The Talisman (63 page)

Skye made a sweeping gesture for Harriet to come to the poolside. Out of the side of his mouth he said, ‘This one even I wouldn’t mind shafting.’ He called out, ‘You want a drink sweetheart . . . what did you say your name was?’

Harriet remained on the verandah, half in the shadows, half in the sunlight. Casually, she took her hat off and shook out her hair. Skye clapped his hands . . . ‘Oh yes . . . get ’em off, she’s lovely . . . Eddie, I gotta hand it to you, you know how to pick ’em.’

Edward pushed him aside. ‘Shut it, it’s my wife.’ Skye curled up with laughter, thinking Edward was joking. He yelled . . . ‘Man here says you’re his wife, that true?’

Edward glowered as he made his way to the verandah, and Skye shut the music off. Now he shaded his eyes watching with interest, more than interest. Wife? Edward had never mentioned to him that he was married.

Harriet’s heart was thudding, Edward moved up the steps into the shadows. ‘Hi. I was just passing on the way to the shops and thought I’d drop in, have I interrupted a business meeting? I mean I can always come back.’ He didn’t make it easy for her, he didn’t take her in his arms, even seem too surprised. Instead, he leaned against the wooden railing.

‘How in Christ’s name did you find me?’

‘Allard called me about Dickie, so I came for the funeral, ashes to ashes, you know, that kind of thing.’

‘He was buried a week ago.’

‘Oh well, in that case I’ll go home.’

Edward stared at her, his mind racing. He had always covered his tracks so well and if Harriet could find him, God knows who else would. ‘You tell Alex you were coming?’

‘No, but Allard knew where I could contact you, I didn’t know he worked for you?’

‘He doesn’t . . . come on down to the pool, I’ll introduce you, Skye, this is Harriet . . . Harriet, Skye Duval.’

Still he did not touch her, did not show any sign he was pleased to see her, in fact the reverse. Skye on the other hand held her at arm’s length, raved about her hair, her eyes, and promptly ordered a bottle of champagne to be opened in her honour. All the while Edward made no attempt to move near her, he picked up his towel, and casually said he would take a shower. He walked to the side of the pool and stepped under the ice-cold water. Distanced from her he could look at her, watch her sitting in her neat black dress, shading the sun with her hand as Skye chattered away. He saw Skye pick up her straw hat and stick it on his head. He sat close to her lounge chair, talking non-stop, asking about her flight, her hotel.

Edward dressed and combed his hair before joining them at the poolside. She was more relaxed, yet Skye had seen her nervousness, her eyes straying to Edward every few moments. What fascinated Skye was the change in Edward. If his wife was nervous, his dear friend was all over the place. First he had put his shirt on inside out, and his shoes on the wrong feet. Buddy boy was stoned out of his tree, and trying to be straight. Skye started to snigger, this could be fun. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the smile was wiped off his face. It was as if he, Skye, didn’t exist, wasn’t there. Edward’s shadow loomed over Harriet, and she took her hand away from her face, no longer needing to shade her eyes. She looked up. ‘Christ she’s beautiful,’ thought Skye. Edward spoke so softly Skye could only just hear.

‘Hello, Harry.’

‘Hello.’

Gently Edward cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lips. Skye had seen him with more women than he could count, but he had never seen this protective, gentle side. She glowed with love, it shone in her eyes, in her every gesture. He watched her touch Edward’s hair, say softly how long it had grown, and that she liked it.

Skye did a dive into the pool, swam a length almost entirely beneath the surface. His lungs felt as if they would burst. He wanted to explode with jealousy. He loved Edward, was in love with him, always had been. They had been getting on so well, nothing sexual, but for Skye just to have him close was enough and now he saw what closeness really was, and he hated her. Even more so as they walked to the verandah, Edward giving a casual wave to Skye, the only indication they were leaving. She, however, smiled, thanked him for the champagne. The champagne she had not even touched. She also called out that he could keep her hat, said it suited him better. Skye heard the car drawing away and, towelling himself dry, trod on the straw hat, crushing it with his foot. So much for Mrs fucking Barkley.

Edward carried her cases into the hotel. He had switched her room demanding the best they had, and it was the bridal suite. He gave the bellhop a big tip, too big, to get rid of him, before he scooped her up in his arms. She clung to his neck and they both fell on to the enormous bed together. ‘So tell me, how in God’s name did you find me?’

