One of the estimates he obtained for the interior, from Michelle Marchalle of Marchalle Fabrics, came in under budget. The company sent a representative to meet Alex and discuss the project in detail. So Alex met Miss Imura Takeda and within half an hour he had offered her the job.
Miss Takeda, who wished to be known simply as ‘Ming’, was a diminutive Japanese woman. She had arrived at their first meeting in her small Citroën, and he had been taken aback by her composure and businesslike manner. She was wearing a Chanel suit and was perfectly groomed, her glossy black hair cut in a heavy fringe reaching almost to her perfect almond eyes, and cropped short into her delicate white neck.
Ming offered to cook Alex dinner at her home. He found her workshop and apartment in a small, run-down cobbled street in Cannes. She gave him a calm, small bow as he entered her showroom. There were only two pieces of furniture on display, a small table and a single chair set against a cream silk wall and standing on a highly polished wooden floor. A tiny white vase contained an arrangement with a single flower.
Ming led Alex through to her workshop, where again the furnishing was sparse, with four girls working on designs at two trestle tables. The walls were plain with only two prints hanging, and there were stacks of fabric samples in fine wooden frames. Alex was shown designs, materials, and careful copies of original wall-hangings that Ming had drawn.
‘I am most grateful, Meester Barkley, that you have chosen my company. We are very small but I give you my word that the work will be done to a very high standard.’
She made tea, her movements quick yet unhurried, and placed before him perfect cups of the finest bone china he had ever seen. She watched him touch the table, bowed her head.
‘It is very beautiful, yes?’
Alex, sitting on a low cushion, nodded and sipped his tea.
‘The table is seventeenth-century Chinese. Many people think only of porcelain for that period but, you see, many pieces of Ming furniture were also made.’ Ming giggled as she said the word ‘Ming’, then whispered that it was not her real name, but one she had chosen for her work. ‘Many people in the trade simply call this period of furniture “Ming”.’
They continued their conversation while Alex watched her tiny hands prepare the most delicious supper of raw fish and vegetables. Ming gave him a book on seventeenth-century Chinese furniture, which as soon as he arrived home, he spent the rest of the night reading.
Alex grew increasingly enamoured of Ming. They travelled across France together in her little Citroën, attending auctions and antique fairs. They flew to Paris for the major ‘in house’ auctions, and he was guided by her taste and flawless eye for detail in everything. She would make him walk mile after mile through every fabric section of every store, never satisfied, until she found exactly the right texture, the right shade. Her own company set about hand-dyeing silks, and she employed six Japanese women to begin making up the drapes.
Alex was aware of the change in himself. Ming introduced him to the high priests of Paris couture, and under her influence, a hint here, a word there, he set about buying his own wardrobe. Hesitantly, he asked for her approval, and gratefully accepted her advice.
They were together every day, but at about ten o’clock in the evening she would always excuse herself and return to her own apartment if they were in Cannes, or to her hotel room if they were on the road. Alex was like a teenager, not knowing exactly how to take the first step towards changing their working relationship into a more personal one. The completion of the château drew closer day by day, and Alex was unable to sleep at night for thinking of ways he could keep Ming near him, close to him. The château was obviously her pride and joy, and she took such delight in finding each special piece of furniture, never making too much of the decor, allowing the majestic rooms to speak for themselves. He ached to kiss her, to hold her, but he was tongue-tied in her presence, flustered. If she was aware of his infatuation, she gave him no hint.
Ming and Alex stood together in the entrance hall of the château, surrounded by the smell of fresh paint, of polish, while the bright sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.
‘Well, Alex, I think we have finished. Are you happy? Are you pleased?’
He adored the lilting sound of her voice, her accent when she spoke French. He made up his mind, it was now or never. ‘Ming, I have to talk with you, not about the house, something personal . . .’
