The Talisman (68 page)

‘Give it to the butler.’

Barbara’s butler, Scargill, turned from handing round the drinks tray. Barbara gave him a look, waved her hand, and knew by now the chef would be throwing a fit in the kitchen. In the end it was Alex who removed the pigeon and took it outside. He simply threw it out of the back door and then assured Harriet it was being fed and cared for.

Dinner was announced and Edward, deep in conversation with a New York banker, sat down in the wrong place. This put all the seating arrangements out, and so it was musical chairs until at last everyone was seated.

The consommé was being served by two white-gloved waiters. Harriet was seated next to a judge, and she fell into a deep conversation about her father and his prostate operation. Everyone had finished their soup and the waiters hovered as Harriet hadn’t touched hers. Edward leaned on his elbow and enquired if she had finished, everyone was waiting. ‘Oh sorry, you can take it away . . . sorry, Barbara, but we were talking about my father.’

Barbara enquired how Judge Simpson was and Harriet looked astonished. ‘Oh he’s dead, didn’t you know?’ Everyone murmured their condolences, and Alex quickly changed the conversation.

Harriet grew very quiet as she knew nothing about banking, and had no interest in political matters. She couldn’t help but notice how at ease Edward was and felt more than inadequate. She also noted what a very good hostess Barbara was . . .

As they drove home, Edward yawned. Harriet was biting her nails. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You went very quiet.’

‘Well I felt a bit out of my depth, the white-gloved treatment is a bit over the top.’

He drove up the manor house drive. ‘Maybe, but sometimes it’s good for business.’

Harriet lay awake most of the night. She made elaborate plans to begin working with Dewint. To redecorate the manor, and get lots of white gloves . . . suddenly she could hear the Judge, his booming voice bellowing through the old Hall . . . ‘For God’s sake, Edna, that fella looks as if he’s in a black and white minstrel show, the Duke’s comin’ for a bite to eat, not a ruddy cabaret.’ She slipped out of the bed and crept to the window. She loved to look out of this particular window, down to the big oak tree.

His approaching death had frightened her father, his bluster had gone, and when she had sat with him, he had cried . . . held on to her hand. ‘How’s my country gel then, eh? Good of you ta come up and see us, place always quiet without you . . . this is where you belong, not in that filthy city.’

The Judge’s request to be buried with his favourite hunter was dismissed as senile ramblings. After his funeral Harriet found the old horse’s grave. The horse her pa had refused point-blank to send to the glue factory. He had dug the grave himself. She laid a bunch of wild flowers and a small card . . . ‘From Your Country Girl’.

As the train arrived back in London, her heart had already begun to ache for the fields, for the fresh clean air, but Edward wasn’t there, and where he was, she had to be.

Alex was preparing for the takeover of Buchanan House, a twenty-three-million-pound deal. The news hit the City, and Mr Alex Barkley’s face began to appear in the
Financial Times
columns. He was referred to as a new breed of tycoon. He began to relax. Maybe his brother was right, he should let Edward get on with his side of the business. He negotiated the renaming of Buchanan House, listing all the subsidiary companies they could combine. He thought about going public, so he had many meetings with brokers and financiers, closeted in his office or in the boardroom for hours on end. The poised, whirring cameras were soon forgotten, became part of the walls. But Alex was unaware of just what a tight security system his ‘dear’ brother had had installed. Although Edward’s office appeared as it always had, the mammoth desk had been modified, as had the walls. Behind five oak panels were monitor screens, and his desk was computerized, the sides opening up to reveal the controls. Without moving out of his office, Edward Barkley could tape and record every meeting that took place in the building. Every single negotiation, every single phone call that went in or out of the Barkley Company, he recorded. By this method, Edward felt free to roam, leave London whenever he wanted, assured that his office was ticking away all by itself.

Edward had decided that a meeting with Ming was called for. It was not particularly urgent, he just wanted to get away from London, from Harriet – she was heading for one of her depressive bouts. He knew it was wrong, that he should tell her what he was doing, but he did his usual disappearing act anyway.

