The Talisman

Chapter eighteen

Edward returned to London and went directly to the new club to inspect its progress. The building had begun to take shape — dining rooms, tearooms, kitchens and rest rooms. Three floors were totally dedicated to gambling — roulette, chemmy, baccarat tables, and private card rooms. The place was filled with designers and decorators, and no expense was spared. The papers had begun to speculate on the owner of the new, elegant club, which would be membership only, exclusive.

Edward had been taken aback at his brother’s obvious adeptness at accountancy, and now he rubbed his hands in satisfaction. Alex was going to be more than useful. Edward had disposed of all Alex’s small business interests, and had taken over only what he saw as reasonably profit-making establishments. Growing slowly now on the site of what had been their old home, number twelve, was a fifteen-storey tower block. When the building was finished he would have a sign erected the size of the roof saying simply, ‘Barkley Ltd’.

He worked like a man possessed — he was everywhere, like a whirlwind. He seemed to have inexhaustible wealth, and soon the City was taking notice of Edward Barkley. The property company had expanded, and he was buying up land at such a rate that he swung the property boom even higher, and in doing so doubled his profits. The small building yard had now grown into a vast concern with over two hundred employees. Edward bought, rebuilt fast and sold. He used bombed-out areas as car parks, and with only one man required to sit in a small hut and take the money, it was an easy, lucrative business — one speculators began to watch out for. Edward Barkley had fingers in every pie, and yet no one seemed to know where he had come from.

Edward needed little sleep, often working right through the night in his office. He went through the stacks of files he had taken from the old Masks Club. Dora’s notes made more than interesting reading. Her lists of clients were what attracted him — not the ordinary customers but her own private business. Edward thumbed through the pages and what he found made him laugh aloud. ‘Dora, Dora Harris, you little slut... You lovely little muckraker!’ The lists contained not only the names, but also their references. From judges to politicians, film stars to the landed gentry and, under ‘R’ — the royals. With the lists were carefully documented films, tapes, photographs. Edward knew he had a small goldmine, and he was going to tap it to exhaustion.

The following morning Edward met with his PR company. There were now some extra names he wished to add to his guest list for the party at the chateau, ones he knew would not be able to refuse, thanks to Dora. However, they would be dependent on very high society names accepting the Barkleys’ invitation in order to swing them into the upper echelons on both sides of the Atlantic. If the Windsors agreed to be present, the floodgates would open.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor now resided in the south of France with a hard core of both English and French society surrounding them like an army. It was known that the royals were not above being paid to make an appearance, and Edward suggested a possible approach on those lines. He was told, however, that Mr Barkley did not even warrant that.

Edward refused to take no for an answer, knowing that with the Duke and Duchess making a social appearance his and Alex’s names would be placed on society lists throughout the world. He persisted, never actually negotiating appearance fees, but offering vast amounts to charities the royal couple were known to lend their names to, and eventually he received a short cryptic note of acceptance. It was now ensured that the party would be one of the biggest and most aristocratic of the season. With the royal couple as bait, acceptances would be assured.

The preparations reached fever pitch. Teams of waiters and caterers flocked over the lawns, blooms were shipped in from all over the world for the ornate floral displays. The society columns had a field day, quoting the names of the guests, and soon there was a scramble for invitations to the opening of the chateau.

One hundred waiters and eighteen chefs had been inspected, and everything was ready. Edward admired himself in his dressing-table mirror, then went to see Alex.

‘Oh, you’re wearing a white tux, well...’

Alex looked far more sophisticated in the new, fashionable white tuxedo. Edward fingered the collar, stepped back to get a better look. ‘Excellent fit, who’s your tailor?’

Alex laughed, and told him that was rather a dated expression, his designer was a young Frenchman. Edward immediately took another look at himself. ‘Do I look all right, then?’

Alex nodded. He was more worried about his greetings to the royals, going over his carefully rehearsed instructions yet again.

‘Right, this is it, Alex. Let’s get it over with — we walk down together, okay, side by side.’

The two brothers moved to the head of the staircase and began to walk down to greet their guests.

Alex wondered how on earth he had arrived at this point in his life. He felt strange, ill at ease, and part of him knew that this was a turning point in his life. He didn’t want to let Edward down in front of their three hundred guests, but he felt like an actor about to open in his first play, shaking with first-night nerves. He wished he had someone he could at least feel close to, someone he could associate with, but there was no one. Did he want this charade? He didn’t know, couldn’t fathom how he felt, and suddenly it was too late for doubts.

He stood at his brother’s side, shaking hands and welcoming everyone, knowing no one. Time and time again Edward gestured for Alex to join him in a throng of people, and he smiled shyly, shaking hands, his face stiff from smiling and bowing and thanking everyone for their congratulations. He felt exhausted.

The party was going without a hitch, but there was tension as the guests waited for the Windsors to make their appearance. They murmured to each other, constantly watching the brothers, but were polite and cordial at the same time as they consumed vast quantities of champagne and the delicious food.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor arrived two hours later, and set the chateau buzzing as everyone took sneaky looks at the couple standing talking to Edward Barkley. Alex was brought over to meet them, and was so desperately shy he could say nothing. The Duchess asked to be given a tour of the chateau, and Edward, about to lead them into the lounge, froze. ‘Please excuse me, Your Grace... Alex, please...’

Alex gestured for the couple to walk ahead of him, glancing at Edward for a moment, afraid to be left alone with them. ‘Edward, you all right?’

‘I’m fine, I’ll join you. Go on, don’t keep them waiting.’

Edward’s heart was pounding. He was sure, sure he had seen Harriet. He threaded his way among the guests, shaking hands automatically and smiling his thanks at their compliments. He reached the far end of the marquee, stared around. He told himself he must be mistaken, why would she be here? But he couldn’t stop searching every face. Memories flooded through him, swept over him. He had once read her name in a society magazine, and had even thought about trying to contact her, but decided against it. He straightened his bow tie, and was about to hurry back to Alex when he heard her laugh.

Harriet was standing with her back to Edward, wearing a simple white cotton dress. Edward could see the freckles on her back, even though she was tanned to a wonderful golden colour. She had a glass of champagne in one hand and a small white clutch bag in the other. Pierre Rochal was at her side and he, too, was laughing. One of their party turned and saw Edward.

‘Oh, you must let me introduce you... this is Edward Barkley, our esteemed host — Edward, come and meet some dear friends of mine.’

Harriet turned. As she was introduced, she tossed her champagne glass over her shoulder. It was an unconscious gesture as she held her hand out. Everyone thought it was very amusing, except for an elderly gentleman who looked on in stunned amazement.

‘We are gatecrashers, you don’t mind, do you?’ said Harriet brazenly. ‘Only, we couldn’t resist Jasper when he said we could tag along. Do you know Dr Pierre Rochal? And this is Daisy Millingford... and, oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?’

A blonde woman introduced herself, nudging Harriet in irritation as they had been at school together. The moment of forgetfulness was the only indication Harriet gave that she was shocked at seeing Edward again. She showed no interest in him, and soon made her way to the buffet. Edward excused himself and followed. He stood behind her as she surveyed the vast spread of food and one of the staff stood poised to serve her. Harriet picked up a chicken leg and bit into it.

Edward’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

‘You’ve changed your name.’

‘Can I see you?’

‘What on earth is this slimy stuff all over the chicken, it’s awful.’

‘Where are you staying?’

Pierre joined them at that moment, and smiled apologetically at Edward’s discomfort.

‘Pierre, don’t touch the chicken, it’s dreadful... Did you meet my fiance, er... Edward? Do you mind, Mr Barkley, if I call you Edward?’

Pierre smiled again at Edward, then told Harriet they were leaving. He appeared rather embarrassed by her rudeness, and thanked Edward for his hospitality. As they turned to go, Edward caught her by the hand. ‘Where can I find you?’

She withdrew her hand, and her brilliant, sparkling eyes glittered. She tossed her head and walked away without a backward glance.

Alex sat with the Duke of Windsor, Her Grace having departed to talk with other guests. They were discussing seventeenth-century furniture, and the Duke was fascinated. Alex leafed through his book and showed a Chinese painting table, Huang-Hua-Li wood with a carved bamboo motif.

‘So what price would a piece like that fetch?’

Alex told His Grace it would be in the region of seventy-five thousand dollars. Together they inspected the few pieces Alex had already purchased, the small lute table in hardwood, and they walked into the master bedroom to stand side by side looking at a Chinese rectangular side table, again made of Huang-Hua-Li, but sixteenth century.

‘They are very good investments, sir. You see, there are nineteenth-century copies that are fetching extremely high prices. These will always rise in value because of their rarity... the most rare piece would be a seventeenth-century bed, no one has ever found one.’

They got down on their hands and knees to feel the highly polished wood and examine the joints. The Duke was absolutely intrigued...

Sitting at a small garden table in deep discussion with Edward was Count Frederique Rothschild, who offered to purchase the chateau, with all its contents, outright. He wanted to spread his vineyards right across the valley, and the chateau was perfectly placed for the champagne-growing region. They shook hands and agreed to meet within the next day or so to arrange the price.

Edward was beginning to get irritated. The party was clearly a hit, but his brother was nowhere to be seen. Guests were leaving without Alex there to bid them farewell.

He looked around for his prize guests to get them to pose for photographers and wondered if they had left after only a few moments, as was their wont.

Moving from table to table, his computer-like brain stored names and faces for future reference, and still there was no sign of Alex. A butler moved unobtrusively to his side and whispered that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s car was being brought round to the main entrance. Edward posed with some of the other guests for the photographers, then weaved his way towards the main entrance where a chauffeur waited with the white Rolls-Royce, engine ticking over. Edward hurried back into the hall and through the group of people who stood there chatting, and was just about to go in search of Alex when he stopped, open-mouthed.

Down the staircase came the Duke, his arm resting loosely on Alex’s, their heads close, in deep conversation. Edward watched in amazement as the Duke reached the bottom of the stairs and a waiter appeared, carrying a small wooden box.

‘Oh, this is really most kind of you, most kind, I shall treasure this, and I assure you I will take an avid interest from now on. This is really an exceptional gift.’

The Duchess joined her husband and he displayed his precious gift, the small seventeenth-century box. Rather casually, she waved her hand for the waiter to take it to the car. The Duke jumped to attention at her side, while Edward stood at the door to see the most important guests to their car. They barely looked at him, but gave Alex a firm handshake before they drove away.

It was late evening when the last hangers-on departed, and the debris of the day was cleared away. At last Alex was able to take a long, soapy, relaxing bath. He felt exhausted. He didn’t even know if the event had gone well or not, he was too tired.

‘Well, well, old chap, you surpassed yourself, and what was that thing you handed over to your new pal? Couldn’t believe my eyes! What on earth did you give the Duke?’

Alex explained that the Duke had been taken with the small Chinese box, and Edward laughed. Perhaps they should get a collection of them to hand out if they were so popular. Alex soaped his hair, too tired to go into details.

‘Got some news — place is sold, lock, stock and barrel, doing the deal first thing in the morning... We did very well, buddy boy.’

‘Why sell, in God’s name, why? After the months I’ve put into it, and just like that you’re selling, it’s madness.’

Edward toasted his brother, and said that four and a half million did not sound like madness to him. ‘Alex, you can buy yourself another place, do it up, but the chap wants it, with all the contents.’

Alex climbed out of the bath, saying there were a few things he would like to keep.

‘Take ‘em, ship ‘em back, no problem.’

Alex wanted his Chinese furniture. He knew and loved each piece, so he gave in without a murmur. Edward raised his glass.

‘To London, to your return... Mr Barkley.’

Alex couldn’t sleep. He was returning to London. It had been a long time, and his nerves were on edge. It was after three in the morning, and he was surprised to find a light still on in the kitchen.

Edward was sitting, staring into space, a bottle of Scotch at his elbow. He turned bleary eyes to Alex — he was drunk. His words were slurred, ‘Ehhhhh, I wake you up? Did I wake you?’

‘No, couldn’t sleep. Do you think it went well?’

‘Yeah, yeah, went well... want a drink?’

Alex got a glass and sat down. Edward poured most of the whisky over the table. ‘I’m thinking of getting married.’

Alex fetched a cloth to wipe the table. He laughed. ‘You joking? Getting married — who to, in God’s name?’

‘Girl I know.’

‘Well, I didn’t think it’d be a bloke! Who is it?’

‘I want a son, four... four boys... yes, cheers.’

Edward lurched to his feet and raised his glass in a grand toast, knocking his chair over. In the end Alex had to help him to bed. He tried to undress him, but Edward was so drunk it was virtually impossible.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘Yes, you said...’

Edward passed out. Alex stared at him for a moment, then went out and closed the door quietly. He wondered if Edward would still be getting married when he sobered up.

In the press the following day there were many pictures of Edward, and a few of Alex, always in the background. But the most important thing was that they were on the inside track — at least, it was important to Edward. Alex looked at his brother — hung-over, propped up in bed with all the newspapers littered around him, reading all the relevant articles aloud to Alex. He made no reference to his forthcoming marriage. As he read, he was downing ‘the hair of the dog’ from a tumbler. His shirt was stained, and he had tossed his trousers on the floor. He was brash, loud, and Alex was thinking how uncouth he was. With a big Havana cigar clamped between his teeth, he was struggling to translate the French papers. Suddenly, Alex started to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

Alex didn’t say, he couldn’t explain, but he had made good use of his years in France. If anything he was more of the gent than his brother. The one who had looked like, and been, a thug had overtaken the other and he knew it. Alex found it exceedingly humorous.

‘So when’s the date? Last night you were getting married — still on, is it?’

‘Yep — just got to straighten a few things out — like her fiance for starters.’

‘So you’ve not actually asked her, and she’s engaged to someone else? Well, I wish you luck. Who is she?’

‘You know that twerp, Jasper thingy, has the big boat in the harbour? Get him over for lunch... No, fuck the lunch, ask him for a drink this morning, would you?’

Alex checked his watch and reached for the telephone. ‘No sooner said than done. You don’t mind if I give it a miss, do you? There are a few things I’d like to get organized before we leave for London, and I should like to get a detailed inventory of the chateau...’

Edward threw back the bedclothes and rubbed his head. He was still badly hung-over, and wearing his socks. Alex noticed one of them had a large hole in the heel. ‘I’ll get you some socks while I’m in town...’

Waiting for the operator to connect him with the boat, Alex looked around the bedroom. It was unbelievably messy and reminded him of when he and Edward had shared a bedroom as boys. Jasper Hamilton’s lazy drawling voice gave Alex no chance to dwell on the past. Jasper was a strange effeminate man, known to be biding his time until he inherited a family fortune, a fortune made from a special brand of mustard. He had also seemed on familiar terms with both Harriet and Rochal at the party. Jasper was known to have considerable debts as he chose to live in great style and without the means to pay for it, his ‘hot mustard money’ still clenched in the hands of his ancient mother.

Edward didn’t beat about the bush. Within minutes of Jasper’s arrival he was offered money for information regarding Pierre Rochal. Jasper’s eyes lit up, and he sat back to feed Edward any scrap of gossip he could think of. This included the restaurant the couple used regularly on the harbour front.

Edward obtained a prominent table for lunch at the restaurant, and had just started his meal when Pierre and Harriet sauntered in. He asked them to join him, but Harriet politely refused, saying they were expecting friends. They sat in a booth and Edward finished his meal alone. No one joined them.

Pierre could see Harriet was on edge, and asked her if it was anything to do with Edward. Deftly filleting her trout, she laid the bone on the edge of the plate, refusing to answer the question.

On the beach later that afternoon, Pierre checked his watch to see if he had time for one last swim before going back to work on the barn. Shading his eyes, he could see Harriet mono-skiing way out in the bay. He waved his towel, and started to pack their beach bag. He looked up a moment later to see Edward Barkley sitting on the sea wall. He wore dark glasses and a seasonal, open-necked shirt, but with a dark suit over it. Edward gave Pierre a nonchalant wave and gazed out to sea.

Harriet was an extremely good water-skier, and was now executing a jump. The water sprayed out behind her... the boat made a wide curve and headed inland. She released the rope and glided into the shallows.

When she and Pierre walked up the beach, she gave Edward a polite nod. They climbed into the Aston Martin and roared along the quayside, but Harriet did not even turn her head in Edward’s direction.

Alex was furious — Edward had raided his wardrobe. The doors stood open, his suits were thrown across the bed, shirts had dropped off their hangers.

‘Edward? Edward! If you want to borrow my clothes have the decency to ask! You’ve chucked everything all over the room.’

‘Well, you’re shorter than me, but what d’you think, look all right?’

He was wearing a pale blue cotton suit with a white tee-shirt underneath it. His face was tanned, and his teeth shone whiter than white.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Alex. ‘Do you know what time it is? It’s after ten.’

‘Yeah, well, the discos don’t hot up until late, I’ve been told the groovy people don’t arrive until after ten, so... You don’t have a comb? Can’t find mine.’

Alex handed him a comb and watched as Edward stepped back from the mirror to admire himself. ‘She can’t resist me tonight, eh, buddy boy?’

‘I’ve released the staff as from tomorrow, that all right? And I’ve arranged a meeting with Rothschild... Eddie? Edward!’

‘Fine, you handle it — whatever you say. See you in the morning.’

Pierre was beginning to get irritated. It was quite obvious that Edward Barkley was trailing around after them. First at lunch, then the beach, even the intimate little restaurant they used for dinner. He was always alone, always asking if they would care to join him, when it was he who obviously wanted to join them. Harriet gave him not so much as the time of day. His appearance at the disco made her burst into laughter, but she still refused to talk to him. The latest thing to annoy Pierre was Edward walking up to them on the dance floor and asking if he could cut in. Harriet put her hands on her hips and cocked her head on one side. ‘Cut in? Oh my God, I haven’t heard that expression since I went to dances in the church hall.’

Edward still stood in the centre of the small, square dance floor. The music was so loud it was almost impossible to hold a conversation, so Harriet bellowed, ‘Do you mind, Pierre? Perhaps if I give him one dance he’ll leave us alone.’

Pierre shrugged and went moodily back to their table. Their friends asked him about Edward — the papers had been full of his chateau and the party he had thrown. They all watched the couple on the dance floor with interest.

Harriet danced around while he made pitiful efforts to mimic the strange movements of the other dancers. In the end he pulled her close to him.

Close to him, feeling him against her, she couldn’t play any more games. He bent his head to talk to her, shouting above the music. ‘I want two minutes with you alone, two minutes.’

Pierre watched them thread their way among the tables. He had seen the intimate way Edward had drawn Harriet into his arms, the way she leaned close. Whether she liked it or not, he would have it out with her that night. It was obvious she knew the intrepid Mr Barkley very well.

Harriet and Edward walked along the sea front. He didn’t attempt to touch her — they kept about a foot apart. When they stopped, he laid his hands on the rail, and she did likewise. She was even taller than he remembered, and her body was taut, lithe... He could see the strength in her hands as they gripped the rail. Her curly red hair was cropped like a boy’s, and gave her an urchin quality, a tomboy look. He had her to himself, and he was dumbstruck. Not knowing how to begin, he inched his hand closer and closer to hers on the rail, until they touched. The contact helped him, but when he spoke, his voice sounded alien. ‘I love you, Harry, and I want to marry you. I love you.’

He wanted desperately to hold her close, but she moved her hand away, and he could see her knuckles whiten as they tightened on the rail. She gazed at the sea as she spoke. ‘You know how many times I have dreamed of this moment, dreamed of you saying exactly that... I waited, you know, I waited for you...’

He touched her cheek gently, a soft, stroking gesture. He felt her stiffen, turn her head away from him. He couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say to her. Pierre was at the entrance to the club, holding her wrap. He called out. ‘Harry... Harry... Harry!’

‘You are too late, Edward, leave me alone, please, go away from me.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, but so cold, so unemotional he turned and walked away. He couldn’t help but look back, and Pierre was wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She remained staring out to sea.