He towered above her, and she raised her almond-shaped eyes to his, then lowered them. She bit her lip until it hurt. She had been unable to make him out; at first she had thought him clumsy, because of his desperate shyness, but then slowly she had realized that it was due to his schoolboy French. Then she had wondered if he was homosexual – they had stayed in hotels together, been in each other’s company day in, day out, and not once had he made a pass at her. She could not take the initiative herself to turn the relationship round. Her business depended on him, she couldn’t risk it. He was more than a meal ticket to her, he had taken her out of the red and into heavy black figures, and when they started to show the château in the glossy magazines as she intended, she knew her name would be made. She had done more than a magnificent job, she had surpassed herself.
Alex caught her tiny hand and she saw him flush. This was it, he was going to make a play for her at last. She gave him a demure smile.
‘I was wondering if we could have dinner together tonight? I have made a reservation in town.’
Ming had to stand on tiptoe to reach his lips. Her kiss was soft and swift, and he gasped.
‘I would like that so much. I shall miss the château, I shall miss you.’
Ming had never seen a man so pleased by a few simple words.
‘You will? Do you mean that?’
Ming laughed, and fell into step beside him along the marble hall. He was so childlike, and she knew he was unaware of the admiring glances he received from the many women they had met, it was as though he simply didn’t notice them. Ming paused, the hell with it . . . she held his arm and whispered.
‘Take me upstairs now, take me up there in your arms.’
For a moment Alex stood, nonplussed, then he swept her up into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, felt his pulses thudding. He carried her up the stairs and into the master bedroom suite with its drapes and the vast bed they had bought from an Austrian castle. As he laid her gently down, she reached up and took his face between her tiny hands, pulled him towards her. But before their lips met, they heard the sound of a car on the gravel drive below.
Edward was impressed, more than impressed; he was astonished. He gazed at the château through the window of the Rolls. ‘Mind you,’ he thought to himself, ‘by the rate of knots the cash has been flowing out of the account, I should be impressed.’ Now he could see where it had all gone.
He parked the hired Rolls and walked up the steps to the entrance, which was flanked by urns containing a profusion of budding flowers. He turned to survey the gardens. The orchards, the hedgerows, were all a riot of colour and richness, a wonder to the eye. It was hard to believe that it had been a wilderness less than eight months ago.
He was equally astonished at the interior. He strode from room to room, taking it all in. Nothing jarred – the furnishings, the fabrics, the colours, all blended so perfectly that he felt something akin to awe.
Alex was surprised to see his brother, but not as taken aback as Edward was by him. For a moment he did not recognize Alex, having seen him only fleetingly since the last plastic surgery he had undergone. There had been numerous operations until his face had been completely reshaped, and now Edward could see the full extent of the change. There were no scars or puffiness – he looked like a different man. Edward held him at arm’s length. ‘Jesus Christ, you look good, you look good.’ He inspected Alex’s face closely, shook his head. ‘My God, what a job they did on you . . . what a face! Now you’re my brother again . . . I love the gear, nice jacket.’
Edwa
rd touched his brother’s face, his cheek, then wrapped him in his arms. Alex seemed not quite at ease with his brother, a little withdrawn, and Edward picked it up immediately.
‘What’s the matter, something wrong?’
‘No, no, nothing wrong . . . well, tell me, what do you think of the place?’
He watched Edward as he wandered around, picking up objects, looking at the fabrics. He was pale, not tanned like Alex, but there was that strength to him, that confidence. He picked up an ornate vase, a very expensive one. ‘This a copy or the real thing?’
Alex smiled, amazed he wasn’t able to tell. ‘It’s real, Ming Dynasty. It has an unusual fault in the glaze that makes it special.’
‘You don’t say? Well, I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. What did that set us back?’
‘Twenty-five thousand.’
Edward nearly dropped the vase in shock. ‘Fucking hell, twenty-five grand and it’s got a bleedin’ fault . . . You’re sure you know what the hell you’re doing?’
‘Yes – it’s already increased in value.’
Alex began to feel annoyed as Edward continued his inspection. He noted that Edward’s cashmere coat had a small rip in the pocket and a stain down the front. Edward somehow looked old-fashioned, scruffy, his suede shoes in need of a brush.
