Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Alex shook his head, picked up his briefcase. Edward sighed, then suggested Alex take him back to see the new house. He was in need of a decent meal. But Alex covered fast, saying he would prefer to leave it to another time, he wanted to have the place finished before anyone saw it. Edward didn’t seem to mind, and sat down in Alex’s swivel chair.

‘She’s doing this on purpose, you know, and the place is a tip. Kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.’

‘Well, you didn’t marry her for her culinary expertise, why not get a housekeeper?’

Edward fiddled with Alex’s neat row of pens and began to doodle on the immaculate blotter.

Alex asked, ‘Nothing wrong between you, is there?’

Shaking his head, Edward tossed the pen down. ‘Maybe you’re right, I’ll get a housekeeper — maybe she can make an appointment for me to come over to your place.’

Alex took the sarcasm without comment, and waited for Edward to pass by him before he locked his office door.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into his new house in Mayfair. He walked into the lounge and fixed himself a cocktail, then sat down and surveyed his creation; the semi-gloss, Peking-yellow walls, the ceiling painted in three subtle tones of beige, the cornices and high, trompe-l’oeil skirting boards simulating Siena marble. The curtains were in two shades of golden-yellow pleated taffeta with heavy beige fringing, hanging from pale wooden rods. The sofas and armchairs were covered in a wonderful deep citrus-yellow shantung with scattered marigold-yellow cushions. Several of the chairs were covered with a special chintz copied from an early nineteenth-century design. Alex’s use of colour was so tasteful, and he sat admiring it. The house made him feel content.

The front door opened again, and Alex turned. Ming entered, went straight to him and kissed him. He fixed her a drink. ‘Edward is back, you’ll have to leave.’

Ming shrugged and began to flick through one of the magazines from the orderly pile on the glass-topped coffee table. ‘That’s okay, I have a meeting in New York, I’ve got to do decor for the new shop... Oh my God, have you seen this, it’s in the Tatler , look... “London’s most eligible bachelor, Alex Barkley”.’

Alex handed Ming her drink and leaned over her shoulder to read the article. ‘He was right, that donation did the trick — we’ve been handing out thousands to every charity you can think of. I’ve been in “Jennifer’s Diary” three times...’

As Ming skimmed through the magazine, her own fabrics featured prominently. There were also spreads in three new interior design magazines. She picked up her drink and sat down, crossing her perfect legs. ‘I met a possible client today, Barbara Hunter Hardyman — Texan woman, she came into a fortune. She’s bought a penthouse in New York... I’d like to get into Texas, good property there... Oh yes, can you get a few days off? Just that her father’s ranch is being auctioned off, and I may be wrong, but he was a collector of seventeenth-century furniture... Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone, I get a new client and you add to your collection.’

Alex kissed her and said he would do what he could, but there was a lot of business to sort out.

‘But this would be business! I may be wrong, but it looks as if there might be part of a bed...’

Alex was hooked. No bed of that period had ever been discovered, it was every collector’s dream.

‘I’ll see if I can arrange a couple of weeks off. I certainly deserve it. I’ll wait a few days, see if Harriet reappears.’

Ming raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean she’s left him?’

Alex sipped his iced Manhattan, picked up the cherry and popped it in his mouth. Ming asked again after Harriet.

‘No one knows where she is. She’ll turn up, I think she’s done it on purpose.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I think... oh, I don’t know, I just have a feeling that Edward will have to watch out for her, treat her gently. He thinks she’s doing this disappearing act to teach him a lesson. In a way I agree, but I doubt if it’ll work.’

Ming murmured sarcastically that Edward couldn’t treat anyone gently, it wasn’t in his nature, then went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Alex sighed. He knew she was right, but he felt saddened — he wouldn’t like to see Harry hurt. His mood changed as he looked at the beautifully set dining table. Ming had brought out her own line of tableware, and he was very impressed.

As Pierre Rochal was closing his surgery, the receptionist buzzed through to tell him he had a visitor. He was slightly irritated as he had arranged a small dinner party for his fiancee.

‘ Bonjour, amigo .’

‘Harry? Why didn’t you call, let me know you were coming?’

‘Oh, I just popped in on the off chance. If it’s not convenient, I can come back.’

Pierre opened his arms and she came to him, hugged him close. He knew instantly that she was troubled, there were all the tell-tale signs. She looked drawn, with deep circles beneath her eyes, and spoke rapidly, as if her thoughts were racing ahead of her. She was trying desperately to be her usual, ebullient self, but her body was rigid with tension, and she was threading her fingers round and round the strap of her holdall.

‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked. She nodded her head, her face twisting as she fought back her tears. He excused himself and made a quick call to Michelle, his fiancee, to say he was running a little late.

Harriet was not very fluent in French, but she had been with him long enough to understand every word he said. ‘Who’s Michelle?’

He told her, ‘She was my nurse. In three days she’ll be my wife. You’ll meet her later — now, why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Harriet wandered around his surgery. She had been to see her mother, she told him, to ask about her Aunt Sylvia, basically wanting to know more about her own illness. Her mother had been less than helpful, and more worried about the Judge going into hospital for a prostate operation. Pierre watched her, picking up books and replacing them, chewing her nails. Eventually she blurted, ‘Is schizophrenia hereditary? That’s what Aunt Sylvia had, I’m sure, and when I was first ill...’

Pierre kept his voice low, soothing, ‘Now you know, Harry, the first diagnosis wasn’t correct. You have a depressive problem, one you can control, you know that.’

‘But what if I am schizoid, and your father was wrong? He could be wrong... I feel it coming on.’

‘Well, that proves you’re not, because if you were really schizophrenic, you wouldn’t be aware of the change. I’ll prescribe something for you, a new drug, lithium — it’ll help when you begin to feel tense and nervous.’

‘I don’t feel like that, I feel as if someone’s tied a bloody big weight around my neck, and I just can’t get it off me. He just walked out of the house, never even said goodbye, and he didn’t come home for three weeks. How could he do that?’

Suddenly her eyes blazed, her hands clenched at her sides and she began shouting and swearing. Pierre was thankful his receptionist would by now have left. He listened to Harriet’s tirade against Edward, until she slumped in a chair in floods of tears. Pierre insisted she stay with him, and drove her back to his apartment.

Michelle prepared the spare room for Harriet, who was subdued and drowsy, although feeling guilty about her intrusion. Pierre was grateful for Michelle’s understanding — she showed no jealousy, required no explanation. He had told her all about his relationship with Harriet.

Before their guests began to arrive, Pierre checked that Harriet was sleeping, then went to his desk to retrieve her small teddy bear. He slipped it between her arms — he had been right, he had known one day she would come back to him, and now more than ever he was relieved that he had not married her. Michelle, the elegant, immensely rich Michelle, was everything he ever wanted.