Empress Bianca (45 page)

By this time, Bianca had resumed the tenor of her life as it had been while Philippe was healthy. If one of her New York friends was having a dinner party that she wanted to attend, she would cross the Atlantic in the Lear and soak up the pleasures of Manhattan and the Fifth Avenue apartment. Her New York home remained one of the great loves of her life, on a par with L’Alexandrine and socializing, and she never returned to it or to the social scene without her heart skipping a beat of pleasurable anticipation. Paris also became a centre of activity now, and she frequently took the Lear there for some appointment with a friend, whether it was luncheon, a dinner party or one of those balls where the majority of the guests boasted monarchist names such as Bourbon-Parma, Lubomirski, and Polignac, and the inevitable guests of honour were the uncrowned queen and empress of France: Son Altesse Royale Madame La Comtesse de Paris and Son Altesse Imperiale La Princesse Napoleon. She never ceased to thrill at the old-world glamour and the magnificence of it all, and each time she saw an assemblage of the grandest of the grand, Bianca experienced an ecstatic rush of pleasure.

For Philippe, this was an acutely painful period. As he had spent most of his life jumping through hoops to avoid the unpleasant realities of life, however, this facility rescued him from the recognition of what was going on in his marriage, even if it did not alleviate his loneliness and feelings of
abandonment. His powers of reasoning remained sharp, and his business acumen was not affected by the progress of his condition. He was therefore still able to work on building up Banco Imperiale Geneva for takeover, albeit from the confines of the Andorra apartment. This quest for the deal to crown all deals occupied his days and nights and much of his thoughts, while Bianca drifted in and out of the apartment for a few hours every two or three days.

Even that limited contact was a sacrifice for her, because she vehemently hated the sensation that she was walking into a prison as she entered the premises. And each time she left, she experienced the sense of release that comes with escaping from prison. There was something about enduring invalidity that made daily existence with Philippe seem like working her way through sludge. This feeling of enervation intensified rather than lessened over the months until she found herself thinking, as she walked into Philippe’s bedroom: ‘If only Philippe would die and release us both from the prison his illness has made of our lives.’

Then in 1998, a few months after Bianca actively began wishing Philippe would die, Dr Wiseman, conscious that his patient’s condition had deteriorated to the point where his concentration was being affected, made a recommendation that would speed up Philippe’s demise. ‘Madame Mahfud,’ he said to Bianca on one of his monthly visits to Andorra, ‘you must prepare yourself for the possibility that your husband might become incompetent in the not too distant future.’

‘But he’s in the middle of preparing the biggest deal of his life,’ Bianca objected.

‘Then you’d better get him to speed up negotiations.’

‘What sort of time frame are we dealing with?’

‘It could be months, or it could be a year or two. The one thing your husband has on his side is his fine mind. I’d go as far as saying I’ve never had a more strong-minded patient than him. But even an act of will can’t keep a disease like this from encroaching upon the mental faculties once the powers of concentration start to go.’

‘Doctor, you know what husbands are like. The last person they listen to when the issue is their health is their wife. Why don’t you have a quiet word with Philippe?’ she suggested, smiling sweetly and acting rather more helpless than she actually was. ‘Tell him that he must prepare himself for a decrease in his mental powers and that he should aim to conclude
any projects within months rather than years. Could you do that for me?’

Dr Wiseman looked at her. She was, he felt, an astonishingly attractive woman. So feminine. So innocently coquettish. So concerned for her husband’s welfare. What red-blooded man could turn down a request made in such a winning manner?

To ensure that Philippe would not detect any collusion between Dr Wiseman and herself, Bianca then left the apartment to shop in the tax-free haven of Andorra, while Dr Wiseman spoke to her husband.

‘Are you sure it’s the disease that’s affecting my concentration and not the drugs you prescribe?’ Philippe asked, clutching at straws.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mahfud, but that’s the way Multiple Sclerosis progresses.’

‘I was hoping it was the drugs,’ he said, sounding like a vulnerable little boy.

‘If you have any major projects, I’d suggest winding them up within the next few months.’

‘A few months? How short time becomes when you face your own mortality,’ Philippe said, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘I wish there was something I could do, beyond begging you yet again to take your drugs in a more responsible fashion.’

