by Tommy Dakar
Nothing could make her change her mind, Andrea always refused to co-operate – she must avoid such places for her own good, and asking her to revisit such places when there were so many more was not fair, was verging on cruelty. Could Harvey not understand? Could he not comply to this simple request? Please? It was irritating, and curtailed his freedom. He would never be able to go to Lakeside Gardens with her, or to Morley's, or Camberley Heights.
But Haute House, his destination, was different. It was his now, he was the legitimate owner, and he would visit or stay whenever he pleased, because she had been living there when they had met, had shown him round personally, and had only developed her aversion after the incident. It was not the same at all, and he would stand his ground over that. God knows it had cost him enough, so much effort, perhaps even more than he was prepared to admit, and he was not going to renounce it all now, just because little miss fragile couldn't face the facts and move on.
He would be there around five-thirty, six. The opportunity had arisen and he had snatched it up. That was the way to do business, to prosper, to advance. He was not like his wife, despite their apparent similarities of origin. They both came from the same privileged section of society, both had been well educated and pampered, surrounded by wealth and safety, their futures assured and insured. But Harvey had been taught to devour the world, to go out and hunt down his prey, to rise above the rest, to compete, to strive, to achieve. Ambition was the key word, and the overall idea was to turn life into a ceaseless, ever expanding c.v. which could be handed in with his death certificate. It was a vaguely Protestant notion, a system of merits carefully accumulated and hopefully commutable for benefits in a theoretical after life or nether world yet to be defined in detail. It was a paradox that such an astute man as Harvey, who always claimed he had no time for religion or belief, should agree to sign a document where the fine print is either illegible or under revision. Andrea had not been burdened with such anxieties. Her globe-trotting mother had told her she was to enjoy the ride while she could, that she didn't need to go looking for trouble as it would come on its own (so true!), and that it would all be over too soon as it was. Which was why she was spending her time lying about on beach towels and listening to the top ten, while Harvey was eating tortilla de patatas con jamón serrano on his way to Haute House, his real home, his mansion, to sign a deal worth thousands.
Anne chatted on while Andrea did her best to listen, to follow the long descriptions with interest, to keep track of who said what to whom and why. Eventually she knew Anne would have to really get on with her chores, and then Andrea would rush to the phone for a similar chat with Helen. Then they would all meet for lunch and she should be alright from there on. As long as Harvey didn’t phone in again. There was a story about a neighbour of Anne’s, a little dog, the neighbour on the other side of the road. Somehow all this was related to where Anne had worked as a hairdresser just before she had left Canada. It was safe ground, and Andrea was sure she’d heard most of it before, but as the details changed and she could never remember exactly what had happened, and as Anne was such a vibrant narrator, she took it all in with a smile. This was the best way to cruise through the morning, and the longer Anne took to tell her tale the better. Everything was as it should have been, and would normally have continued in that fashion quite harmlessly, except that today Anne suddenly slipped up in the middle of her humorous yarn and asked, as if it had just occurred to her, ’Where’s Harvey gone?
Haute House was the answer, as Anne discovered just a little too late. She realised her mistake as soon as Andrea changed her expression and waved her off with an ‘up north on business somewhere’. The way Andrea’s face had clouded over, the way she had spoken as if trying to shake off a pestering fly, the vagueness of her reply, ‘up north’, it could only mean one place, and she had been careless enough to drag it up. She tried to race ahead as if nothing had happened, tearing into her story with renewed enthusiasm, popping in a joke or too and a swear word in a frantic attempt to swerve clear of that haunted house. But it was too late. Andrea pulled herself to her feet wearily and announced that she would go and lie down in the lounge for bit. Anne suggested that she could maybe keep her company, dust or hoover while they gossiped, but Andrea cut her short with a curt ‘see you later’, and drifted off. Canadian Anne was worried now. If everything went according to the usual plan, Andrea would end up back in the hands of glossy Gustave, drugged to the eyeballs for a few days, then a week or two of personal therapy. How had she been so foolish? Why had she mentioned Harvey in the first place? That’s what came of not thinking about what you say, just letting it all trot off your tongue as if nothing mattered. Now she had unwittingly stirred the demons and poor Andrea would have to fight them off all over again. She decided to phone Helen and Lucia, they would know what was best for her.