Edward ran along the dark beach, ran until he flopped exhausted on to the wet sand.

Pierre had to prise Harriet’s hands away from the rail. He guided her to the car and drove her home in silence. When they pulled up outside the barn, she turned to him. In the dim light the tears sparkled on her cheeks.

‘I can’t marry you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re freezing — come on, I will make you a hot drink.’

‘No... I’ll stay with Daisy — it’s better that way. I’m sorry, please don’t ask me to explain.’

‘I think I deserve some explanation, for God’s sake. It’s him, isn’t it? Edward Barkley?’

He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘At least I saved you forking out the price of a ring.’

‘This is no time to joke, Harry. At least come inside and talk about it.’ But Pierre could not persuade her to leave the car. Eventually he slammed the door and walked into the barn.

It was quite a while before he heard the engine revving, then the car roared off. He downed a large brandy in one gulp and hurled the glass at the wall. The next second he heard the screech of brakes outside. He ran to the door. ‘Harry? Harry?’

Edward Barkley stood in the pitch dark, his Rolls-Royce parked precariously near to the edge of the open well.

‘I want to talk to her, let me talk to her.’

‘She’s not here...’

‘Don’t bloody lie to me...’

Pierre shouted, but Edward charged him like a mad bull... disappearing down the well with a howl. Pierre peered down the deep hole. ‘I tried to warn you — I’ve a good mind to let you stay down there.’

‘Fucking hell, I think I’ve broken my nose.’

Pierre examined Edward’s face. His nose was intact, but he would have a very black eye. His temple was already turning a dark, angry purple. Pierre handed him a damp cloth. ‘You’ll live. You want a drink?’

‘Christ, I feel such a bloody fool.’

‘I guarantee you’ll look even more like one tomorrow, you’ll have a real shiner. Here — it’s brandy, but more than likely not the vintage you’re used to.’

‘Where is she? I have to talk to her.’

‘When you’ve finished your drink I’ll put the storm lights on. You’ll have to back down the track... she’s staying with friends.’

‘Where?’

‘Why don’t you just get the hell out of here before I throw you out?’

Edward downed his brandy and stood up. He towered over Pierre. For one second he even thought about throwing a punch, but instead he walked to the door. Turning, he held out his hand. His suit was sodden, his face bruised, and there was a helpless air to the big man.

‘I love her... I’m sorry to come here like this. If I’d been in your shoes I’d have let me rot in the well... Harry and me, we go back a long time. You take care of her... I won’t bother you again.’

Pierre had never seen such raw and desperate emotion in a man before. It made him feel inadequate. Edward obviously loved her and, given the choice between the two, Pierre was sure he would be the loser. In truth he already knew he was.

Pierre told Edward where he could find Harriet. He even held a torch so Edward could reverse safely down the track. Then he walked back to the barn. Half-painted in bright daffodil yellow, it called out her name... She was everywhere he looked, and he made up his mind to leave for Paris, cut short his holiday.

It wasn’t until Pierre had packed that he felt a strange sensation of relief — a confusing and unexpected emotion. He tried to analyse his feelings, and eventually they were clarified by a moth-eaten teddy bear. The small, worn bear sported a hand-knitted vest with the letter ‘E’ embroidered very badly on the front. The bear travelled everywhere with her, and he knew she would be frantic without him. But this was no longer Pierre’s responsibility — it was Edward Barkley’s.

Edward rang the bell beside the electric gates. There was not a light to be seen. He kept his finger on the button, rattled the gates, but still there was no answer. After prowling around the walls, he got into the Rolls and drove it close to the wall — so close he scraped the wing on the driver’s side. He then climbed out of the passenger door, on to the roof, and scaled the wall.

Once inside the grounds he made his way to the main entrance. As he stepped on to the porch all hell broke loose — two Dobermann pinschers galloped across the lawn, teeth bared. Edward almost pulled the door knocker off its hinges while he shouted at the dogs. Suddenly, lights blazed in the hallway, he heard voices shouting and the frightened face of Daisy Millingford’s father appeared through the frost glass door panel.

Edward just made it into the hall before he lost his trousers to the dogs. A gardener in a dressing gown dragged them back, snarling, to their kennels. Daisy rushed down the stairs, pulling her hair rollers out while trying to explain to her father who Edward was.

In the midst of the confusion, Harriet appeared at the top of the stairs. Edward, in his filthy, mud-splattered suit, sporting a black eye, ran up the stairs two and three at a time. The family looked on aghast, while Daisy shouted that he was Edward Barkley, the Edward Barkley from the chateau.

‘I love you, Harry, I love you...’

Edward showed not the slightest embarrassment at his extraordinary behaviour. Harriet sat on the stairs, her legs shaking. She was wearing a ridiculous, frothy pink nightdress of Daisy’s.

Daisy ushered her family and the housekeeper into the kitchen, leaving the lovers alone, but before she closed the door she took a quiet look...

They were sitting side by side, their arms about each other. If Harriet turned him down now, Daisy would be up those stairs like a hare... She closed the door, and tried to explain to her family what was going on.

Alex woke with a start when his bedroom lights came on. Edward beamed at him from the doorway.

‘Alex, I want you to meet my future wife... Harry, this is my brother, Alex.’

Alex stared from one to the other. Harriet was still wearing the frothy pink creation, with the addition of a blanket around her shoulders. Edward had ruined Alex’s suit, and to cap it all he looked as though he’d been in one hell of a fight. Alex was speechless, but Edward was already on his way out.

‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other... this calls for a celebration.’

Alex ran his fingers through his hair, then gestured for Harriet to sit on the bed. She curled up like a cat at the far end and scrutinized him. He flushed, and tried to think of something to say.

‘I told him not to wake you, but he insisted. This isn’t my nightie, it’s Daisy’s.’

‘Ahhh, I see — that makes all the difference.’

She giggled, and he looked up shyly. Suddenly she crawled up the bed to sit closer to him. She took his hand, kissed his cheek. ‘You look so uncomfortable — you’re not at all what I expected.’

‘I could say the same for you.’

Again she giggled infectiously, and Alex began to relax. She had certainly taken him by surprise — she was not at all the type he would have expected Edward to be interested in, let alone want to marry. She slipped her arm through his as if she had known him for years, and started to tell him how she had first met Edward. Alex had never met anyone like her; as with everyone else who came in contact with Harriet, he fell instantly under her spell.

Alex went shopping with Harry to help her choose her wedding dress. She cavorted around the designer shops, tripping out of the changing rooms in creations worth thousands, the dreadful veils perched on her bouncing curls. She never seemed to tire, and Alex found her exhausting, and often infuriating. Eventually they chose a simple white silk dress in the new, short length. It was even shorter on Harriet, as she was so tall. She didn’t want a veil, choosing instead to wear a small crown of daisies.

Alex also helped Edward buy a suit, and discovered how well matched the couple really were — both were tremendously impatient, and neither had any real interest in style.

None of Harriet’s family was invited to the wedding. Harriet went to great lengths to find a chimney sweep to act as witness. Alex worried about him turning up in his filthy overalls, but Harriet roared with laughter and said she had promised to pay him extra if he did just that, and carried his brush; it was supposed to bring good luck.

On the morning of the wedding Edward was panic-stricken, and made Alex go and check that Harriet was getting ready. Between the two of them Alex was exhausted. It was not enough for Harriet for the pair of them to spend their pre-nuptial nights in separate bedrooms — they had to be in separate wings of the chateau. She would not sleep anywhere near the groom until she had a signed, valid contract to do so.

The two of them were boisterous, like noisy children, and very obviously in love. Edward showered gifts on his bride-to-be — little boxes of jewellery were delivered, unpacked, inspected, and laid out on Harriet’s dressing table. Alex never saw her wear a single piece. She was forever dressed in a pair of old shorts and a tee-shirt, and barefoot.

Harriet screamed for Alex — her new satin shoes were too tight. He was kept running from one wing of the chateau to the other as bride and groom yelled for cufflinks, knickers, socks... He managed to get Edward ready, and planted him in the hall to wait for Harriet. He was about to collect her when she called down the stairs, ‘Both of you close your eyes and hum the “Wedding March”, I’m coming down...’

The brothers stood side by side, humming in unison, then both opened their eyes and stopped at the same time. Harriet was moving slowly down the stairs, the white dress setting off her golden tan, the daisy garland framing her face. She was like a child, looking so innocent it was hard to believe she was nearly twenty-nine. Alex had grown to understand why Edward had been obsessed with her, wanted her — now he saw something else about her he had never noticed before. Harriet resembled their mother, in the colour of her hair, her tallness, and her smile.

Edward whispered, ‘I love her, Alex, my God, I do love her.’

It was not until they were sitting in the registrar’s office that Alex realized Harriet was barefoot. She gave him a sweet, secretive smile, and turned to Edward with such adoration that Alex found himself close to tears.

In a way, Alex was happy to be going back to London now. It was a long time since he had tended his beloved mother’s grave. She could be proud now, happy — her sons, the brothers, were together again. Alex did not yet know just how wealthy Edward was, but he was soon to find out.

Chapter nineteen

Alex, with Mr and Mrs Edward Barkley, returned to London. Alex moved in to Edward’s manor house at Greenwich. The heavy, flocked wallpaper, the windows draped in velvet, the motley collection of furniture from Tudor to Victorian, appalled Alex’s newfound taste. Squashed in alongside antiques were modern leather sofas, anything that had ever taken Edward’s fancy was purchased without a thought of its matching or suiting the manor. There was a sense of decadence, of weight, to the house which Alex found overpowering. Among Edward’s purchases were many old oil paintings, a selection of which hung down the wide, sweeping staircase. Edward surveyed his home with pride, and indicated the portraits. ‘This is your new family, aunts, uncles, parents — take your pick. I got us a good cross-section of ancestors — army fellas and a few sea captains.’

Alex unpacked his bags and gazed out of the bedroom window, across the river. There was the office block, the Barkley Company Ltd sign facing the manor. He was ill at ease — he had only been away five years and yet he felt as if it had been a lifetime. Edward pounded up the stairs, shouting for Alex to get a move on as he wanted to take him to the office.

Harriet rushed from room to room, shouting down the curved staircase. She stuck her head over the banister. ‘What time do we expect you back?’

Edward was already walking out to the drive. He waved and said they would be late, then gestured for Alex to get a move on. It was Alex who blew Harriet a kiss and said, ‘I’ll get him to call you — see you later.’

Alex had met many of Edward’s employees, and his head spun. They all shook his hand, addressing him as ‘Mr Barkley’. Edward showed him off as though he were a prize racehorse, laughing and joking, telling stories about how he managed to persuade his brother to leave their estate in France. Edward carried bundles of magazines featuring the chateau. No one questioned his story about Alex, or Alex’s position as his partner. It was unnerving, as if they had somehow been expecting him.

At long last Alex made it to the inner sanctum, the top floor. Edward flung open the door to an empty office and bowed. ‘I’m right next door. You employ as many secretaries as you need, Miss Henderson here will show you the ropes.’

Miss Henderson, a plain nervous woman in her late thirties, gave Alex a small nervous smile and bade him welcome.

‘I’ll need a desk, a chair, anything will do for now, a telephone and a good calculator.’

Miss Henderson made fast shorthand notes as Edward roared for her to hurry to his office. She excused herself, and left Alex alone in the empty room. It was not empty for long as everything he had requested came to him with remarkable speed. He set to work, and at lunchtime Miss Henderson brought in coffee and sandwiches. Two secretaries followed behind her with arms full of files. Alex already had two stacks either side of his makeshift desk. He looked enquiringly at Miss Henderson.

‘Mr Edward has instructed me to bring all the company files to you. He said he will be back in two to three weeks, something unexpectedly turned up. The car keys and house keys are in reception.’

Although stunned, Alex said nothing. For Edward to up and leave on the first day, without a word, amazed him. But he had little time to be fazed by his brother’s disappearance as the office began to fill up with files, brought in by four typists.

It was after eight when Alex received a telephone call from Harriet. He had completely forgotten to ring her as he had promised. She went very quiet when told that Edward had been called away on business, so Alex made the excuse that it had been very urgent. Harriet hung up.

Over the next few days Alex hardly saw Harriet, as he left very early each morning and returned late. He had made up his mind to move as soon as he could find a suitable house.

One evening when he arrived home, exhausted, he discovered Harriet, covered in paint, decorating one of the bedrooms. The paint was a very bright yellow, and he raised his eyebrows. ‘This the nursery?’

He was surprised at her sharp reaction to his innocent question.

‘No, no... it’s going to be my studio — there won’t be any nursery. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on, I want this finished as a surprise.’

Alex put the brittleness of her manner down to his imagination, his tiredness. Later, alone in his room, he put a call through to Ming. Her soft voice soothed him, and she agreed to come to London as soon as he had found a suitable house. She mentioned that her company was doing very well, and she would have lots of ideas and fabrics to help furnish his new home.

Alex began the mammoth task of reviewing the company files. They continued to be brought into the office all week, and he worked on them throughout each day. The only reason he took time off from the office was to view houses. Eventually he found one to his liking in Mayfair.

There was no word from Edward, where he was or what he was doing, and Alex simply worked on. No one interrupted him except Miss Henderson, who kept up a constant stream of fresh, black coffee.

Exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed, Alex walked beside the river. He had worked day and night for a month, and now he was drained. He was due to move into his own house, but he waited for Edward to return, waited in trepidation and anger, combined with disbelief. The first two days of sifting through his brother’s files had been an eye-opener, but then it went beyond that. Edward Barkley had amassed a vast network of companies, many offshore, with so many people, so many illegal transactions, that Alex was stunned that his brother had got away with it. The frauds were like a spider’s web, weaving and interlocking. There were fake firms as fronts, covering insurance policies in Panama, Brazil... classic cases of ships losing cargoes, the losses obviously fictitious. In one case Edward had sold a cargo of olive oil to a small company at a very low price. The ship had put to sea and blown up, but as well as the insurance payment Edward had been paid for the cargo. Two more ships had supposedly gone down with their cargoes, only this time the ships didn’t even sink — oil streaks were left on the ocean, but the ships sailed into a port, were repainted, renamed and sold... and that was just one of Mr Edward Barkley’s scams. The list was endless, from small-time fiddles to big-time fraud. The details of the pay-offs read like a telephone directory: government officials, Lloyd’s underwriters, Stock Exchange runners. Edward had so many illegal businesses that Alex could hardly keep count.

The building firm employed two hundred men, and it paid wages for two hundred, but Edward actually had over five hundred men working for him on the construction side alone. He found it as beneficial to save two pounds as he did two million.

The Barkley Company actually owned only the fifteenth floor of the tower block, the rest belonged to different companies — but all those companies were, in fact, owned by Edward. Alex had seen turnaround businesses before, but this was on a different scale, in a different league... and the money was being constantly shifted, like dogs on a racetrack. The property developments were vast, the net spread right across London. Blocks of apartments were bought, given a lick of paint and sold again within days. Edward seemed to have a monopoly on blocks of flats coming up for sale — leaseholders were bought out, and the buildings were sold at three times the purchase price with vacant possession. Edward was pushing the property boom forward, but he held on to large areas of prime building land. To enable him to do this he had to have a very fast turnover on the properties.

Car parks appeared on bomb sites, bringing in an incredible amount of cash. Some of the takings were declared, the rest was diverted into housing developments. How could tax officers know how much money a car park took each day?

Alex went through lists of numbered companies in detail. They were on separate sheets, and were obviously smaller than the others Alex had examined. They had no names as such, simply code numbers, and it was obviously all some kind of fraud. The business ranged from toiletries to household and fancy goods for the wholesale trade. Under the heading of ‘Outlets’ were the same businesses again, plus over fifty warehouses dotted all over South London. Then there were scrapyards, transport companies, delivery companies... Alex calculated that the number of staff required to operate all these must run into hundreds. There were no names, no payroll details, no accounts. The scrapyards collected anything from household waste to industrial and government assignments. He began checking each one to try to make sense of it, and details of more fraudulent transactions began to emerge.

Many of the proceeds Edward had ploughed into housing estates, but no accounts were attached. Alex kept on matching tax numbers, and realized that Edward had been using false numbers and channelling goods in quick buy-and-sell transactions that, taken together, were so immense Alex could only surmise that he had been handling cash flows of between one and two million, and recorded none of it.

Miss Henderson buzzed through to Alex’s office. ‘Mr Edward has just returned, sir. You asked to be informed immediately.’

‘Thank you, Miss Henderson.’

Alex checked his watch, looked around his office. The whole room had been redesigned, with hi-tech equipment: telex machines, calculators, direct lines to the Stock Exchange, all modern and economical, streamlined and efficient. Alex pressed his fingertips together, drew a deep breath. He was going to have a showdown, and he wouldn’t back off.

Edward’s office door was ajar, the keys dangling in the lock. As Alex entered, he turned and waved for him to sit down. He was on the telephone, so Alex sat in a heavy leather wing chair and surveyed the room. He had not been in the office before, the door was kept locked. There were the same heavily built panelled walls, a carved stone mantel with a false coal fire, and a plum-red carpet. The desk was massive, with huge claw feet. A couple of wing chairs were the only other furniture in the room. The desktop was empty apart from a row of telephones. Alex smiled to himself at his brother’s obvious taste for the old-fashioned, old-world style of living; the room could have been lifted straight from the manor. Somehow it matched Edward — he was so tall, his frame running slightly to fat, but his shoulders were like an athlete’s. The ever-present cigar was sticking out of his mouth. ‘Fine, tell them we’re not interested... Yes, tell them that. They refused the first offer, tell them it goes down every week they delay, it’s up to them... Maybe, but I also happen to know the company’s going bankrupt, so we’ll see how they react... fine, call me.’

Edward replaced the phone and went to the fireplace, twisted a carved lion’s head on the mantel. ‘I had this made, you like it? It’s my safe.’

The safe was concealed behind a portrait in oils, and Alex thought the subject was the Duke of Wellington.

Edward removed some files from the safe. ‘Right, this is it, more or less. It’ll take time for you to sift through them all, but you’ll have to. The accountants are listed along with the documents — different man for each section, but you’ll take responsibility for them overall.’

He went back and forth to the safe, stacking ever more files on the desk. Lights flickered on the phones, but Edward paid them no attention. ‘Got something for you, one for you, one for me... had ‘em made specially.’

He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a small leather case. ‘We’ve changed our names, but we must never forget where we came from. Whenever things go bad — God, hope they never do, but if they ever should, this’ll help. One look at it’ll make things all right, because we can never go back — we never want to, but I’m not ashamed, it’s necessary.’

Alex couldn’t think what he was working up to and was surprised when, for a brief second, Edward looked vulnerable. He went to stand by his brother’s side.

Edward continued, ‘Remember Dad saying about how they buried the Romanies’ precious things with them? Well, I buried her necklace in the grave.’ He opened the small leather box, and unwrapped some tissue paper. ‘I went back, about a month ago, dug it up — I made it all neat again, so don’t worry. I had these made up from the gold, one for you, one for me.’ He held out a small gold medallion on a fine gold chain. Alex turned it over — it was only the size of a sixpence, and engraved on it was the single word, ‘Stubbs’. Edward slipped his own on and tucked it down inside his shirt collar. ‘Put it on, after all the trouble I went to get it. Go ahead, put it on.’

Without a word, Alex slipped the chain around his neck.

Abruptly, Edward sat down in his leather chair, swung around and tapped the files on the desk. ‘South Africa’s wide open, doing a few deals, should have some good results by next week... They still live in fucking mud huts. We start a housing project over there... Alex my old son?’ Receiving no reply, he looked searchingly at Alex. ‘Something wrong? What’s up?’

‘How does twelve years for fraud sound?’

Edward’s face changed, suddenly sharp, vicious.

‘You got something niggling you, why don’t you say it?’