He began to take off her dress as she repeated what Allard had told her. He again asked if Alex knew, and she flopped back on to the pillow. ‘No, no one knows I’m here, except Norman – why? Is this place a secret or something?’

Edward told her that he was in the middle of a complex deal, and didn’t want even a sniff of it to get back to London until he was ready. She began to undo the buttons on his shirt, kissing his chest. ‘Well, you can leave me with that dreadful lizard-type gent at the pool, I won’t get in your way, I promise, just needed to see you.’

Edward pulled off his shirt and got up from the bed to take off his trousers. ‘The lizard, my love, is Skye Duval. He does the odd bit of work for me.’

He moved back to the bed, and took her shoes off. She rested her head against his shoulder, rubbing his back with her hand. ‘You know, sometimes I forget just how you look, I think I know but I don’t. I love you, Edward, I do love you.’

He held her, rocking her slightly. He didn’t tell her the effect she had on him, seeing her there, standing in the shadows of the verandah. His initial anger, his instinct for self-preservation and concern that no one knew his whereabouts had made him angry at her intrusion. Now he could think of nothing he wanted more . . . ‘Tell you what, I’ll get through all the business, then we’ll go some place, what do you say to that?’

She mimicked Barbara, Alex’s wife, using a soft Texan drawl, ‘Why honey, that sounds divine . . .’ She laughed, describing Barbara to him as he had never met her. She insisted on entering the room from the wardrobe, giving him Barbara’s performance in their manor and he lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. She could always make him laugh, and she was so unselfconscious that her whole performance had been done stark-naked.

He held out his arm for her to lie next to him. Her skin was so pale against his dark tan, and he found himself instructing her to take great care if she went out in the sun. They lay side by side, completely relaxed with each other, and he pulled her even closer. His arm slipped around her, resting on her belly and drawing her body into his own curve. It was a simple gesture, but one she always associated with him, with security. He kissed the nape of her neck . . . his hand stroked her body, and he felt the tiny stretch marks at her back. He knew what they were, maybe she was even unaware of them herself . . . they were the marks from her child, the child he believed had been Pierre Rochal’s. Even thinking about it, about a part of her life he had never known, made him jealous. He held her closer. ‘I want you to have our son . . . no, no, now don’t turn away from me . . . I want your belly growing fat with my boy, our son . . . Why not? You’ve been well, and you’re fit and strong . . . what do you say?’ She looked into his face and they kissed . . . he took it to be an answer and, aroused, he began to make love to her.

The black cloud inched fragment by fragment across her mind, weighing her down, engulfing her. ‘Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.’ She repeated it to herself over and over . . . She moaned for him, her legs opening to him, but her mind began closing, the voices screamed inside her head, ‘Push . . . push . . . he’s coming, push Harry . . .’ and the pain engulfed her, making her gasp as if she couldn’t breathe. The black cloud burst with the fragmented picture of their dead baby’s face. Unaware of what she was doing, she was pushing Edward away from her, her body rigid . . . but he came into her, climaxing into her until he shook.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered . . .

He moved from the bed and walked into the bathroom, closing the door. Suddenly he kicked it open. ‘What in Christ’s name is wrong with you? . . . If you tell me what I do wrong, then we can work it out. Jesus Christ, you drive me crazy, do you know that? You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t feel you freeze up on me? What am I doing wrong, do I hurt you? Harry? . . . Harry?’

‘I’m just tired from the plane, I said I was sorry.’

He stood for a long time looking at her. Then he sighed. ‘I’ll take a shower.’ She pressed her face into the pillow, not wanting him to hear her crying.

When he came out, he sat on the bed. ‘I’ll book a table, invite Skye, is that all right . . .? Harry?’ She held her arms out, wanting his forgiveness . . . wanting to tell him why, what happened to her, in her mind . . . how could she tell him that the son he wanted died in her arms. The fear of her own madness linked to the loss of the child, the baby she blamed herself for losing. Her guilt was more powerful than her body, her desires, and yet she loved him completely.