Dewint had the unfortunate task of telling her, one that often landed on his frail shoulders. Her play was about to open, and Dewint knew how important it was for her to have Edward there on her first night – she needed his approval. She had worked so hard, and at long last she had her Equity card. But she took it very well, shrugging her shoulders and saying it was only to be expected. Dewint tried to make up for Edward’s absence, telling her that by the time he returned from New York the play would have had a chance to ‘run in’, and her performance would no doubt be better for the experience.

This was her first professional engagement, one she had worked hard to get. She had joined the Bush Theatre at Shepherd’s Bush as an assistant to the stage manager. She was an obvious choice for the part of Christina in their production of
The Soul of a Whore
, and so far the rehearsals had gone without a single hitch. As the opening night approached, Harriet’s nerves were in shreds. This was no passing whim, as Edward had believed at first, but a serious stab at making a career for herself. She had made considerable donations towards the running of the theatre, and although no one liked to admit it, this had swayed the company into not only staging the production but also offering her the role. They were touched when she insisted she auditioned like anyone else, even though she was the ‘angel’. She didn’t want to destroy the play’s chances of success. Harriet had won the role fair and square, and her position in the company was confirmed.

She rarely, if ever, mentioned her husband, and used the stage name of Harriet Simpson. It had become very important to her that she prove herself, without any influence from Edward.

Dewint watched over her, fussing around, almost as nervous as she was. Alex had been asked to attend, but he had declined due to a prior engagement. Allard, however, was bringing a crowd of his friends to support her.

The small theatre at the top of the pub was crammed. The young author sat biting his nails as the critics squeezed into the rows of benches.

Dewint’s nervousness evaporated within the first ten minutes. Harriet’s performance was astonishing – she seemed perfectly at home on the stage, and her performance had depth and great humour. She had a rare quality that riveted the audience. She walked a dangerous edge, switching a laugh line into a violent tirade against the men she picked up in her character of a whore. She dominated the stage, and at the end the small theatre gave her a standing ovation.

Dewint waited outside the pub’s ‘stage door’ until Harriet appeared with Allard and his crowd of friends, who were absolutely overwhelmed by her talent. They went off to celebrate, and Dewint caught the bus home. He sat up until four in the morning, when she arrived, exhausted but jubilant. She had done it – she didn’t need anyone to tell her, she had felt it from the stage. She handed Dewint a newspaper with the only review so far.

‘I’m a star, Norman . . . twinkle, twinkle.’

‘Oh, Mrs Barkley, you are, and I’ll be there every night.’

‘I’d like that, Norman, I’d like that . . . Don’t wake me until late. Goodnight . . .’

The following morning as Dewint cleared Harriet’s breakfast tray from her bedroom, he noticed all the bread had been rolled into tiny pellets. He checked the pill bottle in her bedside table and found it open.

Ming was reading the morning papers, including the English ones, from cover to cover. There was yet another article about the Barkley empire in the financial section, plus an announcement in the social columns – Alex’s second stepdaughter, Annabelle, was to marry Lord Henry Blackwell. But there was little or nothing about Edward Barkley.

It was chilling that, at that precise moment, her houseboy informed her that she had a visitor . . . a Mr Edward Barkley.

Ming kept Edward waiting until she had changed, made up her face, and felt ready to meet him. He was waiting in the lounge, spreadeagled across the sofa reading one of her magazines. She had a moment to take in his dishevelled appearance, his long hair, the denims.

‘Well, I see we are very much into the swinging style, would you care for coffee?’

Edward beamed at her and swung his cowboy boots down from the sofa. ‘You look good . . . in fact, you’ve not changed at all.’

Primly she sat down, as far away from him as possible.

‘You know, Ming, when I heard that Alex was married, I thought it was you – I knew the pair of you were carrying on your little affair – but I was wrong.’

‘Yes, you were. Well what do you want?’

He laughed, ran his hands through his long hair, and she noticed he wore a gold bracelet. He seemed at ease with her, as if they had seen each other only a few days previously. ‘I’ve got some more projects for you to take over, in Mexico, couple of hotels . . . and I may have a deal for you. What do you think of shipping your fabrics back to Japan? Be a lot of money in it, and they are very interested . . . You free for lunch?’