Alex threw his arms up in fury. ‘Niggling? Niggling me? Jesus Christ, Edward, you’re a fucking crook. I’ve never seen accounts like them, and what’s more, I don’t see how you’ve been getting away with it.’

‘Because, old chap, on the surface I am a very respectable citizen... I also employ a team of men whose sole job it is to make sure I don’t get copped, and now it’s your job. You think any of my little businesses are too risky, fine — I’ll get rid of ‘em, because I can’t afford at this stage to have even a murmur go round. I admit there’s a few petty fiddles...’

‘Petty? Eddie, you are fiddling on every side of every business! It’d take just one, just one nosey little tax inspector, and you’d fall like a pack of cards. You’re moving money from bank to bank, next month shifting it to another — you keep on buying more and more businesses and you’ll be wiped out.’

Edward shrugged and said fine, Alex should get rid of any he felt were not viable assets, that’s what he was in the business for.

‘It’s not just that. The whole structure of the company stinks. You’ve got more offshore companies than you know what to do with, half of ‘em you’ve shelled out money for just for the names, you haven’t even used them... Unless what I read in the files is a lot of bullshit and you’re keeping stuff from me, and if so we can’t work together. You’ve got to come clean with me, Eddie.’

‘Don’t call me that!’

Alex raised his hand in a gesture of submission. ‘Okay, okay — Edward, that all right? I can sort through these companies and get rid of them, fast. You cannot be associated with these frauds. All the pinball machines, the fruit machines, we can hang on to, but the scrapyards and the warehouses stocked with hot goods have to be cleaned out, and we start afresh. No documents here either, nothing must link you to them if there’s ever an investigation.’

Edward sighed, bored. ‘The law’s paid off, I’ve paid them enough to stop any investigations.’

Alex was round the desk before Edward knew it, grabbed him by his lapels. ‘Paid off, is it? Listen, I know every tax dodge there is, I can clean up the mess for you. But, by Christ, you don’t take me down again, not this time... I want any bribes, any shit, cleaned up, because I’ll never go back to jail, hear me...? You got it?’

Edward pushed him away, straightened his suit. ‘Okay, okay, I hear you, no need to get uptight.’

Alex reached for the folder on South Africa and Edward snatched it away. ‘You got your work cut out for you — go on, sell off anything you don’t like the look of. This is just a mining project I’m interested in.’

Alex concentrated on his polished nails. His voice was quiet, controlled. ‘Ten years inside and the smell, the stench, never leaves you, it’s in your clothes, your hair. You go on this way and by Christ that’s where you’ll end up... You’ve got to be sharper, not so greedy, take it stage by stage. You recognize a good deal, but you can’t stop your left hand grabbing.’

For a moment Edward seemed to hesitate, then he thumped Alex on the back. ‘You make a donation to charity, a big one, big gesture — get the Duke of Edinburgh’s youth clubs or whatever, bung it to them. We’ll clean the slate of the dodgy companies, then it’ll be right by the book, all right my son? All right, Alex?’

Alex was still uneasy, he didn’t altogether trust his brother. But he shook the outstretched hand, then said he was about to move into his new house. Edward smiled, but his eyes were cold. ‘You’ve been very busy while I’ve been away. Who’s done it up? You get the Jap woman over?’

Alex turned his back on Edward, walked to the door. ‘No, she was too busy on one of your projects, I managed on my own... Have you thought about contacting Harry yet? You just upped and left, you know, you might have had the decency to call her. I’ll be in my office, should you need me.’

Edward drummed his fingers on the desk. He would have to tread a little more carefully with Alex breathing down his neck. He decided there and then that Alex would be informed only so far, certain deals he would keep to himself.

Edward burst through the front door, his arms full of gifts and an enormous bunch of red roses. He called Harriet’s name and she appeared, wearing an enormous pair of men’s overalls. She waved a paintbrush at the roses. ‘You’ll get those wrapped around your neck, Edward Barkley... What the hell do you mean by pissing off without a word?’

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, really urgent business cropped up, and I had to drop everything and run... You want to see what I’ve brought you?’

‘No.’

Edward threw everything up in the air and smiled at her. ‘Okay... how about getting those overalls off?’

‘Not bloody likely. I’m working, very urgent business cropped up, darling. I’m sorry, now do excuse me...’

Edward chased her up the stairs. Laughing, she flicked her paintbrush at him, then pulled him by the hand into her new studio. He blinked, and rested his elbow on her head. ‘Now, I’m not a very critical sort of chap, Harry, but don’t you think it’s rather bright...’

‘It’s supposed to be... Don’t you like it?’

‘Oh, yeah, I love it... and I like the spotted pattern on the floorboards — how did you do that?’

‘They’re drips, you bastard... See, I did the ceiling — have you any idea how I’ve slaved over this room?’

Edward pulled her close and kissed her neck. She smelt of turpentine and paint. He asked about dinner.

The kitchen was in a shambolic state — dishes piled almost to the ceiling, empty soup tins stacked in a corner... ‘I think I’m going to demand a refund on you, Harry — look at the state of the place.’

‘Well, Alex left, and I can’t cook... We can go and get a takeaway... Indian — shall we have Indian? Or there’s Chinese...? Fish and chips? What do you feel like?’

Edward tossed her the car keys and said she could decide, he was going to take a bath. A short while later he heard her call up the stairs that dinner was served, and went down to the dining hall in his dressing gown. Several small cartons of Chinese food lay on the table, and a note, attached by a drawing pin, which said, ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

Alex was surprised to receive a call at his office so early in the morning. Harriet said he was not to worry, she had been called away on very urgent business, then she hung up. Alex had no idea what she meant.

Alex was working on diligently, gradually putting things in order. Back taxes were being settled, the hundreds of workers legally employed, with insurance cards and tax codes. No fool, Alex was accounting for every penny — profits, valuations, securities, leases, pensions, overseas subsidiaries, losses... he wanted no loose ends, everything carefully documented.

Just as Alex was leaving the office, Edward strode in, unshaven and obviously very worried. ‘I can’t find bloody Harriet, have you any idea where she is?’

Alex slapped himself on the head and apologized for forgetting to mention her call.

‘What urgent business, for Chrissake? Did she tell you where she’d gone?’

Alex shook his head, picked up his briefcase. Edward sighed, then suggested Alex take him back to see the new house. He was in need of a decent meal. But Alex covered fast, saying he would prefer to leave it to another time, he wanted to have the place finished before anyone saw it. Edward didn’t seem to mind, and sat down in Alex’s swivel chair.

‘She’s doing this on purpose, you know, and the place is a tip. Kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.’

‘Well, you didn’t marry her for her culinary expertise, why not get a housekeeper?’

Edward fiddled with Alex’s neat row of pens and began to doodle on the immaculate blotter.

Alex asked, ‘Nothing wrong between you, is there?’

Shaking his head, Edward tossed the pen down. ‘Maybe you’re right, I’ll get a housekeeper — maybe she can make an appointment for me to come over to your place.’

Alex took the sarcasm without comment, and waited for Edward to pass by him before he locked his office door.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into his new house in Mayfair. He walked into the lounge and fixed himself a cocktail, then sat down and surveyed his creation; the semi-gloss, Peking-yellow walls, the ceiling painted in three subtle tones of beige, the cornices and high, trompe-l’oeil skirting boards simulating Siena marble. The curtains were in two shades of golden-yellow pleated taffeta with heavy beige fringing, hanging from pale wooden rods. The sofas and armchairs were covered in a wonderful deep citrus-yellow shantung with scattered marigold-yellow cushions. Several of the chairs were covered with a special chintz copied from an early nineteenth-century design. Alex’s use of colour was so tasteful, and he sat admiring it. The house made him feel content.

The front door opened again, and Alex turned. Ming entered, went straight to him and kissed him. He fixed her a drink. ‘Edward is back, you’ll have to leave.’

Ming shrugged and began to flick through one of the magazines from the orderly pile on the glass-topped coffee table. ‘That’s okay, I have a meeting in New York, I’ve got to do decor for the new shop... Oh my God, have you seen this, it’s in the Tatler, look... “London’s most eligible bachelor, Alex Barkley”.’

Alex handed Ming her drink and leaned over her shoulder to read the article. ‘He was right, that donation did the trick — we’ve been handing out thousands to every charity you can think of. I’ve been in “Jennifer’s Diary” three times...’

As Ming skimmed through the magazine, her own fabrics featured prominently. There were also spreads in three new interior design magazines. She picked up her drink and sat down, crossing her perfect legs. ‘I met a possible client today, Barbara Hunter Hardyman — Texan woman, she came into a fortune. She’s bought a penthouse in New York... I’d like to get into Texas, good property there... Oh yes, can you get a few days off? Just that her father’s ranch is being auctioned off, and I may be wrong, but he was a collector of seventeenth-century furniture... Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone, I get a new client and you add to your collection.’

Alex kissed her and said he would do what he could, but there was a lot of business to sort out.

‘But this would be business! I may be wrong, but it looks as if there might be part of a bed...’

Alex was hooked. No bed of that period had ever been discovered, it was every collector’s dream.

‘I’ll see if I can arrange a couple of weeks off. I certainly deserve it. I’ll wait a few days, see if Harriet reappears.’

Ming raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean she’s left him?’

Alex sipped his iced Manhattan, picked up the cherry and popped it in his mouth. Ming asked again after Harriet.

‘No one knows where she is. She’ll turn up, I think she’s done it on purpose.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I think... oh, I don’t know, I just have a feeling that Edward will have to watch out for her, treat her gently. He thinks she’s doing this disappearing act to teach him a lesson. In a way I agree, but I doubt if it’ll work.’

Ming murmured sarcastically that Edward couldn’t treat anyone gently, it wasn’t in his nature, then went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Alex sighed. He knew she was right, but he felt saddened — he wouldn’t like to see Harry hurt. His mood changed as he looked at the beautifully set dining table. Ming had brought out her own line of tableware, and he was very impressed.

As Pierre Rochal was closing his surgery, the receptionist buzzed through to tell him he had a visitor. He was slightly irritated as he had arranged a small dinner party for his fiancee.

‘Bonjour, amigo.’

‘Harry? Why didn’t you call, let me know you were coming?’

‘Oh, I just popped in on the off chance. If it’s not convenient, I can come back.’

Pierre opened his arms and she came to him, hugged him close. He knew instantly that she was troubled, there were all the tell-tale signs. She looked drawn, with deep circles beneath her eyes, and spoke rapidly, as if her thoughts were racing ahead of her. She was trying desperately to be her usual, ebullient self, but her body was rigid with tension, and she was threading her fingers round and round the strap of her holdall.

‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked. She nodded her head, her face twisting as she fought back her tears. He excused himself and made a quick call to Michelle, his fiancee, to say he was running a little late.

Harriet was not very fluent in French, but she had been with him long enough to understand every word he said. ‘Who’s Michelle?’

He told her, ‘She was my nurse. In three days she’ll be my wife. You’ll meet her later — now, why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Harriet wandered around his surgery. She had been to see her mother, she told him, to ask about her Aunt Sylvia, basically wanting to know more about her own illness. Her mother had been less than helpful, and more worried about the Judge going into hospital for a prostate operation. Pierre watched her, picking up books and replacing them, chewing her nails. Eventually she blurted, ‘Is schizophrenia hereditary? That’s what Aunt Sylvia had, I’m sure, and when I was first ill...’

Pierre kept his voice low, soothing, ‘Now you know, Harry, the first diagnosis wasn’t correct. You have a depressive problem, one you can control, you know that.’

‘But what if I am schizoid, and your father was wrong? He could be wrong... I feel it coming on.’

‘Well, that proves you’re not, because if you were really schizophrenic, you wouldn’t be aware of the change. I’ll prescribe something for you, a new drug, lithium — it’ll help when you begin to feel tense and nervous.’

‘I don’t feel like that, I feel as if someone’s tied a bloody big weight around my neck, and I just can’t get it off me. He just walked out of the house, never even said goodbye, and he didn’t come home for three weeks. How could he do that?’

Suddenly her eyes blazed, her hands clenched at her sides and she began shouting and swearing. Pierre was thankful his receptionist would by now have left. He listened to Harriet’s tirade against Edward, until she slumped in a chair in floods of tears. Pierre insisted she stay with him, and drove her back to his apartment.

Michelle prepared the spare room for Harriet, who was subdued and drowsy, although feeling guilty about her intrusion. Pierre was grateful for Michelle’s understanding — she showed no jealousy, required no explanation. He had told her all about his relationship with Harriet.

Before their guests began to arrive, Pierre checked that Harriet was sleeping, then went to his desk to retrieve her small teddy bear. He slipped it between her arms — he had been right, he had known one day she would come back to him, and now more than ever he was relieved that he had not married her. Michelle, the elegant, immensely rich Michelle, was everything he ever wanted.

Harriet took to Michelle instantly, and was invited to stay for the wedding. She began to recover slowly, although she was unusually quiet, childlike and listless at first. With the drug Pierre prescribed, her depression began to lift, and her old spark returned with a vengeance when Michelle took her on a shopping spree in Paris. Michelle could not help but notice that money was no object with Harriet, and she had only to say she liked something for Harriet to insist on buying it for her. At the House of Dior Harriet’s naturally sunny nature revived. She wanted a new image, and under Michelle’s guidance she chose well. She bought so many outfits and hats that they needed a separate taxi to carry everything back to the apartment.

For the wedding, Harriet wore an Ungaro coat with matching dress. She had chosen a small beret to top the outfit, and her hair, since she had met Edward again, had grown long enough for the latest pageboy cut. She looked stunning and, her confidence renewed, she decided to return to London.

The Barkley Company was now in a secure position, and Edward was well pleased. He congratulated his brother, and handed him a thick white envelope with a flourish. ‘A little bonus, brother.’

The bonus was all very well, but it was time for them to sit down and discuss their personal finances. Edward was as evasive as ever, but Alex knew exactly what the business was worth — or thought he did. Edward still kept some bank accounts secret. But, as promised, he paid Alex his share of the proceeds from the chateau, minus the extras he had put in, of course.

Alex was not happy with the arrangements — suddenly Edward was treating him as an employee. ‘I’m your partner, Edward. I thought that was what we agreed, everything split down the middle.’

But Edward itemized the cash he had given Alex, the cost of the cosmetic surgery, the chateau, the Mayfair house, the million for the club, the small businesses... it all added up. Alex began to get impatient — he knew exactly how much Edward had laid out; he had, after all, done the accounts. ‘So what are you saying, Edward? That I’m not your partner? What am I, then, an employee? Your accountant? That what I am?’

Edward laughed and said of course not, it was just that he wasn’t all that flush with cash at the moment.

‘Edward, who do you think you’re kidding? I know exactly how much you’ve got. Remember, this is Alex you’re talking to, me, Edward... Now, am I your partner or not? Just tell me right now.’

Edward turned on Alex in a fury, saying he had been more than fair. His voice rose as he told Alex to take a good look at himself, take a look at what his brother had made of him. ‘And there’s a few more costs not exactly accounted for, costs I couldn’t put down in any ledger — like your death. You want me to write down how much that cost? It set me back thousands.’

Alex faced Edward and snapped that he knew how much a funeral cost, he could hand Edward the cash right now from his wallet if that was what he wanted. Edward calmed him down and gave him a twisted smile. ‘It wasn’t the funeral that carried the heavy price-tag, it was a bit more involved than that.’

Refusing to let the matter drop, Alex matched Edward’s calmness and took out his wallet. ‘I’ll settle now — how much?’

‘All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It wasn’t as simple as it sounded, you can’t just dump a body in a car and set light to it. Gotta have someone the right size, got to have someone to identify the corpse... that costs a lot, I brought someone over from Brazil...’

Alex leaned against the desk, licked his lips. He knew there was more. Part of him had heard enough, but he had gone too far to drop it. ‘You brought someone over from Brazil to do what?’

Edward hissed at him. ‘Christ, you want me to spell it out? I had a guy bumped off — right size and weight — then I paid off a geezer to give false dental records... Look, it’s over, finished with, forget it.’

Alex began to sweat. He felt chilled, but he wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘Where’d you find this... you just pick some poor bastard off the street?’

‘Look, forget it! He was a bouncer, a bum... no family and nobody missed him. Besides, he started asking questions about you, wanted to know where you were, who I was, so he needed to be got rid of anyway.’

Alex didn’t have to ask the name. He knew it was Arnie, Arnie from the old Masks, who had stood by him, who had given him so much loyalty and friendship when he had taken over from Johnny Mask. ‘I don’t want any part of your stinking money. From now on I’ll earn every penny, earn it, and by Christ don’t you ever try anything on with me, because I’ll wipe you out.’

Edward seemed not in the least bit worried — in fact, he seemed relieved that he didn’t have to part with his hoards. However, he did make it clear that on the subject of Alex’s death they were bound to each other to keep silent.

‘I don’t have any alternative, do I?’

‘No, I guess you don’t... Well, I’d better get on, got a lot to do.’ He strolled out of the office as though they had just had a simple business meeting. Alex sat at his pristine, marble-topped desk, shaken and profoundly aware that he was bound to his brother in more ways than one.

Alex put in a call to Ming. He felt better at the sound of her voice, and began to relax, telling her he would be flying out to New York at the end of the month. Ming’s voice was slightly distorted, the line fuzzy, and she wanted to know exactly which plane, what time, as she had so many business commitments.

‘Alex? Can you hear me? That auction I told you about, shall I arrange for you to fly to Dallas? Alex...’

He paused a moment before he replied. ‘Yes, fine, you arrange it.’

He replaced the receiver, realized the time and hurried home. He had employed a cook and a cleaner, but was still interviewing butlers and valets. Like his accounts, he wanted his home run like clockwork, kept in meticulous order, and today there were three men to interview, all with good references and experience.

Alex chose the last man, James Scargill. His references were not in quite the same category as those of the other two applicants; as an ex-prisoner he had to report regularly to a probation officer. He was a dapper, stiff man, an ex-army batman, and he blushed with shame when Alex questioned him about his record.

‘That is all behind me now, sir, I was a very young man, sir, and went into the army as soon as I was released.’

‘The job is yours, Scargill. I shall require you to double as my valet, butler and chauffeur... is that acceptable?’

Scargill could hardly believe his luck, he had been turned down by so many people. ‘Yes, sir, and I give you my word, sir, you will never regret it. You are, if I may say so, a gentleman.’

Alex gave his new valet a smile, and shook his hand.

Miss Henderson smelt the strong perfume and looked up as Harriet strolled into reception. She had bought Aunt Sylvia’s favourite scent, Chanel No. 5. She wore a black straw hat and a fawn and gold braided two-piece Chanel suit from the latest collection, a black mink draped around her shoulders. Her high heels made her even taller, and Miss Henderson gasped.

‘Would you tell Mr Edward Barkley I’m here?’

Flustered, Miss Henderson looked at Edward’s appointment book, but could see nothing further listed for the day. ‘I’m so sorry, do you have an appointment, Miss...?’

‘Just tell him it’s Mrs Barkley, would you, Mrs Harriet Barkley?’

Miss Henderson blushed and apologized profusely. She had never met Harriet. As she buzzed through on the intercom, Harriet picked up a glossy magazine.

Edward flicked off the intercom, relieved and angry at the same time. He opened his office door and stood back as Miss Henderson ushered Harriet in. He was speechless.

With a small smile of thanks to the nervous Miss Henderson, Harriet sauntered into the room. Her heels made her almost as tall as Edward, at least six feet. He watched her drape her fur over the back of a chair, then parade slowly up and down the room, finishing with a flourish. ‘Well, how do you like the new image?’

‘Where in God’s name have you been? I’ve been worried stiff, why couldn’t you have had the fucking decency to call me?’

‘Ahhh, you like the outfit, do you? Good, because it cost you a lot of money.’

‘The outfit is fine — where have you been?’

‘Oh, it was just something that cropped up, and I had to rush off — you know, just like you had to... Cigarette?’

