by Riley Banks
Of course there were bad memories here but there were good ones too.
Racing to build a sand castle in the white sand before the waves washed over the narrow isthmus, drawing their works of art back into the Mediterranean Sea; his mother on her knees, in the pooling water, dumping buckets of sand, her laugh like tiny bells on the salt tinged wind.
Floating across the pool, honey gold hair spread out like angel’s wings behind her head. Afterwards, with her hair swept up in a loose twist, giggling at the table with her children while their father scowled from behind a newspaper. Mr Grumpy Pants, as she playfully called him.
With each happy memory, his troubles drew off, carried away by the surge of the Côte D’Azur.
St Jean Cap Ferrat. His favourite place on earth. The true pride and joy of the family empire – at least, in his mind.
Damon loved that the house twisted and turned in multifarious directions, that the pink hued Italian sandstone didn’t follow any standardised structure.
Perhaps the architect, motivated by the breath-taking local beauty, began building and didn’t stop until his inspiration ran dry.
The end result was a sprawling, meandering masterpiece as scenically stunning to look at as it was to look from.
The problem with reverie was it sometimes blurred the edges between past and present, fantasy and reality.
Looking up at the house he considered home, the lines blurred again. It was his mother, standing on the terrace, looking out over the ocean, winter gales lashing at her golden hair, arms hugging her slender body…
But the hair was too light, more white than golden.
With a start, he realised it wasn’t his mother up on the rooftop. It was Charlotte Burke.
Why didn’t I bring a jumper? It’s bloody freezing up here.
Icy wind, like needles, stung her face and bare arms.
Seeing the rooftop terrace from the garden, it had seemed the best vantage point to enjoy the views.
She just hadn’t counted on the wind.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude,’ Nancy said. ‘It’s just... I wanted to...’
Charlotte looked up, smiling at Nancy. She was so shy it had become a running joke. ‘What is it? You know you can ask anything.’
But what Nancy asked was the last thing Charlotte expected.
‘When Laurine kissed you... umm, did you... umm enjoy, umm…’
Her face was the colour of beetroot.
Charlotte could have drawn her discomfort out, made her say the words but she wasn’t that cruel. ‘Did I enjoy kissing a woman?’
Nancy nodded, unable to quite look Charlotte in the eye.
‘Well, it wasn’t terrible or anything. In fact, for my first girl kiss, it was actually quite nice. But I don’t think I’ll be heading down that path anytime soon.’
‘So you… you’re not… just because you enjoyed it…’
‘Am I bi, just because it wasn’t repulsive?’
It was a question Charlotte had asked herself many times that morning. In the cold light of daylight, she found it hard to even see what had driven her to kiss Laurine back. There was no lingering attraction.
‘Yes.’ Nancy stared at the ground, cheeks burning cardinal with the effort of asking the questions.
‘What’s wrong Nancy? Did something happen?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I really should go.’
She hurried off before Charlotte could stop her.
But then Nancy had been acting strange since New Year’s Eve.
Not that Charlotte was in any position to judge.
First Zac and then Laurine. Charlotte had led two people on in as many days.
Letting your hair down is one thing. Scalping yourself is quite another.
Self-destructive behaviour – it had always been there, like a tiger hiding in the shadows, watching, waiting, wanting to devour.
The government shrink once diagnosed her with mild obsessive compulsive behaviour, said her bouts of self-harm, characterised by destructive relationship choices and thoughtless conduct were just as serious as those who physically cut themselves or tried to take their own lives.
What did he know? Did he have to live with the legacy left by her parents?
Was it really twenty years? Not one phone call, birthday card, letter.
Did he even remember who she was?
What do I care? I hate him. Despise him. Wish he were dead as well. And she’s no better.
‘Hey, am I interrupting?’
‘Nah – nothing important. What’s up Miranda?’
‘Just heard something really depressing. Did you know Damon’s mum died here?’
‘What? No. I didn’t…’
Strange that she’d just been thinking of her mother’s death.
Bet his mother didn’t kill herself. Didn’t take the easy way out.
‘Apparently her car skidded off the road on the way back from town. Just down there,’ she said, pointing to a particularly vicious bend in the snaking coastal road. The drop from the cliff to the pounding surf below was at least thirty metres.
‘Far out… I never would have thought…’ Charlotte had never really spoken about her own past or losses. Not to Miranda or anyone else. Not to anyone but her best friend in the whole world.
‘Listen, I’m gonna head over to the library. There’s something I want to check out. You wanna come?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss. I have some things -’ Charlotte’s thoughts splintered away from Miranda to the beach below her.
He was down there, digging apathetically in the sand with bare toes, a black polo neck jumper contrasting against his light, linen pants.
From that first moment, on the plane, there had been a sense that Damon saw her. Saw past the barriers and walls built over time.
A disconcerting notion indeed.
Was there some universal distress signal emanating from those who had lost a parent?
Did he see in her a symbiotic pain?
