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.
Edward’s increasingly erratic behaviour was not confined to the office. The manor became an open house to dropouts, welcomed by Harriet, who always surrounded herself with groups of actors and musicians. Edward took little interest, his main occupation of late was his night club. He still managed to hold the reins of Banks, being the ninety per cent shareholder, and he was adamant that he would not lose one of his lucrative assets. They were beneficial to him, not just financially.
Edward tried every ‘hit’ he had used in the past, but to no avail. Clubs were being closed down all over London, and the exclusive Banks became a government priority when it was noted that Edward had returned to London with the notorious George Raft. Mr Raft, it appeared, had Mafia connections. Edward flaunted Raft at the club – flash-bulbs popped as he sat, cigar clenched in his teeth, with his arm around his new friend’s shoulders. Next day, the photograph accompanied the headline ‘Tycoon’s brother involved with Mafia.’
Alex drove to Edward’s house. He was trying to control his anger. Dewint was pushed out of the way as Alex passed him. ‘Edward! Edwaaaard!’
Edward appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Hi, man, something up?’
‘Don’t you play silly buggers with me, Edward. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You seen the papers?’
‘No – in them, am I? Well, that makes a change – I mean, you’re the Barkley Company, according to the press. Tycoon’s brother, what?’
Dewint heard them quarrelling at the tops of their voices. He turned away a car-load of guests, and still the brothers argued.
‘The Home Office is going to bar George Raft from re-entering the country, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me he had a share in the club, why? And why, for Chrissake, are you getting mixed up with these guys? You don’t need them, you don’t even need the club. Just as we are doing so well, the last thing I want is the company name besmirched with this kind of press . . .’
Edward looked at Alex, his face a mask, and when he spoke his voice was so calm that it sent chills through Alex. ‘How about headlines like “Barkley tycoon uncovered – ex-con Alex Stubbs”? You stupid bastard, you know Ming threatened to sell our story? You with all your fucking press agents, your social-climbing wife – well let me tell you, your bloody high-powered friends would drop you like dog shit . . .’
Alex paled, so shaken he had to sit down.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right, I doubt if she wants her “true life” history plastered across the papers either. But why didn’t you listen to me, I warned you about her . . .’
Alex closed his eyes. ‘Oh, Christ . . .’ He helped himself to a drink and sat down again.
Edward put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Look, don’t panic about the club, it’ll blow over, but I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse – three-quarters of a million for a thirty per cent share in Banks. In return I get a share of a casino in Nevada – it would have been madness to turn it down. When are you going to learn, your big brother has the Midas touch? Listen to me, don’t try to do me in, ride with me. You’re my brother, I’d never do anything to harm you, you know that . . . Look at me . . . you ever dream you could be where you are now? Well, did you? But never forget where we came from and keep your mouth shut tight . . . and if you ever feel like gabbing, take a look at your medallion, that way you’ll always remember.’
Alex asked if Edward still wanted to keep the club open, knowing it was being investigated by the Home Office.
‘They won’t find anything wrong, Alex. And besides, I have my own contacts in the Home Office, so why don’t you just back off, you aren’t involved.’
Without touching his drink, Alex walked out. Apparently unconcerned, Edward sat with his feet up on the sofa, whistling. He would find himself a new partner, one person, someone high up in the City, and they would run the club, he would show Alex. He cut and snorted more cocaine, he was doing a line on the hour almost every hour now.
Later, he put it down to the cocaine, and the fact that he was still jet lagged. He always had to have a reason, but however he fooled himself, there could be no excuse for his flagrant disregard of everything the doctors had said about Harriet.
The argument began over dinner. She was dressed in a strange forties’ dress with padded shoulders. He looked her up and down. ‘Do you go out of your way to make yourself unattractive? Where in God’s name did you get that dress?’
‘My mother, if you must know.’
‘Well I’d give it back.’
‘That would be rather difficult . . . don’t you want to know why?’
‘I’m sure you will have some amusing elaborate story . . . so tell me!’
‘She died three weeks ago . . .’
‘I’m sorry, you should have told me.’
‘How? I never know where the hell you are . . . what made it worse, I couldn’t even get to her funeral. The play . . . remember the play I was in, just another thing in my life you missed.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry – what more do you want me to say? Well?’