Edward raised his hands in exasperation. She flipped open a gold cigarette case and extracted a Gitane. ‘Do you have a light?’

‘What in Christ’s name are you playing at? Don’t you know how worried I’ve been? I was going to contact the police.’

‘Oh, I called Alex, didn’t he tell you? Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

Edward lit her cigarette and snapped the lighter closed. ‘I’d like to tan your hide, my girl, and stop playing silly buggers... You’ve been in France? Is that where you’ve been?’

He became more infuriated as Harriet calmly sat at his desk. He couldn’t help but be struck by just how beautiful she looked, but he was seething with jealousy. ‘Pierre? You’ve been with him?’

Harriet stubbed out her cigarette, rested her chin on her hands. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Barkley. From now on, you treat me with respect. If you are called away on business, then you let me know, and I shall let you know where I go.’

‘Ahhh, so that’s what it’s all about, is it?’

‘You were worried where I was — what do you think I felt when you upped and left without a word? Is it a deal?’

Suddenly Edward began to laugh, moving round the desk to her. Taking her hand, he pulled her to his feet. ‘It’s a deal, Mrs Barkley... and before I forget, you look beautiful. From now on, you’ll know my every move...’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Miss Henderson tapped on the door to say she was leaving. She bobbed out again quickly when she found Mr and Mrs Barkley wrapped in each other’s arms. The following morning she informed the typing pool that Mr Edward’s wife was a Paris model with the longest legs she had ever seen in her life.

Chapter twenty

The long-awaited opening of Edward’s club was constantly delayed. It was already May 1961 and nothing had been officially approved. The place was standing ready and waiting, with only a brass plaque beside the door to give any sign that there was a club in the street, but it could not function without a licence. Edward had hoped he would be able to pull strings, but then Alex received a frantic telephone call from him. He was beside himself, they had been refused permission once again. Alex made a few enquiries, and then went round to the club.

Commercial gaming tables, casinos, were illegal. The Royal Commission in 1951 prohibited commercial gaming of any significance, stating that:

Anyone who plays, elsewhere than in a private house, any game in which there is an element of chance for money or money’s worth runs a grave risk of committing a penal offence. There are certain games such as roulette which it is even illegal to play in a private house...

The Betting and Gaming Act went even further than the Commission’s recommendations in allowing a fixed charge to be made in advance to members (of twenty-four hours’ standing) of a club. The Act did not stipulate, as the commissioners had recommended, that the charge should be limited to an amount that would cover the cost of providing the facilities.

Edward listened intently as Alex outlined the gaming laws. They could not move without a licence for their club. If they opened without one they would be shut down and fined heavily. Edward was furious, knowing that illegal clubs were coining it all over London.

It appeared to Edward that Alex was doing everything to dissuade him from continuing the club project. Alex, however, had learned fast and his initial desire to be one hundred per cent legitimate was beginning to bend. He knew more than anyone the potential earnings from clubs, he had after all run one himself.

Edward swung backwards and forwards in his chair, giving Alex sidelong glances. ‘Your nose twitching, is it, brother? I thought you were sidestepping my deal. What d’you want?’

The curse laid to rest with Freedom’s talisman now moved like a shadow into the room. They carried it close to their hearts in the shape of the small gold medallions. The brothers, unaware of its existence, felt nothing untoward happening, but Alex, who had until now refused to participate in any underhand dealing, was changing. Edward felt it, but put it down to simple greed. ‘Well, what d’you want? Part of the club?’

Alex shook his head, leaned forward smiling. ‘I get a percentage of whatever comes through the company, just taking care of my interest... now, will you pay attention and listen. The law has no right of entry into any club to do checks, therefore any criminal proceedings would be slow. That could give us a chance to switch the games. We could stay one jump ahead of the law quite easily, but we will have to think about cabaret, dancing, making the restaurant larger... We can also get around it by bringing in customers. Advertising here is cut to a minimum — in other words we aren’t even allowed to advertise as a club — but there is nothing to stop us bringing in customers from abroad. We hire special flights, give them special deals, overnight memberships...’

Excited, Edward clapped his hands, thumped Alex on the back. He was making phone calls before Alex had finished.

The brass plate outside the club said simply, ‘Banks’. The closed membership had given rise to many people fighting to join. The gaming rooms contained American roulette (with double zero giving advantage to the house), blackjack, punto banco, French roulette, craps, and baccarat, and there were two rooms for private high-stakes poker games.

On the ground floor was an exclusive restaurant, with a larger room leading off containing a small dance floor and a cabaret stage. The interior, so elegant and ornate, drew people like magnets. High-class American acts were hired, and a six-piece band. The staff wore uniform, the hostesses dressed in fashionable evening gowns. All the girls had been hand-picked for looks by Edward himself.

It was made clear to the girls from the word go that he wanted no tricks being turned, no girls earning extras on the side. They were there only for decoration and to be pleasant to the customers, without behaving like hookers.

Six young chorus girls were hired. Their costumes were showy, glitzy and sexy, their routines provocative. They were to open the two sessions of the cabaret, at nine o’clock and midnight. There was just enough room for their routine on the small floor.

Tirelessly, Edward supervised every item in the club, double-checking with Alex, vetting the first night’s guest list for class, contacts and, above all, wallets. ‘No good getting in a crowd that don’t have a cent to their names, so make sure we mix and match.’

Alex was kept on the go, organizing the cashiers, checking croupiers, barmen, doormen. They had to have exemplary credentials, otherwise they were dismissed without wasting a second. The brothers had to watch their backs, knowing how much could be siphoned off.

At last everything was set, and Edward called all the male staff into the restaurant — the chefs, waiters, doormen, croupiers and cashiers. As always, Alex remained in the background, watching from the office door as Edward called them to order. The whole room hushed as Edward waved his hand for silence, standing taller than any of them, wearing a white dinner jacket, a cigar clamped between his teeth. His speech was short and to the point, telling them simply that they had been hand-picked, they were special. He stressed to them that if the club did well they could all expect a bonus. ‘There will also be a large bonus for any member of staff discovering any in-house fiddling, backhanders, from the roulette tables down to the ladies’ powder-room tips. If any member of staff even suspects something is going on, they must come to me in confidence, and they will be rewarded for their loyalty... I don’t have to tell you what will happen to anyone caught with their fingers in the till. The reason I have called you all here, from the head waiter to the washers-up, is that this is a family, one big family, and anyone stepping outside the family circle must be dealt with. The success of the club depends on you all, and I assure you, the more successful we are the higher will be your financial rewards... Thank you.’

Alex watched them file out. They were cocky, self-assured, proud. Edward had such a manner that even the lowliest of the kitchen staff behaved as if they had a share in the club.

Alex and Edward sat together in the private office and Edward, expansive as ever, opened a bottle of champagne. ‘Christ, what a night it’s going to be, this place’ll be a gold mine, bloody gold mine! I’ll have punters fighting for membership — that’s the trick, don’t let ‘em in easy and they come knocking at your door... here’s to us, to Banks.’

Alex raised his glass and toasted the club. The intercom on the desk buzzed, and he flicked it on, then picked up the phone, covered the mouthpiece. ‘Just give everything the once-over for me, would you?’

Dismissed, Alex gave a mock bow. ‘Anything you say.’

As soon as the door closed behind Alex, Edward spoke into the phone. ‘Send her in...’ He picked up Alex’s untouched glass and held it out to Jodie as she entered.

Chosen for her background and experience in three other clubs, Jodie was the head girl. Tall, with elegant shoulders, she wore a long, skin-tight, sequinned dress that flared from the knee into layers of net. Her hair was dressed in a neat coil at the back, swept up to show off her perfect neck and high cheekbones. She closed the door and leaned against it, smiled and arched one of her carefully pencilled eyebrows. ‘I’ve contacted everyone, they know the score. And I put the list in the top drawer of the safe.’

She took the glass of champagne Edward offered her, her long red nails brushing his hand. ‘Cheers... Let’s hope it goes off well.’

‘There’s no hoping, sweetheart — it’s imperative, and I’ve left nothing to chance — nothing.’

More than anyone else Jodie knew just how careful Edward had been, and why he had chosen her above all the other girls. She was on a big salary, double that of most of the others, and she had a dual job. She was to oversee the girls employed in the club, but she was also to make sure that certain clients were taken care of. Using Dora’s stash of films and list of clients, Jodie’s job was to make them aware that their little foibles could be well taken care of. Not at the club, but Jodie would be their contact. Edward had kept Dora’s information to himself — Alex had not the slightest idea it existed.

Jodie sipped the champagne and smiled over the rim of the glass. ‘Club’s name’s good, Banks... “in” joke, is it? Barkley’s Bank?’

Edward laughed, then got down to business, following Dora’s initiative. He had bought a large house in Notting Hill Gate, in a very exclusive area. From the outside it looked eminently respectable, but all its bedrooms had been carefully decorated to suit certain clients’ ‘tastes’. Jodie’s hand-picked girls would be under her direct supervision. It was another, very exclusive, part of Banks.

‘Just make sure, Jodie, that my name is never, never mentioned. There must be no connection whatever between me and the house. One word leaks out and you’ll be out of a job along with the girls, so make sure they don’t even know my name.’

She hitched up her dress, adjusted her stocking seam and told him it was all taken care of. She gave Edward a small salute and swanned out.

Watching her leave, Edward thought, ‘what a waste’. She was a very beautiful woman, but then so was her girlfriend. The reason Jodie was in control was because she hated men, and Edward had gone to great pains to find her. He laughed — that old slag Dora had certainly known her business.

Harriet wore a stunning pearl-encrusted white gown. Her hair was coiled into a thick long braid of false hair, threaded with pearls. Edward introduced her to everyone, and they all were impressed with the very glamorous Mrs Barkley. Harriet appeared to know already a lot of the society people, and took Alex by surprise. She gave no outward show of nervousness. Her familiarity with the upper echelons of the English aristocracy was obvious. Her class reared its head, and she made many introductions, never putting a foot wrong. She was very calm and serene; the tomboy quality had been replaced by a new sophistication.

Alex stood to one side, he remembered Dora, the small Masks club. He smiled to himself thinking how she would have loved to swan around tonight. It was all going very well, in fact better than he had dared to hope and he turned to search the room for his brother. Edward was always easy to find, head and shoulders above everyone else. Like Harriet, he had the same ability to appear attentive, always giving the other person the impression that whatever he or she was saying was of the utmost importance, but somehow Edward had perfected the act and could actually note everything else that was going on around him while he was listening. He didn’t miss a trick. They make a good pair thought Alex as he turned from Harriet back to Edward. Alex saw the flash of pride in his brother’s face as he edged further into the shadows, unnoticed, and able to watch as his brother passed behind her. He saw him rest his hand on her neck. The caress was somehow showing her off as his property and that touch made her stop in mid-sentence and rub her cheek against Edward’s hand. She turned to follow his progress through the milling guests. Alex was fascinated, her eyes were bright, like a child’s, and then her smile froze and he could almost feel her panic. Alex had to crane his neck to see who Edward had joined.

He was speaking to Jodie, his head close, and he was whispering something. Jodie then stood on tiptoe and cupped her hand over her mouth to hide what she was saying. They appeared intimate, close, and Alex’s heart sank. If he had seen it and felt something was going on, then he knew Harriet must be aware of it too. He moved quickly to her side. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Everything is fine,’ she retorted, ‘who’s that blonde woman with Edward?’

Alex shrugged, said she was just one of the girls. They both saw the secretive pair enter the door marked ‘Private’. Alex reached for Harriet’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. He looked at her eyes closely, her pupils were enlarged. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Nothing... nothing, I was just thinking what a lucky man my brother is.’ She had obviously seen Edward’s interaction with Jodie. Her whole body was tense with jealousy. Before Alex could calm her down he heard someone screech. ‘Harryyyy.’

Moving towards them with a lot of waving and floating panels of chiffon came a heavily pregnant Daisy Millingford. She was flushed, and dragging a chinless, equally sweating husband. ‘Gosh Harry, I was hoping I’d see you, this is Charlie, you remember Charlie?’

Harriet turned with any icy expression. ‘No, and you are?’

Daisy was taken aback. ‘Oh Harry, don’t be so beastly, it’s Daisy. I’m married. I sent you an invitation, don’t you remember? Charlie Lambert, this is Harriet Simpson, or I should say Barkley.’

Poor Daisy was met with such a disdainful look she turned nervously to her Charlie. ‘Oh sweetheart, I’m in dire need of a fizzy drink, would you mind?’ He jumped to attention hurrying after a waiter. Daisy tried to cover the embarrassing moment holding out her hand to Alex. Harriet made no effort to introduce him. ‘Hello, I actually met you at your wonderful chateau in France, but I’m sure you won’t remember me.’

Alex murmured that he was delighted to renew their acquaintance. He insisted they move to a table. When they were seated, Alex leaned close to Harriet, who stared with a fixed glower towards the still closed office door. He whispered that he would bring Edward to meet Daisy.

The two girls sat opposite each other. Daisy began talking non-stop. ‘I’m preggers, due in two months... we’ve bought a sweet little mews house in Maida Vale. It was in a dreadful state, but then Charlie isn’t qualified yet, he’s a law student.’

Harriet was staring into space and quite obviously not listening. Daisy battled on, her high-pitched voice getting slightly hysterical. ‘I say, have you seen anything of that Froggy chap you were engaged to? What was his name? You know that barn is still there. Oh, someone bought it and did it up, resold it for a fortune... do you live in town?’

Still Daisy got no response from Harriet. She couldn’t believe Harriet could be so rude. She gave a nervous laugh, patting her hair into place. ‘I’ll just go to the powder room. If Charlie comes, tell him I won’t be a moment.’

Daisy had to ease herself up, and pull down her dreadful dress. Suddenly, she turned angrily to Harriet. ‘I don’t know what I have ever done to you, Harry, but I was your friend, I’ve thought of you so often, even wished I could see you. You’ve changed, and if you don’t mind me saying, I think you are fucking rude...’ Daisy pushed her way to the ladies’ cloakroom.

Charlie brought Daisy’s drink to the table, hesitantly brushing his hair back with the palm of his hand. ‘Sorry I took so long but it’s freshly squeezed orange. She’s all right, isn’t she? Er... is it all right if I sit down?...’ He sat, and almost pulled the cloth off the table as he inched himself round on the velvet booth’s seat. ‘Whoops sorry...’

‘Are you happy, Charlie?’ Harriet asked him.

He appeared a trifle thrown by her question, then nodded his head. Harriet ordered a bottle of champagne and said she would go and look for Daisy.

She found her sitting in floods of tears on one of the small stools in the ladies’ powder room. ‘Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I am sorry, so sorry.’ Harriet sat next to her friend and hugged her close.

Daisy sniffed, and gulped back tears. ‘I’m being stupid, it’s just you look so beautiful, and I feel such a fat, dumpy idiot.’

Harriet wiped Daisy’s face with a paper tissue. ‘Daisy, you look lovely, you know a pregnant woman always looks radiant, didn’t you know that? You are lovely, with your little round tum...’

Daisy looked into her friend’s face. She knew instinctively something was very wrong. ‘What is it, Harry? Have you had that old trouble again? Have you been ill again?’

Harriet bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears, she swallowed, and then pulled a tissue from the box and blew her nose. Daisy remained quiet, simply sitting close. Harriet reached for her friend’s hand and held it tight. She was like a schoolgirl again, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. ‘Oh Daisy, sometimes I just don’t know what to do. I love him so much, and I try so hard to be what he wants. You know, I have spent hours at the beauty parlour today, the hairdresser, this bloody false hair, even my nails are false... I’m on these pills to keep me calm, and it’s like I’m wrapped in a cocoon, but I’m scared to stop taking them in case I have one of my turns... you see I’m not what he wants, not really...’

‘Oh rubbish, what do you mean not what he wants, even Charlie’s eyes were out on stalks when he saw you...’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Well, why don’t you try me?’

Harriet began to pace up and down. She turned and stared at herself. ‘I never was one for all this kind of thing you know. I mean, I try, of course I do... but, right now he’s in his office and he’s with another woman, and I don’t know what to do about it... Daisy, tell me what to do.’

Daisy snapped her little gold evening bag closed. She wagged her finger. ‘Well for a start, Harriet Simpson, you’ve got to stop thinking like this... you just remember how that man hounded after you in France. He didn’t marry one of those bleached blondes out there with dangling earrings, he married you... now just you get back to being Harry. If he’s bonking some bloody woman...’

‘What?... bonking?’

‘Yes, it’s the latest slang for getting the old leg over... if he’s having a bit on the side, give him a wallop and get off those bloody pills, do you have to take them?’

Harry gripped Daisy’s hand tightly, desperately. ‘Oh God, you won’t tell him, will you? He doesn’t know about me.’

‘Oh don’t be stupid, I don’t even see you any more... you want my advice? You go out there and make sure that dish you hooked toes the line. If he won’t, give him that left upper cut you’ve got...’

Daisy was now well into the role of maternal know-all. Harriet laughed, and hugged her friend with such force she almost toppled off the stool. Daisy grabbed the dressing table. ‘And I thought you’d changed, you’re still as clumsy as ever, you know the only time I’ve ever seen you co-ordinated was when you were sitting on a horse. You remember that time you rode on to Daddy’s lawn and he chased you round with the hose?...’

Harriet shrieked, her hand over her mouth remembering the occasion. Daisy began pulling more tissues from the box to wipe away tears of laughter, recalling how her father had soaked everyone with the garden hose, he had been in such a rage... Harriet went quiet, her lips trembled as if she were going to cry. Instead, she gently touched Daisy’s big swollen stomach. ‘I don’t ride... not any more. Take care of your baby, take care of him...’

Daisy cupped Harriet’s chin in her hands. Her puffy face was serious with concern. ‘You know sometimes, Harry, it’s best to turn a blind eye; not all the time, but you know what I mean... your old man will have a lot of temptations with this place, but you’re his wife... he chose you. You love him, don’t you?’

Daisy felt as if she were talking to a child. There was a helplessness about her friend, a vulnerability that made her so touching... even more so when a single tear trickled down her face as she whispered, ‘I love him so, Daisy, I hurt inside, hurt so much sometimes I wish he’d never come back into my life. Do you feel that way about Charlie?’

Daisy laughed, ‘Good God, no... I just grabbed what I could get, and you should get out there before someone grabs what you’ve got...’

In five seconds Harriet was a different person. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffed, and then did a comic Groucho Marx walk to the door. Daisy asked if she could have the name of her hairdresser as she rather fancied a similar false braid down her back. The next moment Harriet pulled off the hair switch and threw it across the room. Harriet winked, gave a small salute, and was gone.

Daisy picked up the hairpiece. The colour reminded her of Harriet’s chestnut mare, she wondered why Harry didn’t ride any more. The baby inside her kicked, and Daisy dropped the hairpiece into the bin, it was the wrong colour for her anyway.

Alex collided with Harriet as he came out of the office. Her hair was standing up on end, and he thought she was drunk. She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Is he bonking that blonde in there?’ Without waiting for an answer, she entered the office. ‘Just what have you been up to, Mr Barkley?’ she said, her hands on her hips like Calamity Jane.

Edward walked round from his desk, and cocked his head to one side. ‘Well, Mrs Barkley, I could ask the same of you, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards... come here, menace, right here and close your eyes.’

‘What have you done with the blonde?’

‘Ah, she’s in the filing cabinet. Now are you going to come here, or do I have to drag you?’

Edward pulled her to stand directly in front of him. He instructed her to close her eyes. She shut her eyes, and waited. She felt the warmth of his hands at her neck, and then something icy cold being draped around her. ‘This is an anniversary present, and it comes with my love... I love you, Harry... I love you.’

