The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  Alex sighed and rested his hand on the Louis XIV marble-topped table. ‘It’s maybe what you want, but . . .’

  Edward snapped, his face flushed with anger, ‘Can’t you see what I’m offering? Remember Ma, her dreams? Not just for me, but for you. We’re going to be everything she ever wanted, and more. If you need time to think about it, fine. But I won’t wait long, and don’t think this came cheap.’ He held out the newspaper, shoved it under his brother’s nose. His voice dropped almost to a whisper, ‘You had a pretty poor funeral, old son – two bouncers and a wreath of friggin’ yellow roses from a tart . . . that what you want? You make your mind up.’

  Edward slammed out of the château, and Alex heard the Rolls churning up the gravel. He walked from room to room, and as he passed through the bedroom he caught his reflection in the long mirrors. He stopped, stared, then walked closer and looked at himself. He did look different, his hair bleached almost white by the sun, his tan, his new face. He put out his hand and touched his image in the mirror. It was true, Alex Stubbs was dead.

  Ming knew it would be Edward, she just knew it. He walked straight in, straight through to her sparse, white sitting room.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give it to you straight – I think you are good, and I intend making the château famous. I will get every major glossy magazine to cover it, that means you will benefit. I will promote you, make you, but I want a cut . . .’

  Ming sat demurely in the high-backed, polished wood chair. Edward lit a cigarette, carefully placed it into the gold holder. ‘I have companies in England, office blocks, properties. I also want to branch out in the States, more offices . . . I want you to do the interior design for them all . . . have to change your name, but I’ll back you to the hilt.’

  Her hands folded, she waited for him to finish. Edward flicked ash off his cigarette, leaned forward and continued, ‘I’ll make you a rich woman, and a famous one . . . I detected traces of an American accent, you educated in America? What happened? Had to run for it when your lot hit Pearl Harbor?’

  Ming caught her breath – she detested him, he was even sharper than she had given him credit for. He was silent, watching, waiting for her to answer. ‘I was educated in America, my family sent me over to finish my studies there . . . Pearl Harbor really has very little to do with either myself or my work . . . I am residing in France because I wish to.’

  Edward stood up and laughed, stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal bowl. Before she could say anything he was walking up the narrow staircase to her workshop. He lounged in the doorway. ‘You know how much the château cost to refurbish, sweetheart? Did you think for one moment I didn’t have your credentials checked out? I know all there is to know about you, and I also know you were in debt up to your little Japanese neck in the States. You were left high and dry with no cash to finish your so-called studies. You were brought over to Cannes by a French pimp, dumped by him, then you worked in a couple of massage parlours. You have a stream of relatives coming in illegally to work for you, cheap labour . . . Don’t mess around, don’t think I am as dumb a bastard as my brother – do you want to be rich or not, that’s all you have to think about.’

  Ming gasped. She was shaking with rage and humiliation. Her family was impoverished, but her father was a samurai. They had no knowledge of her troubles, and to hear Edward speak in such a manner made her want to kill him. But she showed not a flicker of her thoughts or emotions on her face, which remained set and impassive.

  ‘I will retain the name “Ming”, I think it is very simple and very easy to remember. The Americans like that, plus I can use the Ming Dynasty logo.’

  Edward threw back his head and laughed. He pinched her chin between his fingers, looked down into her face. ‘You’re hungry for it, aren’t you? Takes one to know one . . . There is just one other thing. I want you to stay away from Alex – I’ll give you a few thousand now, pack up and leave France for a short holiday until I get him back to London. Then I’ll start all the arrangements for you to move to New York. I’ll have my lawyer send over the contracts.’

  Edward was congratulating himself on how he had manipulated Ming. He knew instinctively that ‘Little Lotus Flower’ would be a good investment. He almost forgot to drive on the right-hand side of the road, and only just swerved back in time as an Aston Martin roared past with its horn blaring. The white Aston was being driven far too fast, and he could hear the screeching of rubber as it disappeared from view round a bend.

  Harriet swore as she spun the wheel – some stupid old dodderer hogging the road. She slowed down considerably as the road narrowed and made a sharp turn on to a farm track.

  Pierre Rochal turned on the outside lights of the barn as Harriet drew up. He was wearing an old tee-shirt and shorts, and was deeply tanned. He was in the process of converting the barn into a summer residence. The farm was a further two miles up the track.

