The Talisman (61 page)

The intercom buzzed and he picked up the phone. ‘Harry, hey guess what? Alex, the sly son of a bitch, has got himself married . . . married! Alex! Just sent me a telegram. Doesn’t say who the hell to, how about that? You want to go to the theatre tonight? Okay, pop into the office . . . See you later.’

Replacing the phone, Harriet gave it a loving little pat. It was a start – Edward had begun asking her to meet him at the office and taking her out to lunch. She called to Dewint that Alex had got married. He had never met Alex, so he wouldn’t know him if he fell over him, but he said all the right things.

Dewint was delighted to have Harriet back, looking so well and obviously happy. She had adored the pale lemon of her studio, and had set about reorganizing all the furniture.

‘You know, Norman, when I was away, one of the things we used to do was act out dramas. I just loved it, and I am going to start taking drama classes, what do you think?’

At one stage in his life, Norman Dewint had been a ‘hoofer’ – not that he would ever have mentioned the fact unless asked, and it was something he left off his curriculum vitae. Now he did a quickstep down the stairs, ending with a flourish.

‘Mrs Barkley, I can think of no one who’d be better on stage.’

‘Why, Norman, you’re very light on your feet – how did you do that step?’

Dewint flushed with pleasure. ‘I used to be able to tap dance, it’s all to do with relaxation. It’s a very simple, old-time step used by Fred Astaire – one, two, three, side-step, side-step, bend and twist . . .’

Harriet applauded, then persuaded Dewint to teach her more in the dining hall. They pushed back the table and rolled the rugs aside, leaving the wooden boards bare.

‘Right, you be Fred and I’ll be Ginger . . . Oh, music, we must have music . . .’ She burst into song, ‘I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more . . .’

Dewint watched her dancing up the stairs. The whole house had come alive again. Everything was back to normal.

Alex, with his new wife, met her battery of lawyers and legal advisers. Only then did he realize the magnitude of the fortune that came attached to his wife. Barbara was as uninterested in her financial powers as only an incredibly rich, spoiled woman could be. She daydreamed of being introduced to society and of becoming a famous socialite.

Alex flew to New York, leaving Barbara to make the arrangements for herself and her two daughters to travel to England. He knew he should have contacted Ming, explained to her, but it had all happened so fast, and he was unsure how she would take it.

Ming was not in her Manhattan apartment or her office. He was told she would be ‘on site’ at, of all places, his wife’s new penthouse. Alex bought a ridiculously ornate bouquet of roses and arrived at what was to be his own apartment.

Ming was standing at the window, holding up pages of a large pattern book. She looked up at Alex and smiled. ‘Good heavens, you look wonderful! I have called London so many times to speak to you – where on earth have you been?’

Alex handed her the roses and she gathered them in her arms, buried her face deep in the flowers. ‘Oh, they smell delicious . . . now, come and see what I’ve done to this place, it will be magnificent.’

Alex didn’t know how to tell her. She was so excited, leading him from room to room, and as always he was impressed with her taste and her innovative designs. She led him into the master bedroom. ‘See, I have made everything in different, just slightly different, shades of pink . . . I don’t think it looks too bad, more than likely she will hate it, her type always do. She’ll want gilt mirrors and hideous gold angels . . . Alex? Is something wrong?’

Alex sat on the oyster-pink satin bedspread. He ran his hand along the cover, then gestured for Ming to come to him. She slipped into his arms as she always did, curled up on his lap.

‘I got married, in Nevada last week, I married Barbara.’

As quickly as she had moved to him, Ming slid away, turning her back to him. She was rigid, but her hands fluttered slightly, like birds’ wings. ‘Well, she is very rich . . . I am making over a million dollars from this commission alone . . . Then I will have more, because of her daughters’ apartments.’

‘She won’t be living here, I am taking her and her daughters back to live with me in England.’

Still Ming remained with her back to him. ‘I see . . . does that mean you and I . . . What about us?’

Alex moved closer to her, wanting to hold her in his arms.

‘I love her, there will be no more of you and me. I still want to be friends with you, of course I do . . . I still want to see you.’

She turned on him, her eyes like a Siamese cat’s, narrowed into slits. ‘Oh, that will be nice! Well, thank you for telling me, now if you will excuse me . . .’