‘Nothing . . .’
‘Are you going into any more of these theatrical ventures?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Not quite, I do happen to be paying for them, and if you want my opinion I think they’re conning you. I had a look at your accounts . . . and like I said you’ve shelled out a lot of cash.’
‘Shelled? . . . Christ you sometimes sound so vulgar . . . where did you pick that one up from, little slit eyes? Dingley ding Ming?’
He bit the end of his cigar and spat it out. She drummed her fingers on the table spoiling for a fight.
‘I was just trying to fathom out how much longer this fad of yours was going to last . . . that’s all, no need to get uptight.’
‘Fad? . . . the theatre is not a fad. I happen to like it, more than that I love it, the warmth and the friendship I get from the people associated with it . . .’
He interrupted her, ‘How long do you think this so-called warmth would last if your cash dried up? You should put it to the test . . . couple of months you’d be left high and dry, sweetheart.’
She jumped up shouting, ‘You are the one that’s high; you should look at yourself – you’re stoned out of your mind most of the time, and don’t call me sweetheart . . . save it for your tarts.’
Dewint was about to enter the dining room with a large trifle, but stepped aside as she rushed out of the room. She was quickly followed by Edward, and by the look on his face there was more than a storm brewing. He took himself and his trifle back into the safety of the kitchen. They had had rows, and he was used to them, but this one he had felt coming for quite a while.
Edward cornered her at the top of the stairs. ‘You think this is any place for a man to come home to? All those queens poncing around, you got up like something from the ark? Well do you? When will you try learning the part of a wife for a change?’
She kicked out at him. ‘When you play the part of a husband, you egotistical bastard, that’s when . . .’
‘You saying I’m not? That what you’re saying? Well you tell me who picks up the pieces? I got the leftovers, didn’t I? Well didn’t I? And you know who I’m talking about.’
‘No, I don’t . . . you’re so stoned it’s difficult to follow your train of thought, now let me past . . . get out of my way.’
He leaned both hands over her so she was trapped beneath him. ‘I’m referring to the French man, Pierre Rochal . . . go on, run to your hiding hole, go on . . .’
She edged past him, and he sneered. ‘He didn’t put up much of a fight, did he? Know why? Because he knew all about you, guy couldn’t wait to get shot of you . . .’
Harriet was almost at the top of the stairs, she looked back at him. ‘You were
the one that ran after me, and if you’ve got to rake up that far back, then you really are pitiful.’
‘Yeah, you said it . . . but if I’d known about the baby, maybe I wouldn’t have come after you. I was the one who wanted sons remember? Me!’
He began to move up the stairs. ‘It was his baby you lost, not mine, but I’ve had the shit thrown at me. Surprised? You didn’t think I knew about it, did you? Don’t you tell me about being a good husband, you got the better side of the bargain.’
He waited for her to come back at him, ready to continue the fight. Like a boxer coming in for the kill, knowing the punch had found its mark, he waited . . . his opponent, his wife reached down to the ache inside her. The pain that had haunted her, that she had denied him, was released. Her face crimson with anguished rage she screamed . . . ‘It was your son, you bastard.’
The fight turned tables, a boxer when hurt can be more dangerous . . . more vicious because he knows it’s the last chance . . . Harriet took it, took it and gave punch after punch to his heart. ‘He was perfect, Edward, perfect. Imagine what it felt like to hold his cold body in my arms – whisper his name, beg for his lungs to move . . . what was his name, can you think what I would have called your son, can that putrid, festering mind think . . . tell me his name?’
His mind reeled, he pressed his back against the wall. She came closer, closer, now she moved to stand in front of him, her arms stretching either side of him as she looked into his face. She whispered the name he already knew . . .
‘Freedom . . . I called him Freedom.’
Slowly he moved his arms around her as her body caved in. He cried for what he had done, he cried for his son . . . and at long last they wept together for their loss. Later they slept in each other’s arms, afraid to let go . . . drained . . . bound to each other as they had always been. Edward woke and felt for her body, but she was gone. He prayed he would be wrong, but he found her in the studio. This time, though, she allowed him to drive her to the doctor.
The Talisman Page 54
