Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward slammed out of the chateau, 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 chateau 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 chateau 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?’

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.