  Harriet sang out, ‘Bonjour, amigo!’ She hopped out and ran along a plank to fling her arms around him. He kissed her lightly, then they began to unload the boot of the car. Harriet filled her arms with the groceries while Pierre lifted out the paint. He looked at the label. ‘Yellow? Yellow?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you like it? I thought it would be lovely . . . like daffodils. Can you imagine turning into the lane and seeing our barn, like one enormous daffodil?’

  Pierre smiled. If she had bought bright pink he wouldn’t have cared. To see her so happy and relaxed was enough, and the fact that she said ‘our’ barn made up for the terrible choice of paint. He watched her searching for the corkscrew, and leaned against the stained pine kitchen door. ‘Second drawer down, we celebrating?’

  ‘Yep. It’s only plonk, and look – candles! We can eat on the planks outside. I am going to cook – now don’t pull a face, I have to practise. A doctor’s wife needs to be able to run a smooth ship.’

  Pierre wrapped his arms around her, kissed her neck. ‘Am I to take it that the answer, at long last, is “yes”?’

  Harriet blushed and nodded. Then she delved into her grocery bag and held up a record. ‘Plus, mon cher, I shall be able to speak your lingo . . .’

  Pierre laughed. The fact that he didn’t even have a record player in the barn had obviously escaped Harriet’s attention. She insisted he sit outside until she had prepared dinner, and he carried the candles with him. He arranged some orange boxes to sit on, while she sang at the top of her voice.

  He had first met Harriet on the ski slopes in Switzerland. Met her? He chuckled as he remembered how they had collided head on, Harriet falling at his feet in a tangle of skis. At that time he had no idea she was one of the patients in his father’s clinic. They had spent the day together, and by the evening he was besotted.

  There had been bitter opposition from his father, of course. Harriet’s emotional stability was erratic, and over the years she had spent a considerable time in various clinics. However, Pierre’s father could not help but see the good effect the relationship was having on his patient. His son’s happiness was eventually what persuaded him to accept the situation, but he made sure that Pierre knew Harriet’s problems in detail, giving him access to her records. Although Pierre was a doctor, not a psychiatrist, he was fully aware of Harriet’s condition. His obvious love and care was touching to see, and under his influence she had been on an even keel for a considerable time.

  Harriet had only once discussed her illness with him – using it as an excuse to refuse Pierre’s offer of marriage for almost a year. She had wanted him to be very sure, to ‘know what he was taking on’, as she put it. Pierre did know, and it seemed, if possible, to make his love for her even stronger. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that she made him jump as she appeared at the door.

  ‘Would the affluent Parisian docteur mind if his steak was rather charred?’

  Pierre held out his hand and she went to him. She smelt of frying, and her hair was standing up on end.

  He asked, ‘Have I told you today how much I love you?’
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  She laughed and sat on his knee. He wound a piece of silver paper around her engagement finger, and she held up her hand to admire it.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll drive into town and choose a ring.’

  ‘No – this is just perfect . . . this place is perfect, you are perfect.’

  Pierre smelt the steaks burning, and rushed into the kitchen.

  Caught in candlelight, the silver paper glittered. A small voice in Harriet’s head whispered, ‘Look, Auntie Mae, look at his hands, and his feet – each toe is just perfect.’

  Harriet watched Pierre through the open window. He was tossing the salad expertly, and she sighed. She did love him, she cared for him so much, and he was so understanding. Unconsciously she unwound the silver paper from her fingers and rolled it into a tiny ball.

  Alex heard Edward’s car, and walked down the stairs as the front door banged open. Alex winced as the delicate stained glass shuddered.

  ‘You’ve had a few calls from London – I’ve left a note of them on your bed. You’re in the west wing – I won’t be late, but don’t wait up.’

  ‘My, my, you look very smart – like the suit. What’s the material?’

  ‘Linen – it’s made locally. See you in the morning.’

  Edward watched Alex drive away. He knew he was on his way to Miss Takeda, and he chuckled. He doubted if Alex would ever know about his ‘Lotus Flower’. He had not told Ming just how far he had delved into her affairs, or that he knew how much money she had creamed off the refurbishing of the château into her own pocket. She was as devious as Edward, and it amused him, but he reckoned that Alex would be better out of the grasp of her tiny, white hands.