It had been almost five years since they had been reunited. For the first three years Alex had undergone extensive plastic surgery. He had recuperated in Cannes, and grown accustomed to living in style, a style he had adapted to with ease. He now spoke fluent French, and had taken a year of elocution classes to, as his brother put it it, ‘Get rid of that bleedin’ East End tag.’
Edward and Alex had struck a deal, one that Alex could not really refuse. He had agreed to leave England, undergo surgery, and hand over the reins of the club and his other business interests to Edward. Alex had drawn up the contracts, selling out for one million. Edward had then placed a further two million in a Swiss bank account for Alex’s use. The château had been Edward’s idea on one of his infrequent visits. He had suggested that they buy it and renovate it, even teasing Alex that although he was having a well-earned holiday, there was always money to be made in property, and it would give Alex a goal. But Edward had not bargained for Alex’s enthusiasm, his dedication, or the vast expense of the refurbishment. He kept a watchful eye on the Geneva account, and had cabled even more money to Alex when asked. The more money he paid the less guilt he felt. But he was careful to make notes of every withdrawal, every transaction.
Ming could hear their voices as they strolled from room to room. She waited for what she deemed a respectable time before making an appearance. Then she entered the drawing room silently, standing just inside the ornate, arched doors. Alex watched his brother when he turned towards her. At times Edward’s resemblance to Freedom was truly unnerving – the eyes so dark, hair so black that it had a blue sheen to it.
‘Edward, this is Ming. Ming and I have been working closely on the whole project – in fact I couldn’t have done up the place without her.’
Edward smiled at her, but his eyes were expressionless. His French was not as good as Alex’s, and he spoke to her in English. ‘Done a great job, I’m very impressed . . . what about a small tour?’
He picked up the looks between the two of them as they led him around the château. They were very much a couple, pointing out one piece of furniture or another, explaining where it came from and exactly which period. Ming talked about the colour schemes, the wonderful carpets they had shipped in, and Edward said not a word. She could feel his eyes, taking stock of everything, taking special note of her. So this was the big brother she had heard Alex speak of. She could see how different they were, in manner as well as appearance, and she could feel the energy flowing from Edward, could sense his danger.
Alex grew quiet as they neared the end of their tour. He noticed the way Edward stood close to Ming, rested his hand on her shoulder when he asked about a painting, stepped back and laughed with her when she described the auction where they bought it.
At last the inspection was over, and Edward walked slowly down the great stairway. Halfway down, he stopped. ‘Well, we shall have to throw a party before we leave. I shall call London, start making arrangements . . . what about staff, have you anyone moving in yet?’
Alex hesitated. He had not hired anyone as yet, he had been taking care of himself. But Edward paid little heed to his reply, he was congratulating Ming again, but at the same time dismissing her. ‘Do you have transport?’
Ming smiled and said yes she did. Edward looked over at Alex.
‘Well, no doubt we will meet again . . . Alex and I have a lot to discuss, I am only here for a few days, then we return to London.’
Alex ushered Ming to her car. She knew he was angry, his face was set, but he smiled, said he would collect her for dinner later in the evening. He stood and watched her drive away before turning back to the château.
Edward was lounging on a silk sofa, his feet resting on frilled silk cushions. ‘We’ll have a good dinner, then we’ll go over all the papers you have to sign. I’ll be here for a couple of days, but I want to send them back by courier tomorrow, then I can relax. May take a dip later, I must say the pool looks very inviting.’ He paused, looked searchingly at Alex. ‘You look fit and well, Alex, really tanned, it suits you . . . She’s a cute little thing, isn’t she? Very talented, too . . .’
Alex clenched and unclenched his fist.
‘You’ll have the office next to mine, but I’ve not furnished it . . . after seeing your taste, well, I think you’d rather do it yourself. Très impressed, old boy.’
‘Good, I’m glad you like it. I . . . well, I love the place, and it must be obvious to you that I’m very happy here – not just in the château, but in France. I like it, I like the people, and I’ve been thinking.’