He held up a mirror in front of her so she could see the spectacular diamond necklace. His face was concerned, wanting her approval... The outrageous necklace was tasteless and meant nothing to her. The words ‘I love you, Harry’ made her feel as if he had given her the world. She lifted her hand and with the tips of her fingers traced his mouth. An electric shock ran through his body, he wanted to draw her close, but he couldn’t. He was held by the expression in her eyes. There was such pain, such fragility... so much love. Her soft, barely audible ‘thank you’ made him want to break the moment, as he could see her as she had been all those years before standing in the broken chapel with the tiny gold bracelet. He pulled her roughly into his arms, too shy, too afraid she would see such vulnerability in him. ‘Oh, my Harry, I’m so bloody proud of you, you are the best-looking woman out there, do you know that?’ He sniffed, not allowing himself to cry, and he joked. ‘Well, you were, what the hell have you done to your hair?’

‘I gave it to Daisy Millingford.’

He laughed, and he was back in control of his emotions again. He stood back to admire his necklace. He bowed to the door. ‘Your public awaits you, princess.’

Alex watched them enter the main club room, their arms entwined around each other. Jodie’s voice made him start. She stood quietly at his side. ‘Eighty-five thousand pounds around her neck, each stone is perfect, he picked each one himself... he’s opened the box so many times it’s already worn... I think it’s rather old-fashioned... what do you think, Mr Barkley?’

Alex said nothing. He had already said enough when Edward had shown him the necklace. It was similar to the one treasured by their mother only, instead of pearls, Edward had chosen diamonds. Alex touched the gold chain round his neck, and his mouth tightened. Edward had shown off the necklace with such pride, but Alex had been furious without really knowing why. He had even asked what had happened to the pearls; he knew where the gold was, round their necks, but the pearls? He had been stunned when Edward had told him they were buried with her, buried with their mother, and if he didn’t believe him, he suggested Alex should dig up the grave.

Harriet became the centre of attention. Everyone admired the necklace, just as Edward confided to everyone exactly how much he had paid for it.

Harriet danced over to Alex, with a glass of champagne. She made a camp, theatrical gesture with her hand indicating the necklace, then she giggled.

‘Rather makes me look like some ancient grand duchess, don’t you think?’ She hooked her arm through his, and snuggled close. ‘You know, I remember a poem I read once. It said something about painting a picture of the world, a big, big picture, and everything was painted on this picture, you know, everything that was beautiful, and then... then it was rolled up into a big ball...’

Alex listened with only half an ear. He was tired, he wanted to leave. It was after twelve. Suddenly, she lifted her arms and spoke loudly, making everyone around them stop and stare. ‘I painted a picture of the world for you, and I rolled it into a ball, and let it roll to your feet. You picked it up in your arms, and threw it back.’

Edward gave her a small frown of disapproval and she whispered to Alex. ‘He must have thought I was playing.’

Alex excused himself. He asked Harriet to tell Edward he was leaving. She gave him a kiss, and made him promise to call her the following morning.

Alex had always been aware of her strange energy, from the moment they had first met. Now he found it disturbing. When she was excited, she drew people around her, he could see it even now. The delighted faces of people listening to her, telling them stories, making them laugh. But it was all for Edward, her energy was fuelled by him; it was as if he, and he alone, could control it... just as she had said, if she could give him the world, wrap it up for him, hand it to him he would kick it back, thinking it was a game. She knows, he thought to himself, that crazy little lady knows. ‘Oh be warned, Alex,’ he told himself. ‘Never get to be the one in the middle; best stay well clear, get off their roller coaster or she could take you down with her.’

Alex returned to the office to get his coat. He picked up the empty diamond case... the lid snapped shut. It was like an omen, and from that moment Alex made the decision to distance himself from Harriet.

Harriet did call Alex a number of times to invite him for supper, even to meet him in town for lunch as she wanted his opinion on two trouser suits. Alex had refused, very politely. She detected the coldness immediately. She never called him again, never even mentioned it to Edward. She was saddened that he, Alex, could not have talked it over with her, but she understood. She had looked upon Alex as a friend, and was intelligent enough to be aware that perhaps it was not the wisest relationship. She missed him, she had liked him and she had very few friends. She made no attempt to contact Daisy whose forthcoming baby would remind her too much of her own dead son. She made a conscious effort not to allow old emotions to creep back. She was loved, and she was happy, she was safe in Edward’s love, and she stopped taking her pills.

‘Banks’ became established overnight, and the brothers watched the money roll in. Aware that the major part rolled straight into his brother’s pocket, Alex had mixed feelings, but he also watched it roll straight out again as they poured more and more money into legitimate businesses.

The Panamanian company, sitting unused and unwanted, was turned into an insurance company. Edward flew out to install a manager, and when he returned, the company had one desk, one chair and one employee. The Barkley Company had yet another string to its bow, offering high-risk policies to all the major insurance companies. Edward was about to contact certain ‘friends’ employed by the massive Lloyd’s of London when Alex appeared, and he put the phone down. He didn’t want Alex to overhear his conversation.

‘Something up?’

Alex asked if it would be all right to take a week off.

‘What for?’

Alex told him about the American collector of seventeenth-century furniture who had died, and the auction was to be in Texas. He mentioned the possibility that something he was interested in would come on to the market.

‘Can’t you send someone over there for you?’

‘Not really — you see, if the rumours are correct, there will be a lot of dealers after it. I’d like to get in first, before them, and... Well, I don’t know who I could trust to authenticate it.’

‘What the hell is it?’

‘Well, it might be a bed — there’s never been a record of one on the market. It would be an investment. On the other hand...’

‘Bed? What the hell are you talking about? For Chrissake, send someone over from Christie’s or Sotheby’s; you don’t have to go yourself, do you?’

About to reply, Alex was interrupted by Edward’s telephone. ‘Who? Oh, yeah, yeah... put him through in two seconds.’ Covering the phone with his hand, Edward said irritably that if Alex really felt he had to go, then go he should. Alex was dismissed, and Edward swivelled round in his chair, flicking the intercom switch. Alex had wanted to discuss other matters, but, faced with the back of the leather chair, he gave up and walked out. He paused briefly at the door, however, and overheard a little of Edward’s conversation.

‘Walter... Well, a voice from the past. Better not talk on the phone, why don’t we meet?’ Edward swivelled round again to make sure Alex had gone, then satisfied that he was alone he leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Best if we were to discuss it in private, Walter... No, no, it’s personal... are you free this evening? No? Well, you name the day.’

When he replaced the phone, he gave it a little pat of pleasure. Walter was now in a very high position in the Government, a position that would be useful to Edward, and the more he thought about it the better it seemed that Alex would be out of the country. He was going to ask his old friend Walter a small favour, one he knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse. He was sure a man in Walter’s position would not like a whisper getting out about a certain boating accident in Cambridge.

Alex arrived in New York and went straight to Ming’s apartment. She did not return until evening, and even then she had to make four or five business calls before she could sit and relax over dinner. Unable to divert her mind from work, she consistently questioned him about the business, about the club. Had they had good press coverage on the decor, had he brought any of the press cuttings with him? Alex took her hand, pulled her to him. ‘I’ve come here to get away from the club, away from business.’

Ming smiled, kissed him. ‘I’m sorry, but I have been with my accountants all day — it just gets to me sometimes, all the money I have to carve up and hand over to Edward — and for what? He doesn’t do a damned thing.’

Alex didn’t want to get into an argument with her, but he still made his own feelings quite plain. ‘Not quite that, Ming. He did front your business, and without him you might still be in the south of France.’

‘You know that is not true. I would have made it. Maybe not quite so fast, but I would, on my own — without Edward. You can tell him that, and you can also tell him I am about ready to buy him out of his share in the company as he agreed I could, if the time came.’

Alex released her hand and ran his mind back over Ming’s accounts. She must have been making a lot more money than she accounted for, because Alex knew precisely how much she was declaring.

Ming sensed his withdrawal, and she slipped on to his lap, kissing his neck. ‘You know, you should be my partner — is there any way you could get Edward to give you his contract, make it over to you? Don’t tell him it would be me buying him out, you do it, and then...’

Alex buried his face in her neck, kissing her softly, but his mind was racing. Could Edward have been right about her, was she out for all she could get? Did she really care for him? ‘Have you given any thought to getting married? We will have to tell Edward sooner or later... and then, well, I would like a son...’

He felt her tense in his arms, although she still held him, still stroked his cheek. ‘We’re just fine as we are, and, well, I don’t think I am really the maternal type... Did I tell you I have arranged for us to fly to Dallas? I’ve already made some drawings for Mrs Hunter Hardyman, and Alex... all I need is one good contact, she is like royalty out there, and rich.’

She slid off his knee, glowing as she told Alex that every time Barbara Hunter Hardyman drew breath she made a million. ‘I just need one intro, just one, then I can take it from there...’

Suddenly Alex felt tired, his head throbbed. He excused himself, saying he would just lie down for a while, it must be jet lag. Ming was very attentive, bringing him iced water and aspirin. She laid a cool cloth on his head, and he closed his eyes. She sat next to him, looking down into his handsome face as she spoke. Her voice was soft, distant. ‘Alex, I can’t have children, I’m sorry, I should have told you.’

He lay still with his eyes closed and said nothing. Eventually he felt her move from the bed and leave the room. He got up, opened his briefcase, took out his calculator and began to go over Ming’s accounts. If there were discrepancies, she had covered them, but still he felt uneasy, in some way betrayed. Edward’s voice echoed in his brain: ‘She’s old, she’ll never give you a family... she’s out for all she can get. You’re her meal-ticket, only you’re too dumb to realize it...’

Unconsciously Alex began to twist the gold medallion; it had become a habit when he was disturbed. He also thought that perhaps Ed had been right, just as he was right about so many things, almost as if he had second sight.

At breakfast the following morning Ming was as sweet as ever, teasing him that he had been in such a deep sleep that she had not liked to disturb him. She was dressed in a neat black suit over a white blouse with an Eton collar. She was ready to travel. Together they caught the flight to Dallas.

Ming had brought all the brochures for the auction, and she showed Alex the details of what they hoped was a bed. It was described as, ‘Various Kang table legs, made from Huang-Hua-Li wood, apron carved with dragon design’. There were also a number of other pieces from the same period, as the old billionaire had been a renowned collector. Alex was fascinated, and at last he began to relax, asking Ming what she knew of the Hunter Hardyman family. She told him they were oil barons, and what she had gleaned from the society columns. Then, as businesslike as ever, went on to say she had cabled the ranch, they were expecting him, and she had booked them into a hotel, in adjoining rooms. She laughed. ‘We may be in luck, we are three weeks ahead of the auction and the valuation officers are still there. They have been sent from both Sotheby’s and Christie’s, but I am sure if you offer the right price you will get the pieces, everything, everyone, has a price...’

Alex looked at her, then turned to stare out of the plane window. He wondered if Ming, too, had her price.

On their arrival in Dallas, they booked into the exclusive Del-a-Mare Hotel, then hired a helicopter to take them on to the Hunter Hardyman ranch. Ming handed Alex a local newspaper with an article marked for him to read.

Already there had been some press coverage of Alex’s visit, and he knew Ming must have organized it as the article said that Alex Barkley, the previous owner of one of the most magnificent chateaux in France, was in New York to discuss further projects with Ming, the successful and most sought-after designer, and to talk about possible residence in Texas. He had to hand it to Ming, she wasted no time, and already the hotel desk clerk was passing him numerous invitations from Texan high society, requesting his presence at charity balls.

‘Well, you have been a busy girl...’ He couldn’t help feeling irritated, and his mood worsened when she took the invitations and sifted through them.

‘Good, this is good. I will make sure my secretary sends them my own brochures, there is a property boom over here, perhaps you should think about buying some land.’

Again Alex had that niggling feeling at the pit of his stomach, but he said nothing.

They had been travelling for over three-quarters of an hour when Alex asked the pilot, Jeff, how far it was to the Hunter Hardyman ranch. He shouted back over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been over their land for the past ten minutes. Far as the eye can see, everything from now on belonged to the old man... He was one helluva guy, take a look below and you’ll see what I mean.’

Alex was stunned. There were hundreds of square miles of land from which rose oil wells and refineries, buildings with bright-red letters twenty or thirty feet high saying, ‘Hunter Hardyman’. They flew over what looked like silver-topped warehouses, but were actually aeroplane hangars. Alex shouted to the pilot, ‘Those hangars filled with private planes, Jeff?’

‘Hell, no, they’re filled to the rafters with stuffed animals. The old guy was the last of the great white hunters, crammed the place with all his trophies. There are more stuffed tigers in there than they got left in the goddamn jungles... They say he was after the white buffalo, an’ shot everything in sight hopin’ it’d be the poor bastard... Okay, now you’re hittin’ their cattle land, look, far as the eye can see, and it’s still Hardyman land. And off to the right, that’s the biggest tile factory in the United States, ships them all over the world... More cattle coming up on your left... An’ up ahead you see the herd of horses, thoroughbreds all of ‘em — you ever seen a herd like it?’

As they flew on and on, the overpowering wealth of Hunter Hardyman began to dawn on Alex. He had thought himself rich — now he was seeing wealth beyond his wildest dreams.

‘You can see the oil wells, the fields stretch for two hundred miles east, see the pylons?’

Coming into view in the distance, rising out of the heat haze, was a sprawling ranch house, four storeys high with eight white pillars before an arched entrance. Miles of velvety lawns were sprayed constantly with water to keep them lush and green. A vast swimming pool at the side of the house was surrounded by changing rooms, a barbecue and a tiled patio. Sunbeds with brightly coloured canopies littered the poolside. Alex’s stomach lurched as the ‘copter began its descent. Now he could make out the guards patrolling the white perimeter fence.

‘Are those guards armed, Jeff?’

‘Yep, sure thing, sir. They got a hundred of ‘em, the old boy was paranoid about kidnapping... Okay, here we go, buckle up and sit tight.’

Way below them by the Olympic-size swimming pool, two figures lay sunbathing. Ming stared down at them through a pair of binoculars, then turned to Alex. ‘I think they must be her daughters, she has two. She’s divorced now... she must be older than I thought, they look quite old. Here, do you want to see?’ She offered him the binoculars, but he refused, and she began to survey the ranch.

‘Oh, by the way, she’s called Mrs Taverner, Barbara Taverner.’

The entrance hall was so vast it could have been a ballroom, with a tiled floor and marble in such profusion it dazzled the eye. Alex found the hall cool, almost cold, the chill of the marble adding to the effect of the air conditioning. No servant appeared to greet them. She looked at Alex and shrugged. The crystal chandelier, out of place in the ranch house, tinkled in the cool air.

Three men wearing light suits and open-necked shirts, with their ties pulled loose, appeared through double doors from a room off the hall. Alex introduced himself, but the men seemed none too interested. Alex was not prepared to turn round and go back after coming all this way. The men were about to move on. Firmly, Ming took charge. ‘Mr Barkley cabled from New York that we would be here, surely there must be a secretary, someone we could speak to?’

One of the men hesitated, and Alex cornered him. ‘Would it be possible for me to look at the pieces I am interested in?’

The man pointed towards the room he had just left, and said that Alex should talk to their head man, Mr Dean.

They were taken aback by the appalling taste of the vast lounge. Although the place was cluttered with boxes, and various pieces of furniture had been dragged to the centre of the room, the awful decor was obvious. The room was dominated by a painting of a man with white hair, wearing a linen suit that even in the painting looked crumpled.

‘That’s the old man himself, impressive, isn’t he?’

Alex made a point of charming Mr Dean, and was given a brief rundown on the family. Mr Dean was the head man from Sotheby’s — pleasant, open-faced and balding, sweating even with the air conditioning and constantly wiping his head.

‘The old boy seems to have had various families, no one can quite work out the intricacies of the family feuds. But after he died there were three women and three families grabbing... he lost his sons in a plane crash, perhaps you read about it? The fortune’s been divided up and this place left to a granddaughter. Have you met Mrs Taverner? Well, she wants this place sold as fast as possible — hates it, and hated him from what I’ve heard. But it means we are working night and day to get everything catalogued and ready for the auction.’

Alex chose his words carefully. First, he asked about Hunter Hardyman’s china collection, and Dean told him they had not even started assessing that yet. The porcelain experts were flying in next day, and in the meantime the men were just listing the articles. The pricing would be done by the experts. Alex mentioned the lists he had already seen.

‘Yes, but they’re incomplete — there’s fifty times more than that. We had no idea the job would take so long. You know the ranch itself is up for sale? Are you interested?’

Alex was not interested, and there was nothing worth looking at in this room. Somehow he had to steer the conversation around to the seventeenth-century furniture. ‘I’m wanting to have a look at a couple of pieces — not of immense value, but I’m just starting my collection... You think I could take a look at items 500 and 600?’

Dean was no fool. He smiled at Alex. ‘They’re in the dining hall, but I have to tell you, they’ve not even been valued yet.’

Alex said he would still like just a quick look at them, and eventually Dean led him from the room.

Alex followed him through the double doors at the far end of the room and down a long corridor. When they reached the far end, Mr Dean looked over his shoulder, then unlocked the door. ‘I would have liked to have been at his funeral, rumour has it a couple of the old boy’s ex-wives turned up, and all hell broke loose.’ He lowered his voice to a confidential tone, ‘He was a real money-grubbing old buzzard — made his fortune from scrap, bought land, and the rest is history, but I’ve never met anyone who has a good word to say for him. And he was paranoid, believed everyone was trying to kidnap him. That’s why the place is wired up like a fortress. There are more bells and wires around this place than Fort Knox... Freezing in here.’

The room was dark, shuttered, and there was the icy blast of air conditioning. ‘Old man kept the place ice cold, at least he knew that much. The pieces in here are in excellent condition, and some of it he never even used. There’s a Queen Anne desk over there — in all my life I have never seen one in such condition. Look, would you mind if I leave you, come back in a few minutes? I still have a lot to do.’

The door closed behind him, and Alex stared around the cold, draped room. Just one look told him that Dean was right. Even to Alex’s untrained eye some of the furniture was indeed special. He searched around for the seventeenth-century pieces, lifting cover after cover away from highly polished Queen Anne, Tudor, Victorian chairs, desks and card tables, but he could not find the treasures he had travelled so far to see. Frustrated, he was about to give up when he saw a chair in a corner, piled high with old newspapers. Removing the papers, he stood back.

The yoke-back armchair, Huang-Hua-Li hardwood with a perfect matted seat, was in superb condition. Alex got down on his knees to touch the smooth wood. Then he spotted the legs of a bench seat, horseshoe-shaped, and he knew it was the same period. Excitedly, he uncovered three more pieces, and began to think he might be right, somewhere here there might just be the most sought-after article for any collector, a bed.

The door opened behind him, and a cold voice, almost as chilly as the room, said, ‘Mr Dean, the servants have laid out lunch in the breakfast room. I would be most obliged if you would ask permission to use the swimming pool — one of your men is in there right now, and I must ask you to have them refrain in future.’

Taken aback, Alex stood up and straightened his tie. She was very tall, wearing a simple white dress, but a dress that would set any woman back a few thousand dollars. Her skin was a pale golden colour, and her blonde hair was swept up in a Grace Kelly chignon. She wore a gold necklace and many bangles on her slender arms.

Alex moved towards her. ‘I really must apologize for my presence here. We haven’t been introduced — my name is Alex Barkley, I cabled from New York. Are you Mrs Taverner?’ He looked into steely, penetrating eyes the colour of turquoises. There was not a scrap of make-up on the flawless skin.

‘I am Mrs Taverner — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Alex Barkley.’

She did not take his outstretched hand for a moment, and he was about to withdraw it when she suddenly slipped her cool fingers into his grasp. It was a fleeting gesture, and he felt foolish. Mrs Taverner turned back to the door, paused a moment. ‘Barkley, you said? And English, from your voice?’

Feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, Alex nodded. He felt she was scrutinizing him from head to toe. ‘I think I should tell you that I am a private collector, I am not connected with the auctioneers.’

