‘Give it to the butler.’
Barbara’s butler, Scargill, turned from handing round the drinks tray. Barbara gave him a look, waved her hand, and knew by now the chef would be throwing a fit in the kitchen. In the end it was Alex who removed the pigeon and took it outside. He simply threw it out of the back door and then assured Harriet it was being fed and cared for.
Dinner was announced and Edward, deep in conversation with a New York banker, sat down in the wrong place. This put all the seating arrangements out, and so it was musical chairs until at last everyone was seated.
The consomme was being served by two white-gloved waiters. Harriet was seated next to a judge, and she fell into a deep conversation about her father and his prostate operation. Everyone had finished their soup and the waiters hovered as Harriet hadn’t touched hers. Edward leaned on his elbow and enquired if she had finished, everyone was waiting. ‘Oh sorry, you can take it away... sorry, Barbara, but we were talking about my father.’
Barbara enquired how Judge Simpson was and Harriet looked astonished. ‘Oh he’s dead, didn’t you know?’ Everyone murmured their condolences, and Alex quickly changed the conversation.
Harriet grew very quiet as she knew nothing about banking, and had no interest in political matters. She couldn’t help but notice how at ease Edward was and felt more than inadequate. She also noted what a very good hostess Barbara was...
As they drove home, Edward yawned. Harriet was biting her nails. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You went very quiet.’
‘Well I felt a bit out of my depth, the white-gloved treatment is a bit over the top.’
He drove up the manor house drive. ‘Maybe, but sometimes it’s good for business.’
Harriet lay awake most of the night. She made elaborate plans to begin working with Dewint. To redecorate the manor, and get lots of white gloves... suddenly she could hear the Judge, his booming voice bellowing through the old Hall... ‘For God’s sake, Edna, that fella looks as if he’s in a black and white minstrel show, the Duke’s comin’ for a bite to eat, not a ruddy cabaret.’ She slipped out of the bed and crept to the window. She loved to look out of this particular window, down to the big oak tree.
His approaching death had frightened her father, his bluster had gone, and when she had sat with him, he had cried... held on to her hand. ‘How’s my country gel then, eh? Good of you ta come up and see us, place always quiet without you... this is where you belong, not in that filthy city.’
The Judge’s request to be buried with his favourite hunter was dismissed as senile ramblings. After his funeral Harriet found the old horse’s grave. The horse her pa had refused point-blank to send to the glue factory. He had dug the grave himself. She laid a bunch of wild flowers and a small card... ‘From Your Country Girl’.
As the train arrived back in London, her heart had already begun to ache for the fields, for the fresh clean air, but Edward wasn’t there, and where he was, she had to be.
Alex was preparing for the takeover of Buchanan House, a twenty-three-million-pound deal. The news hit the City, and Mr Alex Barkley’s face began to appear in the Financial Times columns. He was referred to as a new breed of tycoon. He began to relax. Maybe his brother was right, he should let Edward get on with his side of the business. He negotiated the renaming of Buchanan House, listing all the subsidiary companies they could combine. He thought about going public, so he had many meetings with brokers and financiers, closeted in his office or in the boardroom for hours on end. The poised, whirring cameras were soon forgotten, became part of the walls. But Alex was unaware of just what a tight security system his ‘dear’ brother had had installed. Although Edward’s office appeared as it always had, the mammoth desk had been modified, as had the walls. Behind five oak panels were monitor screens, and his desk was computerized, the sides opening up to reveal the controls. Without moving out of his office, Edward Barkley could tape and record every meeting that took place in the building. Every single negotiation, every single phone call that went in or out of the Barkley Company, he recorded. By this method, Edward felt free to roam, leave London whenever he wanted, assured that his office was ticking away all by itself.
Edward had decided that a meeting with Ming was called for. It was not particularly urgent, he just wanted to get away from London, from Harriet — she was heading for one of her depressive bouts. He knew it was wrong, that he should tell her what he was doing, but he did his usual disappearing act anyway.
Dewint had the unfortunate task of telling her, one that often landed on his frail shoulders. Her play was about to open, and Dewint knew how important it was for her to have Edward there on her first night — she needed his approval. She had worked so hard, and at long last she had her Equity card. But she took it very well, shrugging her shoulders and saying it was only to be expected. Dewint tried to make up for Edward’s absence, telling her that by the time he returned from New York the play would have had a chance to ‘run in’, and her performance would no doubt be better for the experience.
This was her first professional engagement, one she had worked hard to get. She had joined the Bush Theatre at Shepherd’s Bush as an assistant to the stage manager. She was an obvious choice for the part of Christina in their production of The Soul of a Whore, and so far the rehearsals had gone without a single hitch. As the opening night approached, Harriet’s nerves were in shreds. This was no passing whim, as Edward had believed at first, but a serious stab at making a career for herself. She had made considerable donations towards the running of the theatre, and although no one liked to admit it, this had swayed the company into not only staging the production but also offering her the role. They were touched when she insisted she auditioned like anyone else, even though she was the ‘angel’. She didn’t want to destroy the play’s chances of success. Harriet had won the role fair and square, and her position in the company was confirmed.
She rarely, if ever, mentioned her husband, and used the stage name of Harriet Simpson. It had become very important to her that she prove herself, without any influence from Edward.
Dewint watched over her, fussing around, almost as nervous as she was. Alex had been asked to attend, but he had declined due to a prior engagement. Allard, however, was bringing a crowd of his friends to support her.
The small theatre at the top of the pub was crammed. The young author sat biting his nails as the critics squeezed into the rows of benches.
Dewint’s nervousness evaporated within the first ten minutes. Harriet’s performance was astonishing — she seemed perfectly at home on the stage, and her performance had depth and great humour. She had a rare quality that riveted the audience. She walked a dangerous edge, switching a laugh line into a violent tirade against the men she picked up in her character of a whore. She dominated the stage, and at the end the small theatre gave her a standing ovation.
Dewint waited outside the pub’s ‘stage door’ until Harriet appeared with Allard and his crowd of friends, who were absolutely overwhelmed by her talent. They went off to celebrate, and Dewint caught the bus home. He sat up until four in the morning, when she arrived, exhausted but jubilant. She had done it — she didn’t need anyone to tell her, she had felt it from the stage. She handed Dewint a newspaper with the only review so far.