As she bathed, Edward lit a cigar. He had already booked the table, and was dressed and ready to leave. Skye had invited them for drinks first . . . sex with Harriet had never been the mainstay of their relationship . . . he reconciled himself to the knowledge that it never would be. Sex he could get wherever he wanted . . . he would just have to make do with loving her. He paced the room, even thought about going elsewhere, for another woman to father him a son . . . he stubbed out the cigar, grinding it into the ashtray. Trouble was he wanted the mother of his child to be Harriet . . . he didn’t want just any woman’s brat.

Edward didn’t remark on how beautiful she looked when she came out of the bathroom. She had made a great effort, even making up her face. He just said, ‘Let’s go.’ But as always, when she looked at him in that tentative nervous way, his whole body wanted to hold her, say it was all right . . . but tonight, like so many other nights, she had pushed him away . . . He knew he would be won round soon enough, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

They drove to Skye’s in silence. She was biting her nails, looking at him, needing him to be kind, but he purposely remained silent. It was not until he parked the car outside Skye’s bungalow that he made a conscious effort to be nice to her. ‘You look lovely . . . and don’t worry, we’ll work it out, okay?’ She nodded her head, then flung herself into his arms. ‘I love you, I do love you.’

‘I know, I know . . . and by the way, don’t take one of his joints, they’re lethal.’

Skye did not get the slightest hint that all was not well, far from it. Edward bounded in, hand in hand with Harriet. The champagne corks popped, and this time Mrs Barkley drank. They also had more champagne at dinner. Harriet and Skye began to interact fast, she picked up his camp humour and then had not only Skye weeping with laughter, but Edward too. She repeated the story about discovering Dewint dressed as Joan Crawford, but she made Edward promise never to mention that she had told him. His mood eased, and he started to enjoy himself for real. He could see the way Skye was being captivated by her and he liked it.

She had ordered snails, and then held up one of the shells, and with a serious face looked at Skye. ‘Did you know that the shell is the most delicious part of the escargot? You really must try it . . .’

Skye bit into the shell and almost lost his front tooth before he realized she was joking.

Edward didn’t find it quite as hysterically funny as they both did, but concentrated on ordering a good wine to go with their main course. They had all ordered different dishes.

When the meal was served, Harriet was very disgruntled by what she called ‘her shrivelled chicken’. Skye, getting well drunk, admired with relish his Dover sole. He made a great show of offering his plate to her, then withdrawing it, saying she could only have it if she gave him a forfeit. Edward sliced into his steak, warning Harriet against the ‘deal’, and Skye splashed more red wine into his already full glass . . . ‘Don’t be so bloody boring, come on, Harry, yes or no? Yes? Okay . . .’

Skye thought about it, and then pointed to the pianist sitting playing a very soft rendering of show tunes. ‘Okay, Mrs Barkley, I want you to go across the room, and ask him to play something . . . and you have to sing, in front of everyone . . . if you do, you’ll get my Dover, if you don’t, you are stuck with that very sickly chicken.’

Edward wiped his mouth with his napkin and suggested she simply call the waiter and order something else. ‘No, that’s not the point, it’s not the point, is it, Skye?’ Edward was slightly embarrassed, they were already louder than any of the other diners. Skye was obviously encouraging her, and at the same time giving sly little nudges to Edward. Harriet was having a ball, she banged the table. ‘I’ll do it on the condition you do one as well.’

Edward had almost finished his steak, he put his knife down. ‘This is getting stupid, just order something else, or I’ll order it for you.’

She clapped her hands not listening to him. ‘You, Mister Duval, have to go across to that table and act as a waiter.’

Skye turned to the group of people already raising their eyebrows and giving disapproving stares.

Edward threw down his napkin. ‘That’s enough Harry, just call the waiter and stop this.’

‘But I am the waiter, dear heart, I am.’ Skye was lisping, and being overtly camp.

Before Edward could stop her, Harriet was at the piano. The pianist, who had very rarely had a request and could play his medley of show tunes with his eyes closed, became quite animated. There was no microphone, and Harriet sat next to him on the piano stool. He flipped through his books and she helped him to find the music.

Edward finished his steak. Skye leaned close to him. ‘She’s wonderful, just wonderful, I adore her . . . how in the hell did you find her. My God, she’s going to do it . . .’ Skye drew the entire restaurant’s attention as he applauded loudly. He knew Edward was getting more uptight, and he revelled in it, pouring even more wine. ‘Ease up, Eddie, I reckon she knows what she’s doing.’