doctor should be than the real thing, he was pampered and admired by all who worked for him as well as his patients and peers.

  A cautious man, a perfectionist, a man dedicated to medicine and science. A man of intelligence and skill, creative, innovative, he commanded respect, even adoration. Dr Robert Rivers of the Harley Rogers Clinic was a man loved and respected as well as feared. This fear was imposed not by Robert’s wrath, he never showed that, but by a desire not to be banished from his working or private life. The very thought of a harsh word from Robert made those around him try that little bit harder, to avoid making mistakes.

  ‘You are a wonder, Winkels.’ He sometimes called her Winkels when they were alone and he was seriously distracted. ‘That sounds good to me. Make the arrangements.’

  Mrs Winkler picked it up immediately: a sense of indifference in his voice, maybe even a sadness he was trying to cover up. Resignation? He usually looked forward to his bi-annual visit to the King. He liked the man and the country and enjoyed the hospitality heaped upon him by the monarch and his court. She looked at Nurse Coleman. The nurse too had recognised that something was not quite right.

  ‘The usual arrangements?’

  ‘Yes, the usual arrangements.’

  Two first-class seats together in one name, Dr Robert Rivers. He never took his wife. He always drove himself to New York’s Kennedy Airport. A limousine from the palace waiting for him on the tarmac as he alighted the plane, and the reservations – those were all the arrangements Mrs Winkler ever made for Dr Rivers on these occasions. Now, after so many years, she still had no idea who occupied the other seat on his travels, if indeed anyone did. She could only surmise that he had a secret travelling companion because on his return there was some inexplicable sense of renewal about her employer. He seemed happier, more vital, than on a return to the clinic after a holiday à deux with his wife.

  ‘Do you have any other instructions for me, Doctor?’ asked Nurse Coleman.

  ‘Nothing special. Just keep a
close watch on Miss Lacey. And don’t hesitate to call me if there is any change in her condition.’

  The two women made their retreat. Robert sat down at his desk and, taking the cup of strong black coffee in his hand, swivelled his chair around to gaze out of the window overlooking the lake. It was a view he never tired of – a thick, luscious wood circling the large placid lake. The few buildings around were hidden among the trees. Robert was as fond of it now, shivering in the cold under an icy grey sky, as he was during any of the four seasons. The trees, bare and tall and proud in deep sleep, were nowhere near ready to come to life, as they always did with the return of spring. The pine trees, voluptuous boughs heavy with long needles, each one sheathed in ice from the rain several days before, looked like thousands of millions of long, slim crystal prisms in the late-afternoon light.

  Robert sipped his coffee, remembering Elizabeth Lacey’s whispered words: ‘I don’t mind dying. I don’t mind being dead.’ The look of peace, contentment, love in her eyes … It had affected him profoundly when she had uttered those words to him. What dignity, what character. The lack of malice, in one who had all but lost her life then fought back to live again, only to be struck down for the final count before she even had an opportunity to take advantage of her second chance at life. How well she must have lived her life to feel that way.

  Robert rose from his chair and stood by the window. Only the realisation that he could not in truth express those same sentiments as Elizabeth Lacey made him realise how unwell he was living his life. It was at that moment that Dr Robert Rivers changed it. Not thought about, or considered, nor contemplated, but actually acted upon a need. He picked up the telephone and called his wife.

  Anoushka Rivers could not hear her telephone ringing, she wasn’t home. She was at an exhibition of Jasper Johns paintings, a retrospective in the University’s art gallery. Robert was very keen on Jasper Johns’ work. She only quite liked it. They owned three. She had taken her time in viewing the paintings. She was trying.

  That morning she had driven to West Grinstead to go shopping at Lord & Taylor’s. It was nearly the same distance to West Grinstead as it was to New York. An easy hour’s drive on the motorway, a short distance off that, park your car in the vast, near-empty, parking lot, a few steps from the car to the door, and there you were into the lush quiet of chic shopping. West Grinstead was easier.

  Robert preferred taking her to Bendl’s or Saks or Bergdorf’s in New York; a little shopping and a great deal of art gallerying, a simple lunch somewhere elegant, drinks at The Carlisle to allow the evening traffic to die down, then on to the Saw Mill River Parkway and the Auberge Gilles, for a dinner of roast duckling with white peaches and black cherries. Unless Robert was too tired to drive home, in which case it was dinner in the city and a night at The Pierre. Her husband spoiled her.

  Anoushka liked the salespeople more at the West Grinstead Lord & Taylor’s. They knew her by name. The buyer knew her taste, what she looked best in. Anoushka knew Robert would like today’s purchase – a Ralph Lauren evening skirt of black crêpe-de-chine and a loose blouse of cream-coloured satin, sensuous for its cut and its full, long sleeves that buttoned tight on the wrists, and a narrow belt solid with black jet beads. Had he been with her (he liked to go shopping with her, and did most of the time), he would have been more extravagant than she had been with herself. He would have insisted she have the Lauren and the Armani evening suit.

  Loaded down with dress boxes and smart carrier bags, she had lunch in the Bird Cage Room. Anoushka liked Lord & Taylor’s restaurant: the several storeys’ high round room with its New York chic window-dressing interior decoration, all atwitter with ladies chatter, pretty women preening their feathers. She ate hot corn chowder and a chicken salad sandwich, black coffee and dutch apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Her favourite Lord & Taylor’s lunch.

