Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  Theo Harvey was born in England on the 21st February 1944 at Great Missenden in Buckinghamshire, of Reginald and Frances Harvey. He was the youngest of three children, his brother Tristan and sister Phoebe being respectively eleven and seven years his senior. The age gap meant that when young he had little in common with them, and he admitted in an interview to having felt like an only child, and an unplanned one at that.

  His father was headmaster of Netherby House, a boys’ boarding school, and the family lived on the premises, both boys attending the school, though not as contemporaries. The author later wrote that while his brother had enjoyed his time there, he himself did not, having been bullied by fellow pupils for being the head’s son.

  It would be interesting, Rona thought, her eyes skipping down the rest of the printout, to trace some of those fellow students. And perhaps his parents were still alive.

  She frowned, reminding herself that she had still not decided whether to write the biography, and, slipping the printed page inside her desk, went upstairs to wash her hair.

  The Trents lived in a sprawling bungalow on the north-eastern fringes of the town, not far from Lindsey’s flat. It was set in a large garden crammed with plants, bushes, trees and flowers, which, it seemed to Rona, thrived in abundance throughout the year in a higgledy-piggledy, unregimented mass of scent and colour. Now, after a mild winter, snowdrops and daffodils bloomed together, and the pale yellow of early primroses glinted in the light from the porch.

  From force of habit, she closed the five-barred gate before letting Gus out of the car, and he ran up the path ahead of her. Dinah came hurrying out to meet them, and Rona, a good six inches taller than her friend, found her face buried in a mane of thick, wiry black hair as she was enthusiastically embraced.

  ‘Wonderful to see you, lovey!’ Dinah exclaimed, standing back to survey her with beaming approval. A small, dynamic woman, she had a surprisingly deep voice and a rich laugh that was highly infectious.

  ‘Let the poor girl come into the house, woman!’ Barnie called from the doorway. ‘It’s none too warm out there!’

  Dinah linked her arm through Rona’s and, with Gus pushing ahead of them, they went inside, allowing Barnie to close the door on the chill evening air. Rona handed him the bottle of wine she’d brought and was, as always, chided for her trouble. A delicious smell of herbs and garlic filled the hallway as she shrugged out of her coat and went thankfully into the long living-room. Lychee and May-Ling, two of the cats, opened slitty blue eyes from their vantage point on the sofa and, seeing nothing of interest, curled round each other and went back to sleep. Gus, having performed his ritual greetings, flopped down happily in front of the fire and Rona seated herself on the sofa beside the cats.

  Barnie handed her a glass of her favourite vodka and Russchian, passed Dinah her gin and tonic, and raised his own glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to us!’ he said.

  ‘Who’s like us?’ they dutifully responded.

  ‘So – what’s been happening in your neck of the woods?’ Dinah enquired, perching on the arm of a chair.

  ‘Not a great deal.’ Again, Rona was tempted to tell them of Meriel Harvey’s approach and their subsequent meeting, but again she held back. Time enough for that if and when she went ahead. ‘What about you?’ she went on quickly. ‘How are Melissa and the family?’

  The Trents’ only daughter was living in the States and they had flown out to spend a month with her the previous summer.

  ‘Expecting again,’ Dinah told her proudly. ‘Due in August.’

  ‘That’s great, but I suppose it means she won’t be coming home this year?’

  ‘No, from our point of view, she timed it badly!’ Dinah slipped off her perch to retrieve a framed photograph from the bookcase and brought it over. ‘This is the latest picture of Sam.’

  Rona studied the blond, blue-eyed little boy sitting on a tricycle, an enormous Christmas tree behind him. ‘He’s gorgeous,’ she said.

  Dinah nodded placid agreement, replaced the photo and excused herself to attend to the meal, declining Rona’s offer of help. Barnie put on a classical CD, and Rona leant back against the cushions with a sigh of contentment. She always felt relaxed here – more so, in fact, than at her parents’, where she was vaguely conscious of unfulfilled expectations and a certain unspoken criticism. Probably to do with the non-appearance of grandchildren, she thought now, her eyes straying to the photo of young Sam.