She wondered again what kind of man Damon Harvey was. Wondered if she had been too quick to judge him.
It had been years since Miranda had visited a library – not a virtual, electronic library but a tangible, paper rich one that permeated the air with the smells of accumulated knowledge.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for information on Mrs Harvey’s death?’ she asked the Grail Keeper of the Nice Publique Libraire.
One of the housekeepers at the St Jean property let slip that the librarian had served the council for over thirty five years. If anyone had information, it would be her.
‘Anglais?’ The word became an accusation, as if Miranda had done something wrong by being born English.
‘Yes,’ she answered, wondering if she should add sorry.
‘Qu-est-ce que vous voulez savoir?’
‘Ah, I don’t understand. I ah only speak English.’ Again, that feeling like she had something to apologise for.
‘I see. What do you want to know about Madame Harvey?’
‘Do you have records about her accident?’
‘Oui. Please sit over there,’ she said, pointing imperiously towards a bank of microfiche readers. ‘I will bring it to you.’
Miranda perused the book titles while she waited.
Journalism was just a way to pay the bills until her real career came through. Ever since she was thirteen and picked up one of her mother’s lusty romance novels, Miranda had dreamt of being an author. Of course Miranda knew now what she didn’t as a teenager - that happily ever after wasn’t some recipe to be found between the dusty pages of a paperback.
Love and lust was what you made of it – sometimes the two so closely aligned as to be interchangeable, as Miranda had discovered the last two days.
She had lusted with such intensity that it almost felt like love, even though she had no desire to see her sexual partners again.
In the meantime she would write about love in the hopes that one day she’d be both published and fin
d her true love.
‘You can’t borrow these. They must stay in the library at all times,’ the librarian said, depositing a folder filled with transparent microfiche films.
‘Okay. Thanks. Ah, merci beaucoup.’
Miranda searched for one in English, sliding the film through the feeder, adjusting the focal range until it came into focus.
Ah, the newspaper report of her death.
Tragic. A mother of five young children, the oldest – twins – only eight years old. The official report said brake failure caused the accident. Her Porsche careening off the narrow road, breaking through the metal barrier and smashing to pieces on the jagged rocks below.
She found something else in English. This time the translation of the original traffic report.
Miranda scrutinized the paper, not understanding all the technical jargon but following the general gist.
No skid marks. She mustn’t have braked. Strange. Of course, the brakes failed. There wouldn’t be any marks. Oh, now that is weird. The brakes were checked only a week before the accident. Did they ever question the mechanic?
She slid in yet another film, with a typed transcript of the eyewitness interviews. Hang on, that didn’t make sense. That Calliope woman said Jacqueline Harvey was unconscious before her car broke through the barrier.
Was that in the accident report? No. Why not?
And the interview with the mechanic, he swore the brakes could not fail.
The last film was the medical report, and quite frankly, the whole lot went straight over Miranda’s head. Science had always been her worst subject.
I should get Charlotte to look at this. Something just doesn’t make sense here.
Gathering the folder up, she walked across to the librarian. ‘Umm, can I get copies?’
‘Oui, one Euro per sheet.’
Miranda rummaged in her handbag for some local coins, deciding at the last minute to copy the French files as well. Maybe something had been lost in translation.
Chapter Eighteen:
‘Good afternoon and thank you all for coming.’
Damon addressed the bleary-eyed journalists from a lectern at the front of his family’s dining room, which had been converted in the short time since they had arrived. The twenty seat dining table was replaced with three rows of chairs that faced the front, making him feel more like a school principal than ever.
‘I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to St Jean Cap Ferrat. In my mind, this property is the crowning jewel of the Harvey Estate, though I’m sure you’ll find few others who would agree.’
Damon took a sip of water, trying hard not to let his emotions show through. He still wasn’t sure why his father had included it on the itinerary, especially as it was the only private residence they would be visiting.
He didn’t relish the idea of sharing his special place with a group of strangers and he resented his father forcing him to.
All the same, he was determined to make the most of it.
‘As you may have already guessed, this is not a Harvey Group Hotel. It is one of our family homes – yes, I said one. We do have a few.’
There was a smattering of half-hearted laughter at the attempted joke.
‘This house was designed by acclaimed French architect, Jean Nouvel. It was one of his earlier designs, built back in 1982 as a wedding gift for my mother. It might not be one of Jean’s best known designs – he was the creative force behind the Institut du Monde Arabe, Fondation Cartier, the Musée du quai Branly, Galeries Lafayette, Le Louvre’s Abu Dhabi branch, the Serpentine Gallery in London and the 40 Mercer Street Residences in New York, not to mention hundreds more – but to me, it is definitely his finest work.’
‘My father and grandfather were so impressed with Jean Nouvel’s design on this building that they have since commissioned him to design a number of Harvey properties. The Oasis in Dubai and the Harvey Waterfront Suites in Sydney both spring to mind, particularly as they are included on our itinerary.