  Anoushka had been giving herself quite a nice day. All Anoushka’s days were quite nice, that was her life. She was thinking about that and the Jasper Johns and seeing Robert as she turned up the sable collar on her brown tweed coat and walked down the stairs, braving the bitter cold wind whipping across the lake. They were going to a dinner dance at the country club. She would have rather had dinner alone with her husband. She never tired of being alone with Robert. She adored him and their life together. No one knew better than she what an attractive and special man she had married. How lucky she was that he loved her, was so devoted to their life together.

  Anoushka never really enjoyed the country club functions. She had little in common with the women who belonged there. She was not a good golfer, preferred the ocean to a swimming pool, and had little interest in becoming a work-out obsessive, but for Robert’s sake she made a half-hearted effort at belonging. And that was more than the club women did in befriending her. Thirteen years and they still continued to see her as an outsider. Robert Rivers’ mistake.

  Robert, always the gentleman, the charmer, liked the use of his club, but managed for the most part to keep out of the socialising and club politics without offending. The dinner dance this evening was his once-a-year concession.

  Anoushka missed the boys now that they were at school and only home for end of term holidays. She had fought hard to keep them at home but Robert and even the boys had been adamantly in favour of boarding school. Anoushka knew the boys loved her but she also knew that in the last few years they had drifted away from her to Robert. Anoushka tended to let things slide, in fact, she had chosen to ignore the changes going on around her until it was too late and they were gone to Groton.

  Anoushka looked at her watch. How nice it would be if Robert could get away early. He worked so hard, she did worry about him. She had a sudden desire to see him. It was more than desire, she wanted Robert and now. Anoushka was very sure of herself, her marriage, her life, not a woman to fear loss. But suddenly she did. It was distressing, somehow inexplicable. It flashed by her, remaining only just long enough for her to find the sensation unpleasant, somewhat frightening, and she was much relieved once it had passed. Her immediate reaction was to miss her husband, and want him. Anoushka always wanted Robert. Not often, but on occasion, she did go to his office. Mostly, as now, when she wanted him so much that hearing his voice was not enough. On such occasions it was sexual yearning. She could never get enough of Robert sexually. That part of their life together was a very important factor in their marriage. She thought about it as she drove up to the front entrance of the hospital.

  Anoushka switched off the motor and slid across the seat to check her face in the mirror on the back of the sun visor. It was a good face with strong features: a slim elegant nose, high, prominent cheekbones, dark blue eyes, and sensuous lips rouged a pale rose colour. Anoushka wore no cosmetics save for her lipstick. She tended to play down her near-perfect features set in a heart-shaped face that softened her, some claimed haughty, others exotic, looks. Most women who knew the Riverses were envious of Anoushka’s looks, her having caught Robert for a husband, the seductive huskiness and hint of foreign accent in her voice, and delighted in her faults. And she did have faults, most of them glossed over by Robert.

  She adjusted the sable beret she was wearing and ran her fingers through silky blonde, nearly platinum hair. Locking the car, she hurried up the stairs. Rocco, the hospital door attendant, saw her coming and opened one of the pair of large glass doors.

  ‘Mrs Rivers, long time since we’ve seen you here.’

  ‘Hello, Rocco, I won’t be long.’

  ‘Bad place to park, Mrs Rivers. Give me the keys, I’ll move your car.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just watch it? I won’t be long. Fifteen minutes?’

  She was such a nice woman. Why not? He flouted the rules. ‘No more. Now promise? I guess I can bend the rules for the doctor.’

  Anoushka smiled and patted him on the shoulder as she hurried through the lobby. There were smiles from several of the women busy at the reception desk as she acknowledged them with a wave while swiftly
passing them bound for the bank of lifts. Too hot. It was always too hot in the hospital. She opened her coat, ignoring the fact that there was a button missing.

  She stepped from the seclusion of the lift into the fifth-floor corridor. It smelled of hospitals and was filled with white-starched uniforms, the occasional harried-looking intern, and concerned relations rushing about. Robert would insist on having his office and examining rooms right in the midst of his patients. She went to the nurses’ station to greet the women briefly before heading for his office. She noticed the false smiles and the whispers. They never liked her visits. She represented a part of Robert’s life they could never experience, except marginally for a few hours at the annual party for the nurses she and Robert gave every Christmas. They were all more than a little in love with Dr Robert Rivers and never thought her good enough for him. That was not a problem for Anoushka; other people’s opinions just washed over her. She greeted one of Robert’s colleagues, a doctor who was a close friend as well as one of his peers. They spoke briefly before she continued down the corridor towards Robert’s rooms.

  She passed a distraught-looking young woman, tears streaming down her face. Anoushka placed an arm round her and led her to the waiting room, offering what few words of comfort she could before she asked a nurse to try and help.

  Anoushka had compassion and worried that she saw so little in the faces and actions of the pretty and perky young nurses. They exuded something more like aggression, authority, power over the sick through their nursing. It always disturbed her. She would yet again talk to Robert about it. More than once he had suggested to her that she had a romantic idea about nursing and suffered from a Florence Nightingale syndrome, believing that all nurses chose their profession out of a deep sense of caring. True for many, but not all. Other factors, and the deeply disturbing aspects of working with the sick and dying, did sometimes eat away at compassion. As did the system.