She twisted the diamond ring on her wedding finger, held her head slightly to one side. ‘You spoke to my secretary? Well, I’m sure if you have permission then it’s all right. Don’t let me detain you.’

He could smell her perfume in the cold air, a fresh, clean smell. He remained standing as the click, click, click of her heels receded down the corridor. Then there was silence. He returned to examining the furniture, putting Barbara Taverner out of his mind.

But Alex was in Mrs Taverner’s mind. She walked into her study where Miss Fry, her secretary, was typing at a large desk. ‘Miss Fry, who is Alex Barkley? And why is he here?’

Miss Fry blushed and gestured to Mrs Taverner that she had someone waiting. Ming rose to meet her, hand outstretched, smiling. ‘Mrs Taverner, I am delighted to meet you, I am Imura Takeda.’

Ignoring Ming’s hand, Mrs Taverner turned to her secretary. ‘Miss Takeda is the designer you were interested in for your New York apartment.’

Ming smiled again, although tempted to walk out, she was given such a thorough once-over.

‘Is Mr Barkley your client?’

Ming unzipped her portfolio and began to lay out the large colour photographs of Alex’s chateau, together with the press cuttings of the other houses she had done, and Mrs Taverner glanced through them, showing perfunctory interest. ‘Well, this is interesting, really fine... does Mr Barkley live in New York?’

Ming gave Mrs Taverner details of Alex’s background, embroidering everything, while she displayed more photographs and brochures. She did it so cleverly no one would have guessed it was a ‘hard sell’. Throughout Ming’s presentation Mrs Taverner’s long, blood-red fingernails tapped on the edge of her desk, then she held out a languid hand for the press cuttings and sat down. ‘Miss Fry, why don’t you see to some coffee... I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’

Ming repeated her name, and received a dazzling smile.

Mrs Taverner turned on the charm while Ming sipped her coffee. ‘Your client, Mr Barkley — perhaps he is interested in buying the ranch?’

Ming informed her that Alex had come to look at some seventeenth-century furniture.

‘Oh, yes, you said... Well, I am impressed, this chateau is splendid... Would you like to look over the plans for my apartment in New York? You’ll be able to get some idea of the size of the place... Miss Fry, would you see about a little lunch for Miss Takeda...’

She followed Miss Fry out of the room, closing the door behind her, and sent her off to invite Alex to a private luncheon, one Ming was not invited to.

Half an hour later, Barbara Taverner knew virtually every corner of the chateau, Ming giving her a highly professional sales pitch. She now knew that the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were personal friends of Alex’s, and she surmised that Alex was one hell of a catch, rich enough himself not to be after her fortune. Not that his money amounted to anything approaching Barbara’s inheritance, only another oil baron could match her vast income.

Alex was led into a small lounge on the first floor. Bright, deep-seated sofas in yellows and greens with orange scatter cushions offended Alex’s sense of colour, but the glass-topped table on the verandah, set with chilled champagne, looked inviting.

‘Mrs Taverner will join you shortly, Mr Barkley.’

A Spanish maid attended him, offering him champagne, then stood quietly in the shadows.

Barbara Taverner was used to making entrances. She had changed, and was now wearing another simple, wildly expensive dress. Alex rose from the sofa, and she waved her hand for him to join her at the table. She spoke in fluent Spanish to the maid, who served them cold poached salmon and salad.

‘This is really most kind of you, Mrs Taverner.’

‘Please call me Barbara... Alex, isn’t it? I just adore your designer, and I desperately want her to begin work on my New York penthouse. She’s looking over the drawings right now... more champagne?’ She rang a small gold bell beside her plate, and the maid refilled Alex’s glass. Barbara made polite conversation, charming him, and he could smell her lovely fresh perfume. He also noticed that she hardly touched her food, waiting politely for him to finish, then placing her knife and fork together and ringing the tiny bell. Alex made a point of being very attentive, smiling at her remarks, but if asked, he could not really have recalled one thing she said to him. She fascinated him with her coolness, her precise gestures, her softly drawling voice and husky laugh. For her part, Barbara noticed everything about the Englishman. His perfectly tailored suit, his gold cufflinks, his shoes, his tie — his well-manicured hands and broad shoulders. She was making a list in her head and he was getting tick after tick... She could tell his body was firm beneath the starched shirt. ‘Are you staying locally, Alex?’

He told her which hotel he was booked into, and that he would be leaving within the week.

‘Oh no — I see I will have to persuade you to stay a little longer. You have to see Dallas, meet everyone, I insist you at least promise to have dinner with me. Have you met my daughters? I married very young, and I’m divorced now, but that is too long a story to go into at our first meeting. Would you like me to show you over the ranch, the rooms they won’t be pawing over?’

Stealing a quick glance at his watch, Alex smiled and gave a formal little bow. She took his arm and they toured the house. Alex was charm itself, giving all the right responses, but wondering all the time how long it would take to get to the point — how much Barbara Taverner would accept for the pieces. And he had still not unearthed the prized bed.

As she led him from room to room, she divulged little bits of her background, her relationship to Hunter Hardyman. ‘He was my mother’s father, and I think she loathed him almost as much as I did... He was a dreadful man, domineering, and the most ruthless man I ever met in my life. I was left this, and all I want is to get rid of everything he ever touched. He destroyed my mother’s life — and even mine. My marriage was over before it really began. I was sixteen, and HH arranged it, as he arranged the life of every member of his family. I don’t know if you have heard the gossip, but Grandpa had numerous families, and none of us really get along.’

She was open and at ease with Alex, and he began to enjoy her company. Of course, Barbara was making sure he knew she was divorced, unattached. Finally Alex looked at his Rolex and said he really had to watch the time as he intended to return to his hotel before nightfall. Barbara wasn’t about to let this catch out of her hands — she smiled sweetly and told him it would be madness to return to the hotel. He must stay to dinner.

‘That really is most kind, but I’m afraid I really do have to go back to London as soon as possible. Perhaps if you would be willing to come to some arrangements regarding the pieces of furniture I’m interested in, I am willing to settle a price for them now, if it’s agreeable. I will match any other offers, and then have them shipped over to England.’

Ming appeared with her portfolio, talking intently to Miss Fry about schedules and estimates. Barbara excused herself and went off with Miss Fry, leaving Alex and Ming together.

‘Well, I not only have the commission for the New York apartment, but she wants me to find a suitable one for her daughters.’

Alex congratulated her, then looked at his watch, he said they should thinking be about leaving. Ming stood close to him and whispered, ‘I will have to leave straightaway, she wants these estimates by the end of the week — but you stay. I think she’s enamoured, maybe you’ll get the furniture at a good price...’

Barbara made an entrance. She was smiling. ‘Mr Barkley, I have arranged for the pieces you want to be shipped out to you at the first opportunity. I am told it won’t take too long.’

Alex looked nonplussed, and she laughed. ‘Please accept them as a gift, on condition that you stay for dinner, and give me just two days of your time to show you the sights.’

Alex murmured his thanks and said that he really could not accept her invitation as he had to return to New York with Ming.

‘Oh, I simply won’t take no for an answer — I have my own plane, why don’t you let Miss Takeda go and I’ll arrange for your luggage to be brought back here? You simply can’t refuse.’

Alex looked at Ming for help, but she insisted on returning alone. Alex walked her to the helicopter, and she laughed at his confusion. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alex, stay. You’ll enjoy yourself and you said you needed a holiday. Besides, with all this extra work I won’t have much time to spare. I’ll see you when you return to New York.’

Alex gave way, and watched the helicopter as it took off. Ming waved once, then turned to talk to the pilot.

Alex was like putty in Barbara Taverner’s hands, and she swept him along in her wake. He was flattered by her attentions, and she never ceased to amaze him. Flying her own plane she managed, in the two days, to take Alex to cocktail parties, lunches, teas, and a charity ball.

There were envious looks from the Texan society ladies as Barbara led the elegant and charming Englishman around on her arm like a champion. To Alex’s blushing embarrassment she never failed to bring up the fact that he knew the Duke and Duchess of Windsor intimately... However, Alex began to enjoy his ‘star status’, the flattery and the fawning, and Barbara was a stunning-looking woman. Alex was falling in love, and it took little persuasion for him to agree to stay another week.

Edward arrived home from the office even later than usual. He was greeted by his rather frazzled cook-housekeeper, who told him that there was a Mr Dewint waiting to see him, he had been waiting for two hours.

‘Who? Dewint? Never heard of him... and Agnes, would you get something fancy for tomorrow evening, dinner for six — but it could be eight. De what, did you say?’

Agnes disappeared into the hall and returned to say that Dewint had been sent by the Kensington Staff Agency. She passed Edward a small, strange, handwritten card. ‘ “Norman Dewint, butler”... ingenious chap, it appears! Show him in. Oh, Agnes, is my wife about?’

‘Well, she was, sir, but then she said something about going to her pottery classes. She’s left a shocking mess in the upstairs bathroom, sir.’

‘Thank you, Agnes... show De what’s-his-name in, will you?’

‘Sit down, Norman, help yourself to a drink.’

Dewint sat at the far end of the eighteen-foot refectory table and thanked Mr Barkley, but he did not partake of alcoholic beverages.

‘Right then, Norman, tell me about yourself.’

Dewint coughed, straightened the razor-sharp creases in his black and grey striped butler’s trousers, and in his rather high-pitched voice, paying close attention to his aitches, began to detail his past employments. ‘I ‘ave, sah, worked in the Queen Mother’s establishment at Balmoral. Hi think you will find, sah, that they was, if I may say so, pleased with my services. I have detailed hall the ‘ouses I have subsequently had the honour to be in service with, and I am a qualified valet stroke butler.’

His plummy, high-pitched voice with its strange aitches and his small pale face made Edward laugh. Dewint was like a pixie — pointed nose, pointed chin — and he had large, pointed ears. His flat, Brylcreemed hair shone, as highly polished as his shoes.

Edward sent the neatly stapled references spinning back down the table. ‘Thing is, Dewint, I am not a man of, shall we say, habit, or consistent movements. My wife is not domesticated, quite the reverse, but we do entertain a lot. When I am away, I like the house to be kept running in some sort of order — won’t be easy, not with my wife and her hobbies...’

Dewint launched into an involved history of the time he worked for Churchill, but Edward cut him short. ‘Can you start first thing in the morning?’

Dewint beamed, his pixie ears twitched. ‘Hi can, sah, and may I say it will be a pleasure, sah. I’ve read about you in the society columns, I like to keep abreast of things.’

Dewint gave a hop and a skip as he departed down the drive. He had been desperate, and he knew he would be able to get along with Mr Barkley. He had seen the house could do with a thorough clean, and he would be ready, with his green pinny on, first thing tomorrow. He checked out of the hostel and was back at the manor by seven-thirty the next morning.

He woke Edward with an elaborate breakfast tray. Harriet’s tousled head peered over the blankets. ‘Oh, scrummy, I’m starving.’

‘I shall bring more toast immediately, sah... modom, may I say how very pleased I ham to meet you.’

Harriet was already tucking in to her breakfast. She waved her fork and Dewint bowed out. She spoke with her mouth full, ‘He’s just divine, how on earth did you find him? He looks like Noddy — you know, Noddy and Big Ears... Pass the tomato sauce... ta.’

Edward ate as hungrily as his wife, and said that someone had to get the house organized. Harriet hopped out of bed with marmalade all over her cheek, and opened the bathroom door. ‘An artist of my calibre cannot be bothered with the mundane, boring, day-to-day running of this tip... Look, I made this in class.’ She held up a strange-looking pot with a very thick rim.

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, it’s supposed to be a sugar bowl, but I didn’t quite get the wheel going right — what do you think?’

Edward didn’t even look, but opened the Financial Times, then laughed, ‘Bloody hell, he’s ironed it! Look!’

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Down in the kitchens Agnes and Dewint were at loggerheads. He was giving his critical assessment of the very tarnished silver. Agnes slapped her dishcloth down on the table. ‘Listen, by the time you’ve cleaned up after that Mrs Barkley, you’ll have no time for cleaning ruddy silver. She had a pigeon in here yesterday, ruddy pigeon she’d found in the garden.’

‘I’d be grateful if you did not speak of my hemployers in derogatory terms. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take the ‘ot toast up, and in future, wrap it in a napkin, hit keeps it warm.’

Edward came out of the bathroom and found that Dewint had already stripped the bed. Over a chair hung a clean shirt and trousers.

‘I ‘ave not has yet ‘ad time to familiarize myself with your wardrobe, sah. But given time I will know exactly what your preference is... I believe you are going to the office this morning, so I have laid out what I think is suitable, sah.’

Edward smiled and thanked Dewint, who walked out with a bundle of sheets. By the time Edward was dressed and ready to leave, Dewint was on his hands and knees on the stairs with a dustpan and brush. Edward gave him a small pat on the head as he passed, and went on down the stairs.

‘Might I ‘ave a quick word, sah? The wine cellar is rather depleted, and I wondered if you would like me to order for you... St James’ is a good company, and very reliable.’

Edward looked up, leaning against the banisters. ‘I’ll leave it to you. If need be, open an account with them. And check the larder. In fact, check everything and make some kind of an inventory. Looks like you and I are going to get along fine.’

Dewint had just reached the bottom stair when Harriet called out — or rather, shrieked — from the studio, ‘Deeeewint!’

He blinked slightly at the brilliant yellow walls. Harriet was covered in wet clay, her pottery wheel spinning wildly out of control. A strange, malformed blob sprayed the daffodil-yellow walls with specks of brown.

‘Yes, modom?’

‘Could you switch the thing off? It’s that plug on the wall, the pedal’s stuck or something.’

Dewint caught a speck of clay in his eye, wiped it and pulled out the plug. Harriet puffed with relief, then apologized profusely for the mess. Dewint wiped his face, gave a polite cough, and suggested that if modom was in agreement, he’d stock up the larder.

‘Yes, modom is — and you can call me Harry... and don’t worry about me interfering, you will be a godsend. Come here.’ Dewint moved closer, and she whispered to him, ‘Do you think we can give Agnes the heave-ho? I can’t stand her.’

Dewint’s eyes twinkled. ‘I must hadmit, mod... Harry, I’m not exactly enamoured myself. Would you prefer hit if I settled the matter?’

‘Oh, yes. Now then, tell me, what do you think of this pot? I know the rim’s a trifle thick, but do you like it?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s a splendid piece.’

‘It’s yours... Right, off you go, I’m going to try and fix my wheel.’

Carrying his strange gift, Dewint returned to the kitchen. Agnes snorted, ‘Gawd almighty, night classes, workin’ all hours up there an’ that’s what she’s finished up with... What the hell is it? The lift don’t stop at the top floor with that one, I know it, I can tell.’

‘It’s a large-lipped pot, and, oh, by the way, you are fired.’

Dewint opened accounts with the wine merchants, grocers and butchers, and simply handed the bills over at the end of each month. Edward came to entrust him with more and more of the basic running of the house, and his salary rose along with Edward’s trust. He seemed to know instinctively when to remain with Edward for a nightcap and when to leave, and he turned a blind eye to any ‘goings-on’. He adored the outrageous dinners, never knowing who would be there. He recognized many of the faces from the television.

Dewint had become a part of their lives, and he felt it particularly keenly one evening when he was laying out Edward’s evening clothes. He felt Edward’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Has Alex, my brother, called at all while I’ve been out?’

‘I have not heard from Mr Alex, sah...’

Edward appeared disappointed. ‘It’s my birthday — the years start moving faster once you pass thirty, don’t they?’

‘Oh, yes, sah, they do, and may I wish you a very happy birthday.’

Edward checked his appearance in the wardrobe mirror, and Dewint bowed himself out. Edward picked up his white silk scarf and headed downstairs. As he passed the doors to the dining hall, Harriet flung them open, revealing a big birthday cake with candles. On the cake, in bright pink icing, was written, ‘Happy Birthday, Edward — 35 Today.’ Harriet was dressed in one of her Paris creations, singing, ‘Happy Birthday to you... Happy Birthday to you — ‘at the top of her voice. It took him completely by surprise — he couldn’t recall ever telling her when his birthday was — and she dragged him into the room to blow out all the candles. There were gifts, neatly wrapped and tied with bows, and Dewint stood by to open the champagne. Edward looked at his watch, and Harriet picked up the tiny gesture immediately, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Do you have to go wherever it is? Can’t you put it off? I thought we’d go out for dinner.’

‘Sweetheart, I can’t — but I promise not to be late. We can save the presents until I get home, okay?’

She kissed him, and she and Dewint drank his health. It was Dewint’s turn to feel sorry for her, she looked so deflated. She had been working for days on the surprise, hiding the gifts, ordering the cake. ‘So much for the surprise... Ah well, cheers... cheers...’

Dewint watched her walk slowly upstairs. He knew it wasn’t his place, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘As you won’t be dining out, I’ve prepared a small chicken, perhaps you would like...’

She didn’t let him finish his invitation, didn’t even turn to face him. ‘No thanks, I’m not very hungry...’

Edward had finally made contact with Walter, and they had arranged to meet at Banks. Walter had been very dubious about the meeting, and had cancelled twice, but in the end he went along.

He was very impressed by the club. Edward had reminded him that he was no longer called Stubbs, and not to mention that name. So Barkley was the name Walter asked for at the door, and it certainly made everyone jump.

Walter had changed a lot since university days. He was balding, and his spots had left pockmarks on his face. He still had to wear thick glasses. He nibbled nuts from the dish on the table, checked his watch. Edward was late. A waiter asked him if he had changed his mind, if he would care for a drink, but he refused and asked where the telephone was. The waiter promptly brought one to his table, and he called his wife.

As Edward entered the club and looked over at his table, he had an opportunity to view Walter without his knowing. Edward’s usual bottle of Dom Perignon was brought over as he greeted Walter, towering above him.

‘Well, well, it’s been a long time... No, don’t get up, Walter.’

Having come straight from the office, Walter was still in his dark navy pinstripe, and he blushed. Edward looked elegant, his suit beautifully tailored, and he was even more handsome than Walter remembered. ‘Strange thing, you know, saw some photographs of you once, and I remember thinking how like you this Barkley fellow was. Must congratulate you, place is very chic.’ He pronounced it ‘chick’.

Edward noticed immediately that the northern accent had gone, along with the spots and the National Health spectacles. Walter now sported a pair of fashionable rimless glasses, which magnified his eyes as his old pair had done, but also made him look affluent. Walter was no longer nervy, he seemed confident and his manner was relaxed.

‘I should congratulate you, Foreign Office, eh? You’re up for the Minister’s replacement, I hear? Aren’t you going to join me?’

Again Walter refused a drink, and said he didn’t, only mineral water. A glass of iced water was brought, and Edward asked if his table for dinner was ready, they would eat. Walter murmured that he had really only a few moments as his wife was expecting him home for dinner.

‘Nonsense, you’ll eat with me — use the phone, call her, say you’re with an old friend from Cambridge.’

So Walter called his wife again and told her to cancel dinner, while Edward looked over the evening’s menu.

The table in the restaurant was also always reserved for Edward. Walter was impressed again, this time by the standard of the cuisine. He was no fool, and kept asking himself why, after all these years, Edward had suddenly made himself known again. He found out soon enough, and flushed.

‘I want the building contracts for all the areas I’ve mentioned, and I know that with a word and a helpful nod from you I can bypass any other companies, and it goes without saying that you would benefit from the deal.’

Walter couldn’t eat another mouthful. He pushed his plate away and said Edward must understand that at this stage in his career he could not afford any scandal to be so much as whispered. ‘If I get you in on any other level than a totally viable...’

‘Bullshit, Walter, that is exactly why we’re having this little tete-a-tete, because that is precisely what I want and I know you can do it... Now then, you look as if you really need a drink.’

Gulping down the brandy, Walter began to sweat. He knew what would come next.

‘At this stage in your career you can’t afford any rumours about a young woman student who drowned in a boating accident on the Cam.’