  ‘You look tired, girl,’ Barnie said suddenly.

  ‘I’ve had a busy day.’

  ‘Writing?’

  ‘No, I – had to drive over to Cricklehurst this morning, and Gus and I had a long walk in the country on the way home. An excess of fresh air, that’s what it is!’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s also given you an appetite.’

  ‘It has,’ Rona affirmed, remembering the discarded sandwich that had constituted her lunch.

  Dinah bustled back with a plate of warm rolls which she set on the table at the far end of the room.

  ‘Starters’ orders!’ she said.

  ‘Which,’ Barnie translated, getting to his feet, ‘means, see to the wine. Take a seat, Rona.’

  She walked over to the table, admiring the candles and little vases of snowdrops that Dinah had placed at either end, and, pulling out her chair, discovered the third cat, Koko, asleep on it. ‘Sorry, my love,’ she said, and, scooping him up, carried him over to the others, Gus’s watchfulness from the hearthrug preventing her from stroking the soft, chocolaty fur as she’d have liked.

  As always, Rona marvelled at Dinah’s knack of producing an excellent meal with virtually no advance warning. The first course was salmon mousse, followed by a delicious lamb casserole cooked with herbs and wine. Dessert was home-made brandy snaps filled with cream, and cheese and coffee ended the meal.

  ‘You do realize,’ she said laughingly, ‘that you’re responsible for my lack of culinary expertise? You set too high a standard!’

  ‘All you need is a cookery book, as I’ve told you many times.’

  ‘Wrong; first – and most importantly – you need the desire to cook, which, in my case, is sadly lacking. Just as well I have a choice of take-aways and Dino’s just round the corner!’

  Dinah shook her head in mock disapproval. ‘You’re incorrigible!’ she said.

  It was as Rona switched off her bedside light that she realized, with a slight sense of shock, that her talk with Max tomorrow would be only a formality. Sometime during the evening, without her being aware of it, a decision had been reached. For better or worse, she would write Theo Harvey’s biography.

  Three

  Max was slightly piqued to find the decision made without further consultation, and contented himself with muttering darkly that he hoped she wouldn’t come to regret it. They were still discussing the matter when Rona’s mother phoned, inviting them to Sunday lunch.

  ‘Pops will be pleased, anyway,’ Rona commented as she replaced the phone.

  Max put a conciliatory arm round her. ‘Sorry if I’ve been a bit downbeat, love; I appreciate it’ll be a real feather in your cap if you pull it off.’

  ‘If?’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t explain; I just feel a little – apprehensive, that’s all.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Basically, because he died so recently, and not in his own bed, like any self-respecting citizen.’

  She laughed. ‘If I limited my subjects to those who’d died in bed—’

  ‘—you might come up with some very interesting stories! Now, pour me another drink, will you, and I’ll make a start on the meal. I can’t compete with Dinah, but I do a mean chicken Kiev, if I say so myself. As sous-chef, you can dress the salad.’

  Rona reached for the oil and lemon juice. ‘All the same, if things get tricky and I need a bit of advice, I don’t want you saying, “I told you so.”’

  Max grinned. ‘As if I would!’ he replied.

  The Parishes’ home lay
to the west of town, in a residential district of solid detached houses, set in carefully maintained gardens. Though her parents had redecorated over the years, the house never seemed to change and remained in Rona’s eyes exactly as it had been when she was a child.

  Pre-lunch talk was dominated by Lindsey’s worries over Hugh. Max had noticed before that she always held the stage in her parents’ house, and here, he thought sardonically, was the perfect excuse. He was convinced – though Rona wouldn’t hear of it – that she was jealous of her famous twin, and he knew for a fact that her loyalty to Rona fell far short of Rona’s to her. Soon after she and Hugh had separated, she’d arrived at Farthings late one evening and literally thrown herself into his arms. It had taken all his tact and diplomacy – and he wasn’t over-blessed with either – to get her outside and into her car, and she’d never forgiven him his rejection.