‘Obviously. Well – go on.’
‘Well, I can’t just continue spending, this place will cost a fortune to run. But I’m sure I could open up the vineyards. And perhaps I could start buying some of the farm land surrounding the orchards, make it a productive business. We’ve already started – we’ll have a good crop, and the season’s not even begun.’
‘You don’t know anything about farming! Besides, I’ve made arrangements.’
Edward cursed himself silently for not coming to France more often. He should have guessed something like this would happen. He lit a Havana cigar, puffing slowly, taking his time and choosing his words carefully. ‘Trouble is, you’ve no option really.’
‘Whaddya mean by that?’
‘Watch it, Alex, the accent slipped there.’
‘Screw my fucking accent! What do you mean I’ve got no option? If I don’t want to come back to London, then I won’t . . . And would you use the bloody ashtray?’
Edward turned on him, his voice controlled, but spitting out the words. ‘Maybe I need you, maybe you’ve overspent out here – do you think I’m running the Bank of England? While you’ve been lazing about over here in the sun, I’ve been working my butt off for you – yeah, for you . . . Here – passport, birth certificate – Alex Stubbs is dead, Alex Barkley’s coming back to London with me.’
Alex didn’t even pick up the envelope. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘You owe me, Eddie, you gave me that cash, what is this? You want it back? Not a lot to pay for near ten years.’
Edward went to his brother, put his arms round him. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’m needled now because . . . because, Alex, I want you with me. I want you to take a look at what I’ve been doing, that’s what I’ve been knocking myself out for since you’ve been in France. Between us, together, we can go places, you know? You haven’t even seen what I’m working with in London, and you’re going to step right in, right in next to me . . . You opt out of it, then it’ll all be worthless. Don’t run out on it just because of some Jap bitch.’
Alex pushed him away, had to get away from his arms. ‘Maybe I need h
er.’
Edward sighed, rubbed his fingers in his hair. He tried another tack. ‘You look closely at her, Alex my old son. She’s no twenty-two-year-old, she’s forty if she’s a day. Not quite the sort you want to settle down with and have a family.’
Alex was getting angrier, his fist itching to throw a punch.
Edward opened his briefcase. ‘Take a look at how deep I’m prepared to go for you, how far I’m prepared to go to get you out of that cheap shit-hole of a club you ran. You are free, no one can trace you . . . Alex Stubbs, the ex-con with the off-the-peg suits, is gone. Read it, bottom of second page.’
Alex opened the English newspaper, searched the columns, unsure even what he was looking for . . . The article was only a few lines long, but it was a nightmare: ‘GANGLAND KILLING SUSPECTED . . . Alex Stubbs, a Mayfair club owner, was found burnt to death in his Jaguar early this morning. Police suspect . . .’ The print blurred, and Alex couldn’t read any more. He swallowed, stammered, ‘What the hell is this, for Chrissake?’
‘Like I said, Alex Stubbs is dead. You’ve a new passport, new birth certificate – you come back as Alex Barkley. I’m already making waves – we’ve got a property business, investment company, plus that old club you ran . . . I didn’t sell it, you only had a short lease, so I bought the whole building. We’ll open a club, it’ll be the best in London – gambling, dining, cabaret . . . I’ve already sunk over two and a half hundred grand in it, going too fast for you, am I? Whichever way you want to look at it, the jam is spreading very thick and fast. Going to make you rich, brother, richer than you ever dreamed.’
Alex’s mouth was dry, his mind reeled. Edward leaned back on the sofa and laughed. ‘I’ve been over all your old accounts, and you are good. As I said, I need you.’ He sprang to his feet, bursting with excitement, and strode around the room. ‘I want this place in every magazine, every glossy from Paris Match to Vogue, Elle, you name it, and then we’ll throw a coming-out party, for you, for me. We’ll get the Rainiers, the Windsors, big names, have them all here kissing our hands, and then, brother, we are in, all you need is the social acceptance . . . Alex? Heyyy, buddy . . .’
The Talisman Page 36