‘Ming, please . . .’

‘You know, if you had said “I have married her because of her millions” I could understand, really, I would understand that, but love . . . You love her? She’s tasteless, she’s cheap, she’s coarse, the only thing that smells sweet about her is her money . . .’

Alex bowed his head. He didn’t argue, he didn’t want to, he knew he had hurt her and he felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Ming, but . . . I love her.’

She laughed and walked to the door. When she reached it, she turned to face him. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word, but you have what you deserve. I am sorry for you, she’s notorious, did you know that? You see, I have a number of other clients now, courtesy of your new wife, and none of them could wait to tell me . . . You’ve married a whore.’

Alex’s temper snapped. ‘I don’t think you have any right to bring that up, you of all people.’

Ming’s voice was icy. ‘I slept with men because I needed to eat, I was poor. She pays for her men, she buys them! Look at you – how much is she paying for you, Alex? And does she know about you? Does she know what you are?’

Alex hit her, hard, so hard that she slammed into the edge of the door. She rubbed her shoulder. ‘Get out . . . please, leave me alone, I never want to see you again.’

Alex left the apartment. He felt sick at the way he had struck out at her, guilty, hating himself. He stepped out of the lift fifteen floors below and Ming watched him from the penthouse window as he hailed a taxi. She would make him pay, she hated him now as much as she did Edward. She knew their secret, and if they didn’t let her buy her shares back, buy them both out of the business, she would make damned sure they would be sorry . . . Alex and Edward Stubbs, socialites – she wondered how popular they would both be with the English aristocracy if it were known that Edward had murdered their father, that they came from East End slums. She laughed softly – she would plan carefully, let them climb the ladder just that little bit higher . . . The higher they were the further they would fall, and she would make them fall so hard that neither of them would get up again.

Ming straightened the bedspread. The roses lay on the floor where they had fallen. She bent and picked them up, trying so hard not to cry, but her mouth quivered, and she sobbed. She had pushed Alex into Barbara Taverner’s arms, and her anger at her own foolishness dried her tears. She tore each rose from its stem and hurled it across the room. She had come cheap – what a pay-off, a damned bunch of roses, pink roses.

With his new family, Alex returned to England a week before Kennedy was assassinated. Their arrival went unnoticed except for a small paragraph in one of the gossip columns stating that Alex Barkley and Texan billionairess Barbara Taverner of the Hunter Hardyman fortune had married.

A
lex breezed into the office, was congratulated on his marriage by all the staff, and walked straight into Edward’s office. The door was closed, and Alex tried to open it, infuriated that it was always kept locked. Miss Henderson appeared.

‘My brother not in today?’

‘I’m sorry sir, he left two days ago.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘I’m sorry, sir . . . shall I bring the mail into your office now?’

Alex’s initial good spirits deflated, and he gave her a brief nod. He had expected Edward to have left at least a note, perhaps even shown some interest in his marriage, his wife, but there was nothing. He sat down and began to sift through the backlog of work that had piled up in his absence. Everything seemed in reasonable order. He began to flick through the night-club accounts, then sat back and let out a long, hissing breath. As Edward had predicted, it was a gold mine, money was pouring in, and Alex knew he would have his work cut out moving it around. He would have to work fast before they were crippled by taxes.

Edward had indeed cut and run, after an emergency call from Skye Duval. Richard Van der Burge was causing trouble and needed to be removed from South Africa. He was bad-mouthing Edward, and the last thing Skye wanted was the slightest whisper getting out about the nasty situation he and Edward had been involved in with Julia. Edward had literally dropped everything and caught the next flight out. Miss Henderson rang Harriet and told her not to expect Edward home for a few days.

Harriet had given Dewint the night off, as she and Edward had planned to go to the theatre. She had been to the hairdressers and the beauty parlour, and her new evening gown had cost a fortune. She was about to take the dress off again, thinking of the waste of the two tickets, when she remembered Dewint. She climbed the stairs to the attic where he had his room and opened the door.

Dewint was sitting at his small dressing table in full make-up, looking rather like Joan Crawford. He was wearing a dark-red satin dress, high heels and long sleeves. He froze, clenched his gloved hands, and his body shook with nerves at being caught out. Harriet took in the bizarre situation in a moment. She tilted her head to one side, saying, ‘Sorry, I should have knocked.’