  He watched her detachedly, marvelling as he always did that two people who looked so alike could be so different. His antipathy, instinctive and without reason, dated from their first meeting, and it had grieved him that he couldn’t be fond of her for Rona’s sake. Now, he simply concentrated on not letting his dislike become too obvious.

  ‘You can get him for harassment, surely?’ Avril Parish was saying anxiously. She was a small, faded woman with a permanently discontented expression, and it was surprising that she’d managed to produce two such attractive daughters. Their height and colouring came, obviously, from their father, and probably their brains too, Max reflected.

  Tom Parish gave a derisive snort. ‘Harassment? What harassment? He’s only written her a letter, for God’s sake!’

  ‘But he won’t leave it at that, Pops,’ Lindsey protested. ‘You know Hugh, once he gets the bit between his teeth.’

  ‘Have you replied?’ her father asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then I suggest you do. Simply say that you’re making a new life for yourself, and have no desire to reopen old wounds. Only if he keeps pressing after that, can you begin to talk of harassment.’

  ‘The best way to get rid of him is to find someone else,’ Avril remarked tactlessly.

  ‘Fine! Thanks, Mum!’ Lindsey sounded close to tears.

  Rona said quickly, ‘Well, I’ve also got some news: I’ve been asked to write Theo Harvey’s biography.’

  Tom’s face lit up. ‘Really? Well done, girl! That’s fantastic!’

  Lindsey wiped the corner of her eye. ‘You’re going ahead, then?’

  ‘Provided I can get Jennings to play ball, and I think they will. I’ll get on to Eddie in the morning; I’ve already mentioned it to him, and he seems to think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘So the suggestion didn’t come from your publishers?’ her father pursued.

  ‘No, Mrs Harvey approached me direct. I went to see her the other day.’

  ‘In London?’ Avril queried.

  ‘No, Cricklehurst. It’s a big house; I don’t know if she plans to stay on.’

  ‘Is she living there alone?’

  ‘She has a French au pair, and at the moment her son’s home for half-term. She’s still got the cottage, too, where Theo used to write, though I imagine she’ll sell it.’

  ‘I have the complete set of his books,’ Tom said with satisfaction, ‘all fourteen of them. You can borrow them if you like, Ro. They might not be your preferred reading, but you’ll need to go through them, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thanks, Pops, that’ll be a great help.’

  ‘Well,’ Avril remarked, standing up, ‘if no one else has any bombshells to drop, perhaps we can have lunch.’

  For the next few weeks, Rona worked on the outstanding articles, anxious now to clear her desk ready for the biography. Behind the scenes, wheels were turning. As Meriel Harvey had foreseen, Jonas Jennings, Rona’s publishers, were delighted at the proposal, and Eddie Gold was engaged in drawing up the contract.

  Rona had left her parents’ house with an armful of Harvey novels, and, as a preliminary, was making them her bedtime reading. As her father had remarked, they weren’t really to her taste; she cared neither for the style – short, staccato sentences and a lot of slang (in these early books, already dated) – nor for the graphic fights and shootings that punctuated them. On the other hand, his plots were strong, original and tightly knit, and there was no doubt he carried the reader along with him. Such descriptive passages as there were surprised her with the acuteness of their perception; he had a gift for describing a person or scene in a few highly evocative words that brought them instantly and sharply to mind.

  It wasn’t until she embarked on the third book, Devil Call the Tune, that one of the characters struck her as familiar, and she realized there’d been a similar individual in each of the previous novels – the same bravado masking insecurity, the same underlying, unsuspected sensitivity.

  She laid down the book, reached for her notebook, and jotted down the page number on which this character first appeared. Her bedside clock showed a quarter past midnight, too late to start searching for corresponding passages in the first two books. It would be interesting, though, to see if versions of this character appeared in later ones. More than one reviewer had claimed there was an element of autobiography in Harvey’s novels; was this what they were referring to? Was this macho yet sensitive hero a depiction of the author himself? And if so, was there any truth in it?