However the house that had become to be a symbol of tragedy and sorrow for Andrea was to Harvey like a gold medal, awarded to him for outstanding merit. He had overcome immense difficulties and unscrupulously pushed on until he had achieved his goal. It was his prize, it was the winner’s cup he held up with both arms to the packed stadium, it was the justification for all his drastic measures and impossible decisions. It was the mirror of his worth. He had fallen in love with it at once and had sworn, on that very first day, that nothing would stand between him and the ownership of that impressive, imposing property. Andrea had shown him round as if she were a bored estate agent’s assistant, limiting herself to reciting a list of the rooms as if it had nothing to do with her at all. Kitchen, morning room, drawing room, billiard room, library.... She had only been living there for around four years, and had obviously not grown attached to it, appeared to prefer to keep it all at arm’s length. Or rather, she had grown to distrust it, as if it had in some way been partly to blame for Sydney’s death. Either way she had whipped round the place like a tourist guide hoping to get home before hitting the rush hour traffic, hastily opening doors then waltzing off along the corridor, dying to get back downstairs to the few rooms she now occupied overlooking the tennis courts.
But Harvey was overawed. He immediately became infatuated with the Old World magnificence of the mansion, its oak and mahogany panels, its uniquely patterned tiled floors, the towering height of the ceilings and windows. Wherever he looked there was beauty, style, opulence. He marvelled at ingeniously designed door knobs, intricate plasterwork, hand-crafted soft furnishings and priceless works of art. He marvelled at the sheer size of the place, its innumerable rooms, the extensive grounds, the rows of cars in the garage, the whitewashed and immaculate staff quarters. It was like something out of an old black and white film or a romantic novel, it was wealth transformed into heritage, and it was within his reach. He would grasp it and possess it, no matter what the cost.
Andrea crept back upstairs, lowered the blinds, and lay down on her bed to rest. The situation was not new, she knew which pills would help, how to breathe, who to phone for help. She understood that she would now be prey to her memories, which far from sinking forever to the forgetful seabed as promised, would now emerge to taunt her once more, bobbing to the surface like....... She tried to find a sustainable rhythm to her breathing, forced herself to focus on the list of positive emotions she had learnt and relearnt so many times, but she soon realised it would be useless without the pills.
In the bathroom she avoided her reflection, loathe to contemplate her pathetic image, fearful of self reproach. Anne’s voice cut through the walls with something about Helen. As long as it was not Harvey phoning in. As long as it was not that again.
She had met Sydney Haute in, of all places, a park in Lugano, Italy. As the full moon rose out of the mountains. No, that was later, as they strolled down to the water’s edge. It must have been earlier, before dark, before they closed the main gates to the park. Gary had spotted him. He had been so embarrassed! He was taking his mother for a walk! Mrs. Haute, whose first name was Alice, though nobody ever used it, who thought sh
e was so modern that it was pathetic. She was the widow, the heiress, the mother of a dead son. That role had been played by Alice then, now she was Andrea. She had provoked him with her liberty, a wild young woman with no chaperone, had challenged him with her sexuality, but somehow he had managed to turn the tables and she had found herself following him around like a dog from that moment on. Despite herself. She had loved his smile, his forearms, his lithe movements. Oh, he had been so perfect. Somehow she just knew he had died with a smile on his lips. C’est la vie! C’est la mort! But she was being romantic, allowing her memories to fool her, letting the passing of time do its patronising editing. Of course there had been another side, an alternative truth. She shuddered. Yes, he could be cold too, like his mother, cruelly distant, disdainful. She was shown an image of him entering without so much as a glance in her direction, all his attributes turned suddenly into ugliness through that indifferent gesture. It is so strange how liquid love hardens into icy routine. How the torrid passion of