Walter wiped his mouth with his napkin, sweating even more. ‘You wouldn’t bring that up?’ But he knew Edward would, and his heart sank. All the years of hard work, and he could see everything suddenly slipping out of his grasp. ‘I’m sorry, it’s out of the question.’

Edward rose abruptly from the table, tossed his napkin down. He towered over Walter like a giant. ‘Fine, so we know where we are. Thank you for coming. I’ll put in my bids for the contracts and simply keep my fingers crossed. Goodnight, Walter.’

Walter hurried after him on the pavement. Edward’s Rolls had already been brought round, and he was opening the door.

‘Can we talk about this, please?’

Edward opened the passenger door, Walter got in, and the car sped off.

They drove straight to the house in Notting Hill Gate, and Walter found himself out of his depth. The women, the flowing champagne... He made two more calls to his wife in Clapham. By the end of the evening he was thoroughly drunk, and the two blondes looked so like Marilyn Monroe that he was ecstatic.

‘Make sure he really enjoys himself, that clear? And this one’s on the house, anything he wants, just mark it down.’

Edward let himself into the manor. It was in darkness. He walked quietly into the dining hall where his cake and gifts had been left for him. He looked at his watch — it was after three. Without bothering to open the gifts, he took off his coat and crept up the stairs.

She was awake, he knew, and he slipped his arms around her. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s always “sorry”, isn’t it? You ever think how little I see you? And tonight of all nights couldn’t you have given me just one evening, just one?’

‘I’m sorry, but how was I supposed to know you’d arranged anything?’

‘It was supposed to be a surprise, that’s why. There’s no point in even talking to you — besides, you stink of stale cigars and booze. Have a nice time, did you? Go to your fucking club, did you?’

‘Don’t swear, I hate you swearing.’

‘Oh, well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. What do you take me for? What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait? Wait for when you have a spare half-hour you can give me...’

‘You can do anything you like. I don’t ask you to sit waiting, I never have. It’s your choice.’

‘Oh, fine, fine. Isn’t that what a wife’s supposed to do?’

‘Since when have you played that part?’

She turned over and thumped her pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, the drapes of the canopied bed. He sighed with tiredness, becoming irritated with her. ‘I love you, Harry, it’s just right now I’m in the middle of negotiations with South Africa. It’s a very big deal, and tonight I had a meeting with a man who can open doors there for me.’

Harriet hunched over, further away from him. He rolled over and curled himself around her back, pulling her close. It was a simple gesture, but one she had grown to love, the way he pressed his body against hers.

‘You’re not going to get round me, I hate you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I fucking do, I’m going to run off with Dewint.’

Edward laughed and kissed her back, massaged her neck. Eventually she rolled over and looked into his face. He kissed her lightly on the nose, and then traced her cheek with his finger. ‘You know, maybe we should think about starting a family. You’re always talking about me breaking promises, but as I recall a certain young lady gave me a promise in a punt. Four sons — well, don’t you think we should start? Neither of us is getting any younger, so I’d settle for two.’

Her body arched, stiffened, and he was shocked when he saw her face change. He was so close, he could see the darkness in her eyes. ‘What is it? Harry?’

She was out of bed, pulling a robe around her naked body. ‘What do you think this is, a stud farm? Well, screw you, I’ll sleep in the spare room.’

Dewint heard the doors banging below. He thought to himself that they were at it again — but they always made it up. He woke, hours later, to the sound of muffled sobbing. He crept to his door — the sobbing was coming from her studio. Obviously they hadn’t made it up yet.

Edward breakfasted alone, and didn’t even go up to the studio. Dewint knocked and placed a tray outside the door, but it was still there at lunchtime.

Edward spent all morning in his office, mulling over his offer to Walter. It had all been too easy, and Edward waited for some kind of retaliation, but none came. He started on the arrangements for the workforce he would need in South Africa.

Two weeks later, knowing that Walter had returned to the Notting Hill Gate house five times, Edward received a call. Walter said simply that Edward’s company had won the contracts for South Africa.

A case of champagne, two dozen red roses and a cheque for two thousand pounds arrived on Walter’s doorstep. Edward knew that if the cheque was returned, his plans could go wrong, but he had done his homework. Walter’s three children were all at boarding school, he had a mortgage and an overdraft. The cheque was cashed. Edward received no thanks, but he knew he had Walter in his pocket. He donated a lot of money to Walter’s political campaign, and for that he did receive a note of thanks.

Edward was in good spirits when he arrived home. Harriet had been sleeping in the spare room, and he was making a special effort tonight to make it up to her. It had not occurred to him to try before, he had been too busy, and as usual the time he chose was the most convenient for himself. He had bought her a bouquet of red roses, bottles of perfume, and theatre tickets. He knew she loved the theatre, and he had tried to cover everything. He whistled as he took his coat off, and Dewint appeared from the kitchen, looking rather sheepish.

‘Excuse me, sah, but... would you mind if I talk to you very personally? I’m sorry if I am out of line, but I think something must be said.’

Edward beckoned him into the lounge, where a fire blazed in the grate. His whisky and soda stood in readiness.

‘Christ, you’re not thinking of leaving, are you? I mean, we can’t do without you.’

Dewint closed the doors. ‘It’s Mrs Barkley, sah. She’s really not very well, and she’s hardly touched a morsel for days. She won’t come out of the studio — I think, sah, she should see someone, she needs to see a doctor.’

Edward leapt up the stairs, four at a time, panic written all over his face. He pushed at the locked door, then knocked. He received no reply.

‘Harry? Harry, open the door... Harry, it’s Edward, come on, sweetheart, open the door... How long has she been in here?’

‘Quite a while, sah. I have the spare key.’

Edward unlocked the door. Dewint stood directly behind him, but he slammed the door in the concerned pixie face. Edward knew instantly something was terribly wrong. Harriet was hunched in a corner, plucking at the skin of her hands. Her eyes were vacant, and her face so pale it frightened him. ‘Harry? Harry, what’s all this about? Aren’t you well? Darling? Harry...?’

Her chest heaved in a long, drawn-out sigh. The yellow walls were covered with drawings, like a child’s scribble. Her pottery wheel was smashed, and all her misshapen pots were broken. Edward tried to take her hand but she recoiled and covered her head with her arms, pressing herself further and further into the corner. She spat at him, ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone.’

‘No... come on, give me your hand, I’ll get you cleaned up.’

‘Don’t touch me — don’t touch me.’

She sprang at him, lashing out at him, screeching at the top of her voice. He pinned her arms to her sides and shook her. ‘Harry, for Chrissake what’s the matter...? Harry?’

Dewint stood in the hall while Edward called for an ambulance.

She would not let Edward near her, but she seemed to accept the gentle cajoling voice of one of the ambulance crew as they helped her down the stairs. Edward shook his head, almost pleading with the ambulance men, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with her? Do you know? What’s wrong with her?’

Harriet would not let Edward travel in the ambulance. He watched it drive away, and turned to Dewint for an explanation. He mentioned the pills Mrs Barkley kept in her bedside cabinet, and Edward found them. Pierre Rochal’s name was on the label, but when he phoned Paris, he discovered that Pierre was away on holiday.

When Edward arrived at the hospital, he was told that without Harriet’s medical records they could not say exactly what was wrong with her at this stage. She was very dehydrated, and in an extremely tense condition. She was under sedation, and until they had obtained her medical history there was nothing anyone could do. They would contact him.

Edward couldn’t believe it was happening, just as things were going so well, the company riding high. But only Edward could turn such a sad circumstance to his benefit, however unintentionally. It came about because he contacted Allard Simpson, Harry’s brother. Allard lived in a shabby but still genteel area of Kensington. He had hardly changed since the days at Cambridge, apart from looking seedier and being obviously low on funds. It had been twenty years, but might have been a matter of months.

The same old mocking Allard looked Edward up and down. ‘My, my, the elusive Mr Barkley, my brother-in-law, no less. Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Barkley? Good God, couldn’t you have thought up something with a little more savvy? Do sit down, I’m sure I can find something to wet the whistle.’

Edward’s glance took in the threadbare carpet, the dirty ashtrays. Allard lit the gas fire and rummaged through a cupboard, bringing out a bottle of brandy and two misty-looking glasses. ‘How’s sis? She keeps well out of the family’s way, can’t say I blame her... Well, cheers.’

‘It’s Harriet I’ve come about.’

‘Well, I didn’t think you, Mr Celebrity, would be here without a reason. What’s she up to?’

Edward hedged, looking for the best way to broach the subject, then thought, ‘To hell with it,’ and blurted, ‘What’s the matter with Harriet?’

‘Good God, how should I know? I’ve not seen her since she rushed off to France with that Frog doctor...’ He looked at Edward speculatively, ‘Unless...’

‘Unless what?’

‘Well, there was a bit of drama, so long ago I can hardly remember it. But, well, she was very dodgy for a time.’

‘Dodgy? What do you mean, dodgy?’

‘You know she cracked up, the Aunt Sylvia syndrome... Christ, look, why don’t you ask her yourself, or Ma — she knows more about it than I do.’

‘Right now she’s in no condition to be asked anything. Sylvia? BB’s wife? Why did you mention her?’

Allard snorted and wagged a finger at Edward. ‘Come on, old chap, don’t pull the leg — you know very well, or you should. After all, you cleaned poor Dickie Van der Burge out of his fortune. You know the poor sod’s bankrupt? Can’t keep him away from the tables, gambling every night. I’m surprised he’s not turned up at your posh club with a sledgehammer, he loathes you... So would I — how much did you get from the old boy? Heard through the grapevine that you made megabucks, that true?’

Edward’s mind was in turmoil... Sylvia? Sylvia syndrome? He gulped at the brandy as Allard leered at him, swinging one foot with its down-at-heel, scuffed shoe. He laughed, twirling his finger by his temple. ‘Sis gone a bit nutty again, has she?’

‘Allard, talk straight, or so help me God I’ll smash this glass straight into that smirking face of yours.’

Allard backed down fast, poured himself another brandy. ‘All I know is, Aunt Sylvia was a bit dotty. Everyone put it down to her losing her two sons. Harriet went the same way after... Look, this is her business, you’d better ask her yourself.’

‘Why don’t you tell me...’

Allard did actually have the decency to become serious. He even showed a flicker of emotion when he told Edward about Harriet’s baby, about the cot death. Edward felt as if he had been punched in the heart. Allard continued telling him how Harriet had been diagnosed schizophrenic... Edward sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ... was the father the French guy... was it...?’ He swallowed, his mouth dried out, he couldn’t even bring himself to say Rochal’s name. He was so shocked he didn’t ask dates, times, all he could think of was that she had had a child, and the sense of betrayal consumed him, sickened him. Allard continued unaware of the emotional impact of his revelations...

‘I don’t know all the facts, and she would never say who the father was, maybe it was Rochal, doesn’t really matter... all I know is she went off to some psychiatrist in Switzerland, and he said it was manic depression. That’s all I know. I presumed she’d got it all under control — she’s in a bad way, is she? She’s always been a bit odd, you know up one minute and down the next. Drink? Another drink? Are you all right?’

Edward sat with his head in his hands. He pressed his fingers against his temples, forcing himself, pushing himself towards controlling the explosion burning inside him. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. No more, thanks... so tell me, what about you? You follow the Judge? Did you take up law?’ Edward was sweating, and relieved as Allard casually discussed his own career. Having failed his exams he was now working for a well-known insurance broker. Edward listened intently, commiserated when Allard bemoaned the fact he had not gone into the theatre as he had always wanted. He heard himself offering Allard a table at the club any night he chose. He was totally back in control. Sharp enough to ask Allard not to mention to anyone his change of name, just in case it worried Harriet. He detected the vicious glimmer in Allard’s sly eyes, and reckoned he would delight in stirring things up whether it affected his sister or not. So he talked fast.

‘I have a couple of high-risk insurance companies, like to do a little “I’ll help you if you help me” racket... You must be in a position at your company to know when they are coming in with big profits at the end of the year. I want you to start shoving out high-risk claims on a couple of things — you know, safe, sure ones. There’ll be a lot of money in it for you... What do you say?’

Allard snorted and said he wasn’t in a high enough position to do anything even a trifle dodgy.

‘Nothing dodgy in it, old chap. All you’ve got to do is take a gander at the profits for the forthcoming year, farm out a few high-risk policies in my direction, make yourself a couple of hundred thousand for starters... Get yourself a better flat, want to think about it?’

Allard opened the brandy, finished the dregs of it and smiled. ‘Christ, I always knew you were a crook... Fuck off, I’m not interested, old bean.’

‘How’s Henry? Hmmmm, old bean?’

Allard laughed, told Edward he could not blackmail him with that — it was common knowledge. ‘Even Pa knows my preferences, Eddie, so that angle won’t work.’

Edward picked up his coat. Allard surprised him, and he was not, after all, going to be easy to sway. ‘Maybe you should have a chat with your old boyfriend.’

Allard sneered. ‘You don’t seriously think he even talks to me now, do you? Far too important...’

Edward put on his coat, then increased the pressure. ‘I think he will if you whisper in his ear that I would... I would talk to him and a number of other people. It would ruin him, so don’t beat about the bush, Allard. Earn yourself a few bob and get a decent pair of shoes. You can’t attract much looking the way you do, male or female.’

Allard hated Edward, his Savile Row suit, his still strikingly handsome face. ‘You got a card or something so I can contact you?’

Shaking his head, Edward said that he would contact Allard. ‘I’ll give you five days to think about it.’

Edward had a long talk with the doctors. They were very helpful, assuring Edward that it was nothing more than a temporary relapse. Given time, his wife would be back home and perfectly able to cope with life. She was not an invalid, but he must keep her condition in mind. They put her on tranquillizers, and she was to go into a rest home for a few weeks. They warned him that she would appear drowsy and slightly disorientated. Edward puffed on his cigar, paced the room and eventually blurted out what it was he wanted to know. ‘Is this hereditary? She had an aunt who was institutionalized... It’s just that should... I mean, if she were to have a baby...’

‘Your wife, Mr Barkley, is not schizophrenic. We have all her records here from three different clinics. She has a history of manic depression. It can be inherited, but it is not a foregone conclusion. Her condition can be triggered off by emotional upheavals... In this case it’s very clear that it was caused by the loss of her baby.’

‘What was wrong with it?’

‘The doctor who delivered the child, a boy, said he was in perfect health. We still have little or no knowledge of why these cot deaths happen, but they are quite common. To your wife it was such an emotional loss that she had a complete nervous breakdown. You will have to be gentle with her, take great care until she feels confident, feels herself again. You must also learn to watch out for the symptoms, never forget that your wife does have this illness.’

‘You mean, if I detect anything unusual, this can be avoided?’

‘Well, it can most certainly help to prevent her getting to the advanced stage she is in at present.’

‘So, what are the symptoms?’ The doctor felt as though he were on trial. Edward had such an angry, blunt way of questioning him. ‘Well, what do I watch out for?’

‘Elation, almost euphoria, with sudden switches to irritability, anger, is the most obvious. If she should appear more active than usual, talking more... an inflated sense of self-esteem, grandiose ideas... In some cases...’

‘I don’t want to hear about other cases, Doctor, just my wife’s.’

‘She may very well appear deluded about her identity, need less sleep, be very easily distracted, and over-react to trivial or irrelevant stimuli... I am, you understand, Mr Barkley, covering all possible symptoms of depression, manic depression.’

‘I hear you, Doctor, and I am trying to assimilate it. Is there anything, could there be anything else?’

The doctor smiled. Now he could see the chinks in Mr Barkley’s armour — he no longer behaved in such a brusque manner, he actually seemed helpless. ‘It’s not so bad as it sounds, but tell-tale signs can include sudden shopping sprees, even sexual indiscretions.’

Edward ran his fingers through his hair. He was quieter now, and gave the doctor a half-smile. ‘She always was a bit of a handful... What will be the next move?’

‘As soon as she is physically tip-top, I want to put her through a course of psychotherapy. She’s had a number of therapists before, but I am not sure at this stage which type of therapy would be most beneficial. Perhaps a group would be best, as she has had a considerable amount of cognitive and behavioural therapy through the years.’

Edward said that there were no financial problems and he wanted the best there was. The doctor rose from his seat and shook Edward’s hand. He realized now that the bravado had been a strong cover-up, and Edward was obviously very disturbed and shocked.

‘You know, Mr Barkley, a good marriage, a strong marriage in which there is total openness and understanding, is likely to discourage Harriet’s depressive states from becoming regular occurrences. External events can trigger a depression, and when this happens, outside help is always advised... You obviously care; you love your wife a great deal. Perhaps together you can beat it.’ He noted the fleeting look of anger cross Edward’s face before he gave a charming smile and said it was time to visit Harriet. As he reached the door, still with his back to the doctor, he said, ‘I love my wife, guess I’m not the easiest person to live with. But from now on I’ll give it a damned good try. Thank you for your time.’

Edward spent a long time sitting outside Harriet’s room. He digested everything the doctor had said, and the future seemed daunting to say the least. He couldn’t bring himself to face her, to cope with her.

A nurse came out of Harriet’s room, carrying a tray. When she saw Edward, she paused and put her head back round the door. ‘Oh, your husband’s here, Mrs Barkley... It’s all right, Mr Barkley, there was no need to wait. Can I bring you a cup of tea?’

‘No... no thanks.’

He picked up the big bunch of Harriet’s favourite flowers, tapped on the door and walked in. She was sitting propped up on pillows, surrounded by so many bouquets of flowers the room was heavy with perfume. She smiled brightly. ‘You’ve overdone the flowers, place looks like a funeral parlour! There’s a sweet little Indian girl down the corridor, and I’ve sent quite a lot of them to her...’

Edward laid down the flowers almost afraid to look at her. She had that flushed look, her cheeks rosy, hair shining. It had now grown to her shoulders, and she had tied a ribbon around it.

‘I didn’t notice before how long your hair’s grown, looks nice. Dewint’s in a terrible state without you to clear up after. He’s started polishing everything in sight.’ He pulled up a chair and she offered him grapes, oranges — he caught her hand and held it tight. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s all right...’

Her eyes brimmed with tears and she chewed her lip. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry... have they told you all about me?’

‘Yes, no stone unturned. You’re going off to a nice place for a rest, then they say you’ll be back home as good as new. And, I’ve got instructions from Dr Wilson on how to be a good husband. I’ve not tried hard enough, I know it, but I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go on a holiday together, wherever you like.’

‘You know I might get a bit wobbly again, I mean, I’ll try not to, but did they tell you?’

‘Yes, they did. Dewint and I will keep our beady eyes on you, make sure you’re stocked up with pills, all you have to do is get yourself fit and come home fast.’

‘You still want me, then?’

‘I’m your husband, what the hell do you expect? You’ve got me under contract, haven’t you?’

She smiled, then her eyes drooped, and he held her hand until she fell asleep. She was comforted that he had taken no phone calls while he sat with her, and had not looked at his watch once... He leaned forward and kissed her brow, then crept out and closed the door silently behind him. He felt so depressed himself he wanted to weep.

Edward had always made a point of never associating with Jodie’s girls. They were for his punters, but tonight he needed someone. He got very drunk, and went up to the rooms with the prettiest and youngest of the girls. Jodie gave strict instructions, this was no ordinary customer...

It became a nightly arrangement. He never asked for any particular girl, taking anyone available. But Jodie always made sure he got the very best. He treated the girls with great courtesy, and although he owned the place he tipped them well and sent frequent gifts. They all liked him. He was still a very handsome man, and his prowess in the bedroom made their work a pleasure.

Edward changed his drinking habits. He had never been one to overindulge, but now he started drinking heavily. Many nights Dewint found him passed out in the drawing room, and in the mornings he would be hung-over, often asking for a drink as soon as he awoke. He never brought any of the women home, which was a blessing, but it was Dewint who sent the flowers and gifts on his master’s behalf.