Ming was impressed, Edward’s ability for making contacts never ceased to amaze her. The Japanese project was, as he had said, worth a fortune.

Having made the introductions at lunch, Edward left Ming with the four Japanese buyers to negotiate the contracts. On his way out he let his hand rest just a moment too long on the nape of her neck. ‘Why not drop into my hotel later, spot of dinner . . . ’bout nine?’

Ming inclined her head slightly to show her acceptance, then gave her full attention to her countrymen. The deal was an excellent one. They were very interested in Ming’s company, interested enough to want to buy into it as part of the deal. They questioned her closely on Edward Barkley’s association with her business, hinting that if he agreed to sell them his shares, they could guarantee that shops for her fabrics would open in Japan. As their discussions continued, it became increasingly clear that the deal would only go through if there were no third party involved.

Ming knew that her long wait was to come to an end, now, tonight. During dinner with Edward Barkley tonight she would make her move, and be free of him for good.

Edward had not even changed. He was sprawled on his bed watching cartoons on television when Ming entered. He smiled and patted the bed for her to sit beside him. She hesitated, then sat in a chair.

‘I thought we could have room service, or would you prefer to eat out? How did it go? Did you finalize the deal?’

Ming smiled, then cocked her head to one side. ‘I’m not hungry, Mr Stubbs. I’ve come here to discuss business, nothing more.’

She noted the slight twitch, but he gave her no other sign that her use of the name ‘Stubbs’ had affected him. He switched off the television, and Ming opened her briefcase, tossed him the morning newspaper. ‘Alex is really doing well, his stepdaughter, too, marrying a baronet . . . they entertain royalty, according to that article.’

Edward picked up the paper and began to laugh. The world was so small – Lord Henry Blackwell, Allard’s boyfriend, no less. Ming was taken off guard when he chuckled. Then his manner changed and he tossed the paper aside. He stared at her, his face hard, his eyes expressionless. ‘What’s with the “Stubbs”? What’s going on in that conniving little head, Miss Takeda?’

Ming folded her hands, licked her lips, and spoke very quietly, but clearly. ‘I know all about you, Edward, just as I know all about Alex. I am prepared to forget what I know in return for your twenty-five per cent share of my company.’

She waited, watching him as he stared at her, but he remained silent. She continued, ‘I know, Edward, and I am sure Alex would not want it divulged to the English press, that he was convicted of murder. He served a sentence, didn’t he? But he served it for you . . . I think it would make fascinating reading, and I could make a considerable amount of money selling the story to one of your more dubious newspapers . . .’

Taking out a cigarette, Edward tapped it on the bedside table, then searched his jeans for his gold lighter. ‘So they want me out, do they? Only to be expected, they’re a devious bunch, the Japs . . . Well, I suggest you go ahead – and shut the door when you leave, sweetheart.’

Ming sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet, straightened her skirt, and walked to the door. ‘Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I hear you . . . You don’t have time for a quick massage before you go, do you? I like the girls naked, sitting astride, you know? But I’m sure I don’t have to teach you the business, do I? I’ll pay you extra if you toss me off.’

Ming’s hand tightened on the door knob. She knew she had lost this round, he had beaten her at her own game. She looked back at him; if she hated him before, now she wanted him dead. ‘Goodnight, Mr Barkley.’

‘Oh, Ming, don’t try to undercut me, it’s a waste of time, you ungrateful little bitch. Try anything and I warn you, I’ll take you down with me . . . Now go back to the Japs and say I want in, or there’s no deal.’

Ming closed the door silently. She knew she could not win with Edward, perhaps she could stand a better chance with Alex. In the meantime she would play the Japanese company along, saying the Barkley shares were being bought out.

Alex Barkley had made it, and he revelled in it. He was happier than he had been in his whole life, with his beautiful wife at his side, two well-connected sons-in-law, and a three-quarter share in a private bank. His own income was staggering, and combined with that of his wife he deserved the title of ‘tycoon’ the newspapers had given him. He was proud of his achievements, his home and his business. Princess Margaret was a regular guest. Mr and Mrs Barkley had become an ‘A list’ couple. There were still some slight hitches with the Buchanan takeover, but nothing that alarmed Alex, only Edward could do that.