Dewint stuttered apologies. His terrible shame was pitiful, he was close to tears. ‘I only ever do this in my time off, really . . . I cannot say how sorry I am . . . Oh, God.’ The pixie face crumpled, and he wept into his gloved hands.

Harriet stood close behind him and patted his powdered shoulder. ‘This is your domain, Norman, you can do what the hell you like.’

She was gone before Dewint could say another word. Picking up a large pot of Pond’s Cold Cream, he began to smother his face, then he realized he’d not taken off his gloves and burst into tears.

Harriet decided to watch TV. She sat in full evening dress and tuned in to
Dr Kildare
. The show had her groping for a tissue as it was all about a poor crippled girl who wanted a famous movie star’s autograph. The young girl was dying, but the movie star refused point-blank even to see her, being too involved in her own drama . . . Harriet gasped, it was Joan Crawford . . . she ran to the stairs and shouted at the top of her voice for Dewint.

‘Oh, quick, quick, she’s on TV. Joan, your idol . . . hurry or you’ll miss it.’ Dewint scurried down the stairs. As he entered the lounge, the programme had been interrupted by the announcement that President Kennedy had been assassinated. They stood side by side in stunned silence. They spent the evening together waiting for the news flashes . . . eventually the ‘National Anthem’ played and she turned off the television with a sigh. Dewint blew his nose for the umpteenth time. ‘Oh Mrs Barkley, what a shockin’ thing, what a shockin’ thing to have happened. A man like that cut down in his prime . . .’

She continued to stare at the blank TV screen. Her face was concentrating, frowning. After a moment, she said to him, ‘You and I have just witnessed a modern-day tragedy . . . but it’s strange, when you turn that little square box off, it sucks it all back in. As if it weren’t real. Tragedy is personal, it clings, holds on to you, stays inside you and you can’t turn it off . . . it won’t go away. I wish I had a small switch at the side of my head. I think I’ll take myself off to bed now, goodnight Norman.’

Dewint locked up the house. As he passed the master bedroom, he heard her crying . . . the sound was eerie, and he hoped Edward would come home soon.

Edward found Richard Van der Burge in his bungalow. He was sitting staring at the wall. His suit was sweat-stained and his shirt grimy. The room stank of his body odour, dirty socks and discarded clothes. Edward closed the door quietly and chucked the key on the dressing table. ‘I thought Skye Duval was a bum, but you – look at you! What are you trying to prove, that you can drink this place dry?’

‘Ahhhh, so fucking what? Way I hear it, you’ve been trying hard enough . . . Well, join the AA, Eddie, that’s the “All-time Arseholes”. Trouble is, we’re not too anonymous, haw, haw, haw. Christ, what did you make me come back to this place for, man? That bloody fairy you’ve got working for you is a fucking nutcase, plays ruddy music all day, all night. He tell you I flew out to Pretoria? Yesss, bastard spat at me. That’s what you did, Eddie, you did that!’

‘Here’s five grand – take it and get the hell out of here.’

‘Fuck your five grand, Stubbs . . . You brought me out here, an’ now you’d better cough up if you want me swept under the carpet. Maybe you’d like to blow me up in one of Dad’s defunct mines . . . You’re not just a thief, oh no – I’ve been checking up on you and that poofter.’

Edward knew they had to get rid of Richard fast. He walked out to the waiting car and sat with Skye.

As he drove, Skye kept an eye on Edward. His hair had grown longer and he was fatter, but he was still the most handsome man Skye had ever known.

Edward was miles away. He remembered now, the mine where BB’s sons had died . . . He also recalled Sylvia and BB sitting puffing on a Havana, telling Edward to be sure and marry a strong woman. God, what a joke! The Sylvia syndrome had come full circle.

Skye was still talking. ‘Dickie’s been ostracized, they won’t allow him into any of the clubs. Memories out here are long. He’s pretty objectionable anyway, a real prat.’

Edward leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘We’ve got to get him off our backs, Skye. He said he’d been doing some checking up, don’t want him to get wind of that little incident with Julia, could be very nasty.’ He sucked in his breath.