Allard took longer than the five days, but he did eventually agree to work for Edward, for cash in hand. As an added incentive, Edward gave him carte blanche membership at Banks, and a special introduction to the house in Notting Hill Gate. He then secured four high-risk policies, and farmed them out to his own insurance companies, two in Panama and one in Brazil. He had still had no word from Alex, and with money pouring in he prepared for a long-overdue visit to South Africa.

The records of his ‘hits’ remained in a separate file, one that was not to be seen by Alex.

Harriet came out of hospital and moved into a rest home. Edward was a regular visitor, although he never stayed long. He was always attentive, and brought flowers and gifts. There was a growing void between them, and she felt helpless, unable to reach out to him, and blamed herself. Often after these visits she regressed, and her therapist soon connected part of her trouble with her husband. Edward refused when it was suggested that he join Harriet in therapy, feeling that as he was paying vast sums of money they should be able to get his wife straightened out without his assistance. The therapist therefore concentrated on Harriet’s relationship with Edward in their sessions. Piece by piece, Harriet imparted snippets of valuable information concerning her emotional ties to her husband, and it became clear that she placed him above everything else in her life.

She showed no marked improvement until she began drama classes. Suddenly she found a release, and a vocation. A month went by, and Dewint visited instead of Edward. Hesitantly, he explained that Edward had gone to South Africa, but would be in touch as soon as he returned. In fact, Edward had not yet left, he was sitting at home by the telephone. He placed a call to Skye Duval and waited. The line was buzzing, there were echoes of different operators. At last he heard Skye’s familiar voice. ‘Duval speaking, who is it?’

‘Hello, buddy boy, I need a meeting with you, we’re on, want to start things rolling fast.’

‘Okay... I’ll meet you at the airport, just say when.’

‘Don’t bother, I’ll come to you... two days’ time.’

Skye replaced the phone and reached for the vodka. Edward had walked back into his life once before. The first time Skye had tried to tell him to go to hell, but he was broke, boozed up and easy for Edward to manipulate, just as easy as it had been all those years ago. He smiled as he recalled the days of Edward’s first big scam, and wondered what he would have in mind this time. He knew intuitively that it would be crooked.

Alex began to get edgy. He had been away from London far too long, and was worried that his telexes to Edward had gone unanswered. But he had been enjoying himself so much that he put off his return even longer. The auction of the Hunter Hardyman estate was now imminent.

Barbara showed not the slightest interest in the auction; all she wanted was to be rid of the place, with its reminders of her hated grandfather. Alex was fascinated by the old man’s massive wealth. There were, however, many branches of the Hunter Hardyman family, a few of whom he had met and found loud and uncouth in comparison with Barbara.

‘I owe that to my mama. She hated him too, and I was educated in the very best school we have to offer, and so were my daughters. But I’m afraid they’ve inherited some of the worst of the family traits. They both need to go to France or Switzerland to complete their education, what do you think?’

At times she was so innocent, turning to Alex for guidance, but it was often quite obviously calculated. She didn’t really need anyone; she had a mind like steel, and yet she could smile so like a child that it touched him. ‘You know I was married at sixteen, I really never had any time for myself, with two young daughters and an alcoholic for a husband. Now I want to live, Alex, really live.’

She had tried to steer Alex towards the bedroom, but had never pushed it. She was much too calculating and, although he was attentive, he had never so much as kissed her.

When he told her he had to leave for England in two days, and suggested she and her daughters might like to visit him some time, Barbara bit her lip. It was an invitation, but a very open-ended one. He mentioned no dates. She decided she would have to work even harder on him, she had held off the seduction for too long.

A bottle of champagne, on ice, was waiting for them when they entered his hotel suite. Barbara slipped off her chiffon wrap, trailed it along the floor and murmured that it was dreadfully hot. He opened the balcony windows and turned up the air conditioning, but that was not what she had in mind. She insisted on taking a bath to cool off. She turned on the taps of the vast double bath, trailed her hand in the water and sipped champagne. Alex could see her through the open door, and she knew he was watching. Slowly she took off her diamond necklace and earrings, then even more slowly she untied the chiffon sash at the front of her dress.

Aroused, Alex moved to the bathroom door, watching intently. The dress seemed to slip away from her of its own accord, and she sat naked on the side of the bath. ‘Take your clothes off, slowly, Alex, do it really slowly.’

He loosened his tie, pulled it off slowly and dropped it to the floor, then began to unbutton his shirt. She sat, sipping champagne and watching. His initial nervousness dropped away as his shirt did. He unzipped his flies and still she watched, sipping and smiling up at him.

Barbara had found him an intensely attractive man, but now as he stripped in front of her it took all her willpower not to rip his trousers down and go down on him there and then. Her first husband had been a drunk, but a very experienced man, and a kinky one. He had trained his blushing bride well — too well — and his alcoholism had resulted in his sweet, not-so-innocent young wife moving on to fresher fields, taking his carefully taught sexual prowess with her. She had had many lovers, and when she realized she had outgrown her husband, she divorced him on the grounds of his drinking. Now she put all her experience into this one night — she was going to seduce this quiet, handsome Englishman, and what’s more he was never going to forget it. It was a gamble, but Barbara never gambled without being very sure she would win.

Alex would have taken her as soon as he was naked, and moved to hold her, but she slipped away from him, the bath forgotten, and walked into the bedroom. In her hands she held a bottle of sun-tan oil from the bathroom... She smiled and held out her hand to take him to the bed.

‘Lie down, lie down... come on, baby, lie down.’

Alex moaned, hardly able to contain himself, and he lay face down on the bed, clutching the satin cover. Barbara sat astride him and began to oil his shoulders, and he gasped, gritting his teeth... He was back in jail with Brian, in their cell... She smoothed the oil over his back, over his shoulders, and was kissing his neck and his ears, all the time her expert hands moving up and down his body. Twice he tried to turn, but she pushed him back, oiled him and smoothed him until her hands reached his buttocks... She licked at him, she was driving him crazy, and eventually he turned over and pulled her beneath him... Still she fought him off, kissing his chest and murmuring all the time, soft, lewd words... ‘Beg for me, Alex, beg for me, come on baby, beg for me. Tell me how much you want to fuck me... Come on, baby, tell me...’

He wanted to scream, she was sucking him, biting him between his thighs, and he was helpless, her hands were everywhere, smoothing, pulling, oiling... and then he grabbed at her head, pulled at her hair until she cried out, pushing her face against his thighs, pushed so hard that her teeth cut into his leg... and then she put her perfect mouth around his prick...

Alex came with a shudder that shook the bed. He put his hands over his face, he didn’t want her to see the extent of the pleasure she had given him, but she pulled his arm away...

‘Now it’s your turn...’

Alex did not leave the bedroom the next day. They remained together, food was sent in, eaten, and then they were back to screwing again. Alex had never known such pleasure, he made up for all the lost years... until even Barbara was exhausted. He never stopped, this Englishman was more than she had ever bargained for...

‘You’re really going to leave me, go back without me? You can’t leave your baby, can you? Alex? You can’t leave me now, can you?’

He moaned and held her tight, her body slithering in his arms like an eel, and he kissed her. ‘I’ll take you with me.’

Barbara was determined she would somehow trap Alex into marrying her. Marriage to Barbara had, naturally, crossed Alex’s mind, along with the massive fortune that went with it. He certainly found her the most sexually attractive woman he had ever encountered, but then he had not had all that much experience with women.

He lay on the bed and thought about Ming, then his mind wandered back over all the years to Dora. He closed his eyes, let the memories flood through him, and he had a sudden impulse to see Dora again. He reached for the telephone wondering if the operator would be able to trace Dora’s husband with just the name Kinnerton. He couldn’t remember the man’s first name... On second thoughts he decided against it. He rolled off the bed and walked into the bathroom, where Barbara was lying in the bubble-filled tub. She flicked water at him, and sat up so he could see her beautiful breasts, the soapsuds around her like a cloud.

‘Tell me about your husband, what was he like?’

Barbara blew bubbles at him from her hand, but her eyes narrowed. Why did Alex want to know about her husband?

He sat on the side of the bath and gently soaped her shoulders. She caught his hand and kissed it, kissed each finger, sucking at them, and he bent down to kiss the top of her head. The damp, steamy atmosphere in the bathroom had made small curls form by her ears, and he twisted one around his finger.

‘I hated him, Alex.’

‘Not at first, surely?’

‘Oh no, I was sixteen, and he was very glamorous. He used to ride up to see Daddy, and he was always bringing me little gifts... But he was thirty-eight, married four times already.’

‘So, go on... you agreed to marry him?’

‘Daddy married us — wanted him to oversee some of his oilfields, and then they had this new pipeline running through Alaska or something, I don’t know. But it was more of a business deal. Contracts were exchanged.’

Alex looked at his nails. ‘And? Go on.’

Barbara was desperately calculating how much she should tell Alex about this part of her life. She remained silent, flicking at the soap bubbles with a fingernail. She had trailed after her first husband, panting after him like a chubby puppy. She had been as overweight as her daughter Selina, and so besotted with this handsome, debonair man that she had persuaded her father to somehow arrange that he marry her. At first her father had refused, but at the thought of how much business he could acquire by joining the two together he changed his mind and pressured Joe Taverner to marry his plump, spoiled brat of a daughter. Taverner had accepted the deal, and Barbara.

He had never let her live it down. In the first year of their marriage he tormented her, forcing her to beg to be taken into his bed. He found his young bride only too eager to act out his fantasies. She became a slave girl, a mute, a willing partner in every sexual game he could devise. For the first three years she lived with him, tied to his bed in chains, whipped in the stables, dressed in kinky leather costumes made to his own designs. He turned away from his many mistresses — his wife had supplanted them. She balked at nothing, and took him to such a sexual peak that his obsession inverted itself. He became the slave, the mute, and her fertile young brain devised many more perverted games — he became the one bound to the bed, tied up in the cellar, now he was the one to crawl and beg for her favours.

Taverner had always been a hard drinker, and with a wife whose energy was directed into nothing but sexual gratification, he spent more and more time at their ranch, drinking. Two daughters were born, and immediately handed over to nannies and nursemaids. The games began again as soon after the births as possible. Then Taverner made the mistake of introducing third parties. At first it was other women, but when Barbara had tired of that, he brought home men of all shapes, colours and sizes — paying them to screw his wife.

By the time she was twenty-one, Barbara had had more lovers than most women would have in three lifetimes. She tormented her husband with them and drove him to distraction. Her puppy fat had disappeared and, as though emerging from a chrysalis, she had been transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman, insatiable and obsessive in her desires.

Taverner lost control of his drinking and wrecked his business. Rumours of his wife’s behaviour were spreading — she was becoming notorious, not only for her sexual perversions but for her outrageous spending sprees. Having always had plenty of money, she had never known a moment when she could not have whatever she wanted when she wanted it. She threw parties, bought speedboats, yachts, racehorses, even a plane, and grew bored with them almost before the ink had dried on the cheques. Taverner, sodden with drink and broke, was cast aside. Barbara’s father threatened to cut her off unless she behaved herself, so she controlled her urges and limited herself to one man at a time in the privacy of her own home.

And this was what was lying in Alex Barkley’s bathtub, this beautiful sophisticated woman was more of a whore than any of Dora’s girls — even Dora herself. Barbara Taverner was a slut in thousand-dollar dresses with a billionaire’s daughter tag around her neck. The veiled looks that Alex had detected from Dallas society and presumed were envy, really meant ‘sucker’. They knew all about her, and they pitied him.

‘My husband, Alex, wasn’t a very nice man. He would subject me to horrible things, tie me up and beat me... It was terrible because I was so young, I had no one to turn to, no one. My father wouldn’t listen, and then when Joe got so drunk, so drunk he couldn’t screw me himself... Oh I can’t, I can’t tell you... I am so ashamed...’ Tears rolled down her perfect cheeks... ‘I hated him so much, and I could do nothing... Now you know, I am so ashamed, oh God, he beat me, and... Alex...’ She turned her tear-stained face to him, held out her arms. ‘Sometimes he even made me enjoy it. Help me, oh, don’t leave me, I need you, Alex, I would die if you left me... You’re everything he wasn’t. I trust you, I trust you so much, and you have made me respect myself again, when I never thought I could.’

He knelt and took her in his arms. She seemed so childlike, so desperately lonely. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Barbara knew it was now or never, and she clung to him, held him tight. She became girlish and coy, nuzzling his neck, giggling. ‘I would be such a good wife to you, Alex, entertaining — and something I’ve always wanted is to be part of English society, you know, mix with the titles and meet everyone. I’d be such a good wife, I would — do you mind me being so rich? Is that what troubles you? But it mustn’t — think, darling, oh think what we can do together, what we can accomplish...’

She climbed out of the bath and danced around the room, putting on a plummy English accent, bowing and curtseying, then knelt at his feet and looked up into his handsome face. ‘I love you, Alex, I love you so much. Whatever you want I want, I love you.’

Alex hugged her tight and said over and over again that he loved her too. He had never spoken those words to anyone in his life before, and it was as if she had opened a floodgate inside him. Taking her by the hand he dragged her into the bedroom, opened a bottle of champagne and poured them each a glass. ‘Will you be my wife?’

She wept, flinging her arms around him, shouting over and over, ‘Yes! Yes! Yessss...’

Skye Duval discovered just what Edward wanted him to do. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t back out.

‘See, old chap, I need someone here I can trust, someone who will keep their mouth shut and run the business this side. You’ll have a lot of money passing through your hands, and as I said, I need someone I can trust.’

Skye shrugged. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I? Hey, listen, I’m not arguing, I need the bread... but there’s got to be something more in it for me than cash, I want my papers back.’

Edward gave his word, he would return them, even if Skye didn’t agree to do the business. Skye laughed, he had to hand it to his old buddy boy, he could still lie better than anyone he had ever known. Skye knew he was caught in Edward’s web, Edward could eat him alive if he wanted to. ‘Okay, you’re on... make me a rich man again, eh?’

Edward held Skye’s shoulders. ‘Yes, but keep off the booze. You foul it up and I’ll kill you.’

Skye laughed again and told Edward he would have a hard time — he had been dead for years. Edward then took him completely off guard, held him in his arms, like a caress. ‘I need you, buddy boy, don’t let me down.’

Skye’s voice was barely audible as he gazed up into the strange, dark eyes. ‘You know I won’t, you’re all I’ve got, even though you’re an incorrigible bastard.’

Edward began to tell Skye of his plans for buying up vast areas of land for mining perlite.

When Edward returned to London, he was angry that Alex had still not returned. He responded to Alex’s many telexes by telling him to ‘get his arse back to London’.

Dewint noticed how unkempt Edward looked, and he was drinking more heavily than ever. He did not ask after Harriet, and made no effort to visit her. He prowled moodily around the manor, eventually giving Dewint instructions to have the studio repainted. Looking at the bright-yellow walls, he said, ‘It’s enough to drive anyone nuts. Get it cleaned up.’

‘Yes, sir... do you have any particular colour in mind, or will you be asking Mrs Barkley when you see her?’

Without replying, Edward walked out. Dewint watched him drive off far too fast, clipping the gatepost. He decided to paint the studio a pale lemon, he was sure Harriet would like that.

Edward tried hard not to think about Harriet’s eventual return. He felt guilty about the thoughts that kept creeping into his mind. He wanted an heir, a son, and it was obvious to him now that Harriet would never have a child. Harriet’s love had always made him feel good — her almost innocent attitude to sex meant that it was always he who made the first move. It was this innocence that had always attracted him to her. Having had a surfeit of sexual experience in his youth, he had not given it a great deal of importance in later years. But now, the girls in the Notting Hill Gate house had whetted his appetite, brought desire to the surface again. Now he made up for lost time. Harriet seemed like a ghost from the past, and one he was seriously considering consigning to the past. He was not sure how he should go about it given her precarious mental state.

The last person in the world Edward wanted to see was Richard Van der Burge. One of the staff informed him that Richard was trying to get into the club, and had mentioned Edward’s name. Edward excused himself from his table, leaving the attractive Brigitte Bardot look-alike pouting. He strolled out to meet Richard.

Richard looked terrible, down-at-heel and as scruffy as Skye. He was shaking, and his fingers were badly stained with nicotine.

‘So, Richard, how’s life?’

Richard shrugged and smiled nervously, and lit yet another cigarette.

‘You still work for De Veer’s?’

After inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Richard replied, ‘No, no I don’t... Not working at present. Had a bit of trouble, you know, chaps kept getting promoted over my head. Got difficult, so I walked.’

‘You all right for cash? You know, if you need tiding over while you’re out of work?’

Richard asked for ten thousand and, without batting an eyelid, Edward wrote out a cheque. Then he offered Richard a job in the insurance office. He suggested quite a high salary, more than he had intended. ‘It’ll be old pals’ time — you see, you’ll be working with Allard Simpson.’

‘Oh, that’s fantastic...’

‘Yes, that’s the good part... the bad part is that you’ll be in South Africa.’

Richard agreed, and with a hesitant look in the direction of the gaming rooms he left to pack his bags. He didn’t thank Edward for the cheque, believing that he was owed more than a meagre ten thousand, much more — and he intended to get it.

Edward drank heavily for the rest of the evening, embarrassing his beautiful escort so much she left the club in floods of tears. Too drunk to drive himself home, he took a taxi.

Dewint wondered what Harriet was up to. He had been surprised to see her home, and knew Edward was not expecting her. He gave a silent prayer he would not return with a woman. His initial nervousness was dispelled within moments of her arrival. She kept him in such a state of laughter as she mimicked the doctors and patients, he was exhausted. She firmly instructed him to retire to his pigeon loft and she would wait up for Edward.

As the hours ticked away and Edward did not return she grew more nervous. She rehearsed what she would say to him, holding his photograph in front of her and altering her script as often as she changed her clothes. She eventually got into bed, curling up in her thick nightdress. He wasn’t going to come home and she couldn’t really blame him.

Edward managed to open the door. The hall was in darkness and he bellowed for Dewint. She peered at him through the banisters. ‘It’s his night off, will I do?’

Edward stumbled to the stairs, then patted the wall searching for the light switch. He muttered drunkenly about his intentions to visit her. He couldn’t look her in the face, but tried to apologize for his lateness.

‘It’s all right, I understand — business... you want a hand?’

Even though he leaned against her as she helped him up the stairs, he could not look into her face. He fell across the bed face down.

‘Right, I’ll start with the shoes and work upwards...’ She tossed each shoe into a corner of the room, happy to have something to do for him. He rolled over and leaned on his elbow. His face was flushed. Their eyes met and he looked away embarrassed not knowing what to say to her. There was an awful silence, a helplessness to them both. He loosened his tie. ‘You look good, is that a suntan? Where’ve you been then?’

‘I’ve been using a sun lamp, and I’ve put on weight, lean forward and I’ll get your shirt off.’

She began to undo the buttons, slowly moving closer, touching him. Her hands were shaking. He wrapped his arms around her waist burying his head against her. His voice was muffled, ‘You all right?’

She stroked his head. ‘Yes, I’m all right, my love.’

His grip tightened around her. ‘I’ve missed you, missed this bloody flannelette nightgown... Oh God, Harry, Harry, I’ve missed you, this place is a morgue without you.’ Slowly he lifted his head, and looked into her eyes. He was drunk enough to be honest, to be open about the way he felt and his vulnerability touched her. ‘Christ I’ll take care of you, you’re never going away again...’

She rocked him in her arms... ‘I’m home now, I’m home now.’

There was no void, no shyness between them.

Later, when she lay next to him, he reached out in his sleep and pulled her close, the way he always had. She closed her eyes. She could feel his powerful body and pressed her backbone against him, surrounded by him, curled against him. Now she was home.

Feeling buoyant, Edward whistled as he entered his office. Miss Henderson handed him a cable, and he started to laugh as he read it. He ordered her to get his wife on the telephone. It was only nine o’clock but he poured himself a brandy.

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, sidestep, sidestep, 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.