The Talisman (45 page)

‘You think if I wasn’t impressed by you I’d be here now? I thought I was sharp, but you, Alex . . . Come on, I’m not putting you down in any way. All I can see is how much further you could go, and I want to give you a hand up.’

‘I need you, huh? That’s what you’re sayin’? You’re full of bullshit, you always was.’

‘I need you, it’s me that needs you. I want to be big, Alex, but I can’t do it on my own, and all I’m offering you is a partnership. But we’ve got to be clever, you know? People know who you are. What if they didn’t know you, eh? Didn’t know anything about you? Look in the mirror, your face, Alex . . . what do you see? Broken nose, cheek smashed in, and your ears look as if you’ve been in the ring for years.’

‘Yeah? So what? It’s my face, I can live wiv it.’

‘You don’t have to. You were a hell of a good-looking kid. Get the nose straightened, cheek fixed . . .’

Alex stared at his reflection, then at the handsome features of his brother. He could feel Edward’s hands on him, and he turned away. Edward held him gently, made him look at himself again.

‘You want to go through the rest of your life like this? Don’t give me your answer now, think about it. Here are some brochures of clinics in Switzerland . . . We’ll take it stage by stage, see it through together.’

Alex took the brochures and flicked through them. He chewed his lips, looked at Edward and back at the glossy pamphlets. ‘What about me business? You leave it more ’n a few weeks an’ all hell breaks loose. I can’t just piss off, I run the show.’

‘I’ll take care of it, all of it, and I’ll give you the best price. You want it back after, then you’ll have it. I reckon we can really go places together, just so long as it’s together.’

Alex felt at a loss, pulled so many ways, wanting everything that Edward dangled before him but at the same time distrusting him. Edward was relentless, swinging the carrot, knowing he was at long last winning Alex over.

‘Plus a million on top – You’ve got to let me give you my guilt money, I won’t take no for an answer. It’ll be in a Geneva account in both our names. I’ll keep the club running, what’s-his-name will show me the ropes. You can’t lose, Alex.’

‘Arnie, ’is name’s Arnie. He’s a good pal ter me.’

‘Yeah, I’ll take care of him, no problem. What do you say you sleep on it? It’s a new start for both of us, I need you with me, I want you with me. You’re my brother, we’re brothers.’

Alex sat on his single, neatly made bed. His expression was so childishly confused that Edward put his arms around him, kissing the top of his head.

‘I love you, Alex. Let me do this for you. Then it’s you and me going right to the top. I’ve got contacts; I’m already branching out, trying for big building projects. That’s where the money is, property, and I’ve got the finances to buy now while the time’s right.’

Alex remained sitting, staring blank-eyed at the clinic brochures. He knew Edward had won him round, just as he had always done when he was a kid. He turned slowly to stare at his reflection . . . the mirror blurred . . .

The nurses whispered together, checking his pulse, his drip. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Barkley? Your brother’s waiting to see you. Feel like a visitor? Yes?’

Alex was in such pain he could do nothing. His bandaged head throbbed, and he felt as though a truck had run over his face. He could smell the familiar cologne, the heavy, sweet, musky smell, and knew his brother was in the room.

‘Hey, you still using that whore’s perfume spray?’

Edward laughed and held Alex’s hand. ‘That’s my brother talking! How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible, bleedin’ terrible. Me ’ead feels like someone kicked it in.’

Edward remained at the bedside until Alex slept. He came every day, and even spent two weeks with Alex at a rest home in the Alps. It had really only just begun, there would be more plastic surgery, involving a series of operations.

Alex’s nose was remodelled, his cheeks built up with bone taken from his hips. His ears were reshaped, his jaw rebuilt, and his teeth capped and straightened so he no longer had to wear a false plate. His face was black and swollen for many months, and he grew depressed and irritable, as if he would never be free of the bandages or the pain.