A couple of journalists took notes but the rest seemed content to rely on the information pack, working harder to stave off sleep than to absorb useless facts.
Three of the women had only just made the plane and showed signs of having partied too hard the night before.
As for Sofie Herve, the French journalist, she was a no show.
A call to her editor at La Parisian had yielded no more information. When asked of Sofie’s whereabouts, he couldn’t even recall he had a journalist named Sofie Herve. Mind you, a little further probing revealed he didn’t know any of his other journalists names either.
Still, it didn’t sit right with Damon to just leave her behind – not when he didn’t know for sure that she was safe. He would have delayed the plane longer if his father hadn’t insisted they leave without her.
And as Damon knew all too well, what his father wanted, he always got.
‘I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you are all eager to enjoy the relaxing atmosphere of St Jean for yourselves. We have a BBQ dinner a little later, and tomorrow we have arranged a cruise on one of our yachts – Mon Petit Bateau - which I’m afraid is a little bit of a misnomer, as you will see when you board the boat. In the meantime, I’m happy to take any questions you may have.’
Question time always perked them up a bit, reminding them they were journalists at work and not vacationers on an all expenses paid holiday.
Not that he could blame them for thinking that way. The William S Club had scheduled very little time for fact-finding, cramming the itinerary with every distraction under the sun.
At their first press conference in Paris yesterday afternoon, the journos showed no interest in Harvey Incorporated. They just wanted to know about the guests from the previous night’s party.
Again he wondered where his grandfather had found these people. He was yet to see a single sign of any real journalistic talent even though he knew a couple could write.
A guy at the back put up his hand. ‘Mark Barclay, The London Times.’
Funny how all journalists introduced themselves in the same manner, as if the publication they were attached to somehow defined part of their personality.
Damon couldn’t imagine introducing himself to the world as Damon Harvey, Harvey Incorporated Marketing Department.
For all intents and purposes, Damon didn’t have to.
His surname said it all.
Sometimes he wondered whether it would make life simpler if he took on his mother’s maiden name.
‘What’s your question, Mark?’
‘How many properties do your family own?’
‘Good question. I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head. My assistant Karen, will be able to get you the updated figures, but the last official count put the number of individual properties at 363,342.’
‘Wow. That’s a lot for one family. And your grandfather, when did he start the company again?’
‘Well it was my great-grandfather who started the company. It was incorporated in 1948 but he bought his first property on New Year’s Eve, 1941.’
Barclay scribbled some figures on a piece of paper. ‘So what you’re saying is your family have managed to purchase an average of -’ His pen moved at a blistering pace as he did the calculations – ‘- five thousand properties a year or -’ He did some more calculations. ‘- fourteen properties a day?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘And he started with just one property in central London in 1941?’
‘Yes. My grandfather now lives in that house. It holds great sentimental value to him.’
‘Charlotte Burke, The Telegraph. How much money does your family give to charity each year?’
‘Again I’ll have to check the exact figures but we support a number of charitable institutions and have a philanthropic arm of the business. Last year, we donated more than $3.3 billion -’
‘That’s less than half a percent of the company’s net worth. I wouldn’t s
tart patting yourself on the back for it.’
She sat in the middle row with her arms crossed and a scowl on her pretty face. Everything about her tone and posture was antagonistic, as if she wanted him to bite back but Damon had been dealing with the media a long time.
He wasn’t about to fall for her tricks.
‘I’m not quite as quick at Maths as you, Ms Burke but I think you’ll find that is very generous considering the median gift amount for most big business is only $39.6 million per year.’
‘At present, you are the richest privately owned corporation in the world. Your grandfather’s net worth is more than triple that of Warren Buffet yet in 2006, Buffet donated $36.1 billion to The Gates Foundation.’
Damon smiled. ‘I have no control over what Mr Buffet donates nor do I handle our company’s donations but you are right. We probably could give more. I’ll be sure to pass your concerns on to my grandfather.’
She still looked to be itching for a fight but her interrogation had become the catalyst for a series of other increasingly difficult and personal questions. Everything from his relative’s sexual habits – what the hell would he know about his Uncle Gustave’s extramarital activities? He hadn’t seen the man since he was a child. His father didn’t promote close family ties between his own children, let alone their extended family – to people demanding to know when the real powers that be in the company would make an appearance.
Gee, what was he? Chopped liver?
Yet until a tiny hand went up beside Charlotte, he had handled it all with cool nonchalance, a polished, well-practised smile on his lips and a ready answer for everything they threw his way.
‘Yes?’
‘Miranda Evans, The Sun. Your mother died here.’
He swallowed hard, attempting to dislodge the tennis ball sized lump that wedged itself in his throat. ‘Sorry, was that a question?’
‘Um, no, um…’ Her face flushed red. It was obvious this was not her usual line of inquiry and that she was uncomfortable asking such personal questions.
Good, because he was uncomfortable answering them.
‘Her um brakes failed.’ She glanced at a sheet of paper, as if checking facts.