‘I will, I promise I will,’ Philippe said, reminding Dr Wiseman this time of a little boy who has got into trouble and hopes, that by promising to be good, that the punishment will go away. Except, of course, it wasn’t going away. Not until Philippe was dead.

Dr Wiseman looked at his patient. Here was one of the richest men on earth, yet nothing he or anyone else could do would preserve him from the helplessness and powerlessness that awaited him. Money was a truly finite entity, as limited as it was empowering. Here was a man who had once made people quake in their thousands. Now he was trembling too.

Meanwhile Bianca was winding up the shopping expedition across town. Coinciding her return with Dr Wiseman’s departure, she burst into her husband’s bedroom in a distracting flurry of excitement.

‘Darling,’ she cried, rushing up to his bed with a large box tucked under her arm, and then kissed him on the cheek, ‘I went to Gucci while you and Dr Wiseman were talking, and look what I found for you. Isn’t it beautiful? And so comfortable too.’

She now held up a cashmere-lined silk paisley dressing gown, the
collar topstitched in the Gucci emblem. She put it on and modelled it girlishly. ‘Isn’t it the most beautiful shade of yellow and brown you’ve ever seen?’ she asked. ‘It will pick up your colouring perfectly. Why don’t you try it on while I see Dr Wiseman out?’

‘How did it go?’ she asked in her most serious voice once she and Dr Wiseman had stepped outside of Philippe’s bedroom.

‘I think he took onboard what I was telling him.’

‘This is all very ominous. I wish there was something I could do.’

‘You’re doing all a wife can. The important thing is to help him keep his spirits up. MS is a cruel disease.’

‘What will the end be like?’

‘Patients lose the ability to swallow and so can’t eat. Their immune system is weakened and they fall prey to all sorts of infections and viruses. Finally, their hearts give out, or the ones with really strong hearts drown in their own body fluids. It’s not a pretty picture.’

Bianca grimaced, her whole body shaking at the horror of it all.

‘I only hope I’m not there to see it when it happens,’ she said.

‘There is one other thing,’ Dr Wiseman said.

Bianca looked up at him, her beautiful eyes filled with curiosity and strength. There was no doubt in his mind that this was one woman who could cope with anything that life threw at her and remain a paradigm of desirability.

‘Your husband said he doesn’t like Nurse Owens. He says she’s rough with him and she has no sense of humour. He feels uncomfortable around her. And,’ he said, a note of amusement creeping into his voice, ‘he claims that she’s ugly.’

Bianca laughed. ‘That, I have no doubt, is the worst of her sins. Philippe has a real thing about women’s looks.’

‘He seemed genuinely distressed at the prospect of being left in her care.’

‘She comes highly recommended from the Van Gayribs in New York.

She nursed old Mrs Van Gayrib who had Alzheimer’s disease. They couldn’t sing her praises highly enough. I told Philippe only last week that I’d find someone to replace her when I’m next in New York. I’ve taken you up on your suggestion of having brawny male assistants and am going over there in ten days to vet the men Mary’s interviewing.’

‘You might have trouble getting male helpers to cross the Atlantic,’ Dr
Wiseman observed.

‘I gather there’s a queue of them willing to come.’

‘How did you accomplish that? I thought all the male helpers in the world want to come to the US.’

‘We’re offering them deals they can’t refuse,’ Bianca laughed. ‘Six month contracts as employees of the bank. All medical benefits thrown in free for themselves and their families for the duration of their employment, which can be renewed if they give satisfaction. Six shifts a week: $750 a shift. We fly them in as our guests, and they live here in Andorra, rent-free, all expenses paid, in a building we’ve leased expressly for the staff.’

‘Presumably the reason why you’re employing them under American contracts in America is that Andorran employment law has sharper teeth than American?’ Dr Wiseman remarked.

‘I honestly wouldn’t know,’ Bianca said. ‘We’re doing it purely and simply to get around the need for work permits. Can you imagine the nightmare it would be if we had to apply for four or eight different work permits every six months? This way, they come in as guests, collect their wages in New York, and we save ourselves a lot of trouble.’