Edward discussed his brother’s progress with the doctors, and worried about his fits of depression. Alex had been away from London, from the world he knew, for almost a year, and had grown so dependent on Edward he no longer even asked about his club. The surgery had given him a complex; he didn’t want to go out, aware of the tell-tale scars, and said he felt everyone was looking at him. Instead of giving him confidence in himself, the operations had done the reverse. He had never lived in such luxury or been so well taken care of, and he was at a loss how to accept it and deal with it. He was not ready to go home, yet Edward knew he must start preparing him for his eventual return. He planned a short holiday, driving through the south of France.

Alex sat sullenly at his side, wearing dark glasses, hunched in his seat.

‘I got you some records, for speech therapy . . . you listening, Alex?’

‘Yeah, you gonna make me a friggin’ film-star next, are yer? Feel a right git, all these bleedin’ operations and fer what? I look like a bleedin’ patchwork quilt.’

‘They’ll heal. You should stay in France, learn the lingo.’

‘Yeah, I hear you. Who’ve I got to bleedin’ talk to, meself?’

The trip was a disaster. They argued and bickered their way through village after village until eventually Edward’s patience snapped. He was almost ready to throw in the towel when he discovered Alex in his hotel room, staring at his new face in the dressing-table mirror. The swelling and bruising had indeed gone, and there was the ghost of the old Alex, the handsome face nearly healed.

Alex turned to Edward and smiled. ‘Hey, not bad fer an ex-con, what you think?’

Edward knew then that Alex was on the mend. The following morning he had arranged a special trip, refusing to tell Alex where they were going, saying it was to be a surprise. They tried out their schoolboy French as they headed towards Cannes.

Later that afternoon Edward showed off his surprise – the Château La Fontaine, his gift to Alex. A twofold gift, because he was more than aware that Alex needed even more time to adjust to his new image. Edward wanted him to start losing his East End accent, wanting him to adapt at his own pace to his newfound wealth. He calculated, not in weeks or months, but in years, so he set up a project, yet another carrot that would also keep Alex occupied, and would free Edward from his nursemaid duties. He knew he had made the right decision as they drove through the château gates.

‘Imagine, Alex,’ Edward told him, ‘imagine what you could do with this place! You have carte blanche, as much cash as you need. Go ahead, take it back to basics and build yourself a palace.’

The Château La Fontaine, buried in the hills only an hour from Cannes, was originally built in 1769. During the occupation, the Germans had taken over the property and let it run to ruin. The once-splendid gardens and orchards were overgrown and tangled, but somehow the château, even though crumbling at its very core, retained a magnificent power.

Alex began to work on it with trepidation, then slowly the excitement of the massive undertaking took hold. He set the wheels in motion to completely reconstruct and refurbish the château.

One of the estimates he obtained for the interior, from Michelle Marchalle of Marchalle Fabrics, came in under budget. The company sent a representative to meet Alex and discuss the project in detail. So Alex met Miss Imura Takeda and within half an hour he had offered her the job.

Miss Takeda, who wished to be known simply as ‘Ming’, was a diminutive Japanese woman. She had arrived at their first meeting in her small Citroën, and he had been taken aback by her composure and businesslike manner. She was wearing a Chanel suit and was perfectly groomed, her glossy black hair cut in a heavy fringe reaching almost to her perfect almond eyes, and cropped short into her delicate white neck.

Ming offered to cook Alex dinner at her home. He found her workshop and apartment in a small, run-down cobbled street in Cannes. She gave him a calm, small bow as he entered her showroom. There were only two pieces of furniture on display, a small table and a single chair set against a cream silk wall and standing on a highly polished wooden floor. A tiny white vase contained an arrangement with a single flower.

Ming led Alex through to her workshop, where again the furnishing was sparse, with four girls working on designs at two trestle tables. The walls were plain with only two prints hanging, and there were stacks of fabric samples in fine wooden frames. Alex was shown designs, materials, and careful copies of original wall-hangings that Ming had drawn.

‘I am most grateful, Meester Barkley, that you have chosen my company. We are very small but I give you my word that the work will be done to a very high standard.’

She made tea, her movements quick yet unhurried, and placed before him perfect cups of the finest bone china he had ever seen. She watched him touch the table, bowed her head.

‘It is very beautiful, yes?’

Alex, sitting on a low cushion, nodded and sipped his tea.