  When Alex arrived he found Ming wrapped in a floating white kimono. She held the door open a fraction, then bowed slightly as he stepped in. He had bought a bunch of roses from a flower seller in the town, and Ming held them close to her chest as she led him into her sitting room. She fetched a white vase and filled it with water, began to arrange each bloom with care.

  ‘Well, you met my brother, what do you think of him?’

  ‘He is very charming.’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe him as that.’

  Alex wanted her to look at him, wanted her to say something, but still she attended to the flowers with studied concentration. Alex stood close to her. Suddenly he felt so shy, so uncomfortable. Gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She touched his hand, brushed her cheek against it. He lifted her into his arms and held her tightly.

  ‘Be my wife? Will you? Will you marry me?’

  He could feel her shaking, and he tilted her chin up to look into her face. She moved away from him, gesturing for him to sit down – not close, a little apart from her.

  She told Alex the truth about herself. She left out nothing, even the time she had spent in the ‘massage parlours’. When she had finished, she sat with her head bowed, tears streaming down her face.

  Alex hesitated for a moment, then he said, ‘I had better tell you about me.’ And piece by piece he told his story, for the first time in all the years. It came out without violence, without hatred. He told it simply, his voice low, and Ming was silent throughout. Alex’s voice only faltered when he described the death of his father, Freedom.

  ‘I loved him, I loved him so . . . but, then, Edward . . .’

  Ming could feel his pain, knew instinctively not to speak. Alex told her of his years in prison, and as he talked the hatred of all those years eased from him, little by little. At one point he smiled at her – at long last someone else knew, knew what he had been through, what he had done. He even told her about the surgery on his face, he left nothing out, as if once he had begun he was unable to stop. At the end he was drained, empty, and he sighed. It was over.

  They both sat as if stripped naked, the void between them a vast distance neither of them knew how to span. Suddenly Ming put out her tiny white hand, and there was no void, no more emptiness between them, they were in each other’s arms. While they held each other tightly, Ming told Alex of Edward’s visit. She saw the flash of rage in his eyes, and she held him, calmed him. ‘Listen to me, I want to be your wife, but I want everything he offered me, too. I want what he offered, do you understand?’

  Alex did understand, because he too wanted, or at least needed, to try to achieve everything Edward had dangled before him.

  ‘We can do whatever we want, there’s no need for us to be separated . . .’

  Ming laughed softly, hugged him close. She knew Edward would stand between them.

  ‘In a way I think he’s scared of me, he wants you all to himself. Well, let him think he has you. We can wait until the time is right. Perhaps it will be better if he thinks he has succeeded in separating us.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so . . . You see, I love you, I love you, Alex.’

  Alex blushed beneath his tan. He tried to say what he felt, but he wanted to leave, it was crazy. More than he wanted to stay, he wanted to leave. Uppermost in his mind was the fact that he had beaten Edward at his own game.

  Ming was disturbed that Alex didn’t make love to her. She watched him from her workshop window as he hurried away, and remained standing there long after the car had gone. Slowly, the armour Ming had carefully constructed around herself cracked. She had let the only man she had ever cared for walk out of her life. She looked around her workroom, the bales of material, the stacks of fabric samples. Why hadn’t she taken him to her bed, why? Almost unaware of what she was doing, she began to draw on a large sheet of paper. She drew the Ming logo, then pressed the pen over and over the drawing until the paper began to tear . . . Ming . . . Ming . . . Ming . . . It would not be long before that simple logo, and her name, was known worldwide.

  Edward heard Alex’s arrival home, heard him moving around below, and was surprised when he walked into the bedroom. He was carrying a bottle of Krug champagne and two glasses, and Edward again marvelled at the change in him. As Alex uncorked the bottle with a single practised movement, he looked so handsome, so sophisticated. He sat on Edward’s bed. ‘Ming has disappeared. I was upset at first . . . now, well . . . I’ve been thinking over everything you said, and I am ready to return to England, so we had better begin arranging this “coming-out” party . . . Cheers.’

  Edward toasted his brother in the champagne, which was chilled to exactly the right temperature. He patted the pillow beside him. ‘I’ve already started, take a look at the “A” list.’

  Alex lay next to Edward on the vast double bed, their heads resting on frilled white Victorian pillowslips. They laughed as they went over the names, made references to childhood events long forgotten, until they both drifted off to sleep, side by side. In his sleep Edward turned, and his arm rested across Alex’s body as if they were lovers.

  Book Four

  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 h
e 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 château, 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.