  March was living up to its reputation, with strong, high winds and lashing rain. Lindsey, putting up her umbrella as she emerged from the offices of Chase Mortimer, had it wrenched almost out of her hand, in imminent danger of blowing inside-out. Fighting to control it, she collided with a raincoated figure on the pavement, and gasped out a breathless apology.

  ‘Lindsey?’ enquired a voice from behind the umbrella, and she peered round it to find herself staring into the face of her ex-husband.

  ‘Hugh!’ she exclaimed, exasperation overcoming her surprise. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘A charming greeting, my love! But what else am I to do, when you won’t answer my letters?’

  ‘I should have thought not replying was answer enough.’ All the same, she regretted now not following her father’s advice.

  Hugh took her elbow, his grip tightening as she tried to free herself. ‘Look, we can hardly carry on a discussion in the teeth of this gale. Let’s go to the Clarendon for a drink.’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Lindsey protested. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Then come and don’t say it in the dry.’ He was already walking her purposefully along Guild Street towards the hotel that stood at the far end, on the corner of Alban Road. Since she had insufficient breath to argue further, Lindsey allowed herself to be led across the road, past the turning to Dean’s Crescent North, and into the blessedly warm, dry foyer of the hotel. Minutes later, they were seated at a corner table in the bar, with large gin and tonics in front of them.

  Hugh Cavendish was tall, red-haired and blue-eyed, with the sandy lashes and pale skin that went with his colouring. His nose was long, his mouth thin-lipped, his chin firm. Lindsey’s eyes, travelling assessingly over his face, could detect no changes in it.

  He in his turn was studying her: the oval faced still flushed from her battle with the elements, the dark, wind-tossed hair, the rebellious brown eyes. In short, the face of the girl he had married, and the woman he had found it impossible to live with or, to his cost, without. Why the hell had he embarked on that idiotic affair, giving her the lever she needed to rid herself of him?

  ‘You look exactly the same,’ he said aloud.

  ‘What did you expect?’ she returned sharply. ‘That I was pining away without you?’

  He smiled wryly. ‘Well, I’ve been doing a fair amount of pining myself.’

  She slammed her hand on the table, making their glasses dance. ‘Stop it, Hugh! It’s well and truly over, and there’s no way I’m going down that road again.’

  ‘We never gave ours
elves a second chance, though, did we?’

  ‘By that stage,’ she said grimly, ‘I didn’t want one.’

  ‘Look, I was all kinds of a fool – I admit it. But can’t we—?’

  ‘It wasn’t just the affair, you know; things were becoming unbearable long before that.’

  ‘Have you met anyone else?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘That’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘But have you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She held his eye steadily, thinking of the couple of men with whom she’d had brief flings since the divorce.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. You’ve no right to question me.’

  ‘I still love you, Lindsey. Believe me, I don’t want to, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to get over it.’ She took another sip of her drink, wishing there wasn’t so much still in the glass. ‘Hugh, I told you this conversation was pointless. Please don’t contact me again.’

  ‘I’m not going to give up, you know. Not until you actually marry someone else.’ He looked at her for a moment, noting the determined set of her mouth, and, sighing, changed the subject to something less controversial.

  ‘How’s Rona?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ he protested. ‘We can at least be civilized. Surely you can manage more than one word?’

  ‘Very well; Rona, as I said, is fine, and about to embark on a biography of Theo Harvey, the thriller writer.’

  ‘That should be an eye-opener.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That there’ve been various stories circulating about him.’

  ‘No doubt she’ll unearth them. She’s good at her job.’

  ‘And friend Max? How’s he?’

  ‘Also well,’ Lindsey answered steadily. Hugh had never liked Max; she had the uncomfortable feeling that it was because he’d detected her own unwilling attraction to him, an attraction which, in self-defence, she had from the first disguised as light-hearted antagonism.