‘The table is seventeenth-century Chinese. Many people think only of porcelain for that period but, you see, many pieces of Ming furniture were also made.’ Ming giggled as she said the word ‘Ming’, then whispered that it was not her real name, but one she had chosen for her work. ‘Many people in the trade simply call this period of furniture “Ming”.’

They continued their conversation while Alex watched her tiny hands prepare the most delicious supper of raw fish and vegetables. Ming gave him a book on seventeenth-century Chinese furniture, which as soon as he arrived home, he spent the rest of the night reading.

Alex grew increasingly enamoured of Ming. They travelled across France together in her little Citroën, attending auctions and antique fairs. They flew to Paris for the major ‘in house’ auctions, and he was guided by her taste and flawless eye for detail in everything. She would make him walk mile after mile through every fabric section of every store, never satisfied, until she found exactly the right texture, the right shade. Her own company set about hand-dyeing silks, and she employed six Japanese women to begin making up the drapes.

Alex was aware of the change in himself. Ming introduced him to the high priests of Paris couture, and under her influence, a hint here, a word there, he set about buying his own wardrobe. Hesitantly, he asked for her approval, and gratefully accepted her advice.

They were together every day, but at about ten o’clock in the evening she would always excuse herself and return to her own apartment if they were in Cannes, or to her hotel room if they were on the road. Alex was like a teenager, not knowing exactly how to take the first step towards changing their working relationship into a more personal one. The completion of the château drew closer day by day, and Alex was unable to sleep at night for thinking of ways he could keep Ming near him, close to him. The château was obviously her pride and joy, and she took such delight in finding each special piece of furniture, never making too much of the decor, allowing the majestic rooms to speak for themselves. He ached to kiss her, to hold her, but he was tongue-tied in her presence, flustered. If she was aware of his infatuation, she gave him no hint.

Ming and Alex stood together in the entrance hall of the château, surrounded by the smell of fresh paint, of polish, while the bright sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.

‘Well, Alex, I think we have finished. Are you happy? Are you pleased?’

He adored the lilting sound of her voice, her accent when she spoke French. He made up his mind, it was now or never. ‘Ming, I have to talk with you, not about the house, something personal . . .’

He towered above her, and she raised her almond-shaped eyes to his, then lowered them. She bit her lip until it hurt. She had been unable to make him out; at first she had thought him clumsy, because of his desperate shyness, but then slowly she had realized that it was due to his schoolboy French. Then she had wondered if he was homosexual – they had stayed in hotels together, been in each other’s company day in, day out, and not once had he made a pass at her. She could not take the initiative herself to turn the relationship round. Her business depended on him, she couldn’t risk it. He was more than a meal ticket to her, he had taken her out of the red and into heavy black figures, and when they started to show the château in the glossy magazines as she intended, she knew her name would be made. She had done more than a magnificent job, she had surpassed herself.

Alex caught her tiny hand and she saw him flush. This was it, he was going to make a play for her at last. She gave him a demure smile.

‘I was wondering if we could have dinner together tonight? I have made a reservation in town.’

Ming had to stand on tiptoe to reach his lips. Her kiss was soft and swift, and he gasped.

‘I would like that so much. I shall miss the château, I shall miss you.’

Ming had never seen a man so pleased by a few simple words.

‘You will? Do you mean that?’

Ming laughed, and fell into step beside him along the marble hall. He was so childlike, and she knew he was unaware of the admiring glances he received from the many women they had met, it was as though he simply didn’t notice them. Ming paused, the hell with it . . . she held his arm and whispered.

‘Take me upstairs now, take me up there in your arms.’

For a moment Alex stood, nonplussed, then he swept her up into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, felt his pulses thudding. He carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom suite with its drapes and the vast bed they had bought from an Austrian castle. As he laid her gently down, she reached up and took his face between her tiny hands, pulled him towards her. But before their lips met, they heard the sound of a car on the gravel drive below.

Edward was impressed, more than impressed; he was astonished. He gazed at the château through the window of the Rolls. ‘Mind you,’ he thought to himself, ‘by the rate of knots the cash has been flowing out of the account, I should be impressed.’ Now he could see where it had all gone.