‘Very sophisticated,’ Dr Wiseman said, smiling approvingly. ‘Was this your husband’s idea?’

‘How clever of you, Dr Wiseman. You never miss an opportunity to assess your patient’s condition,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, it was his idea.’

‘Still no diminution in his mental powers. That’s good.’

‘Or cruel, depending on how you look at it. It can’t be much fun for someone with my husband’s mental capacities to witness the collapse of his body while his mind remains intact. And, I have to tell you it’s affecting his personality. He’s become even more demanding than he used to be. Everything has to be done yesterday.’

Dr Wiseman nodded his head sympathetically, bringing the visit to an end. One of the bodyguards opened the door of the apartment and shadowed Dr Wiseman into the elevator and down to the apartment’s street entrance, his machine gun cocked and ready for anything.

Before the bodyguard had a chance to come back inside the apartment, Bianca had turned on her heel and was heading purposefully straight to Philippe’s bedroom.

‘Darling, Dr Wiseman is very concerned about your welfare,’ she said.
‘I know he’s spoken to you about winding up your work with the bank, and I think now’s the time for me to give back some of what you’ve given to me over the years. Why don’t you appoint me chairman of the board in your place and let me act on your behalf? I’ll only do what you want, of course, and refer everything to you for your consideration.’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ her husband replied slowly and deliberately.

‘Why not?’ Bianca replied patiently, feeling anything but patient.

‘I can’t think of a worse thing to do. It would send out the wrong message to the financial community. They’ll think I’m past it. All the sharks would be after the bank.’

‘There’s no denying it,’ Bianca thought. ‘This broken down old man is still a force to be reckoned with. If only he’d hurry up and die and get out of my hair, so I can live the remaining years of my life without having to waste time and energy thinking about someone who is nothing but a pain.’

‘So what do you propose doing?’ she asked sweetly.

‘I’m going to throw bait to a few fish. Spread the word that I’m open to offers for the bank. Then I’ll wait until a big enough fish swims into my waters. In the meantime, you can get me a sweet and pretty young thing to replace that ugly bitch Nurse Owens,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye.

A practical nurse from Kingston, Jamaica and a devout Plymouth Brethren aged thirty-eight at the time of her employment in 1998, Agatha Wilson had been blessed with a sweet disposition, and all the adversity she had faced during her life had only made her more kindly. The sixth of seventeen children born in Trench Town, Agatha went to work as a maid at the age of thirteen. Within six months she had given birth to the first of five children, all of whom would be delivered before her twenty-first birthday. She got her big break as a nursemaid to the young wife of Nicholas Shoucaire, the Lebanese industrialist.

As Agatha’s natural abilities became apparent, Odette Shoucaire promoted her as nanny to the two youngest children; and Agatha, earning more money than ever before, breathed freely for the first time in her life.

When the Shoucaires moved from Jamaica to Canada, they took Agatha Wilson with them.

Like many God-fearing Jamaicans, Agatha was both industrious and reliable. Every penny she earned, she sent back to her family in Kingston.

She took pride in the fact that her children were being sent to good schools; that they lived in a small but clean house in Havendale, a suburb, instead of the slum where she had been raised. To her, the accomplishments of her children made all her sacrifices worthwhile.

It had to be said, some of Agatha’s sense of contentment lay with the Shoucaire family. Husband, wife and children were all happy and decent, and they made Agatha feel a part of the family in a way that few other employers would have done. Then in 1990 disaster struck. Nicholas Shoucaire was diagnosed as suffering from Multiple Sclerosis at the relatively young age of fifty-seven. His disintegration was even quicker than Philippe’s, and when walking became too difficult for him, they sold their three-storey
maison de maître
near Nice and moved into a sprawling one-storey villa beside Walter and Ruth Fargo Huron’s house near Cap Ferrat. This was shortly before their youngest child was due to go to boarding school in England, and Agatha dreaded the prospect of having to return to Jamaica once the post of nanny became redundant.

Faced with the possibility of losing their faithful retainer, however, Odette and Nicholas Shoucaire suggested that she switch roles and become his practical nurse. They therefore sent her to a practical nursing school in London for six weeks, where she learned the basics, and when she had completed the intensive course, she returned to Cap Ferrat to nurse him.