‘That’s true, he was. But, so was Philip Alvarez. He married Mary for her money, I’m certain of that now. And then he dumped her, to be brutal about it.’
‘Didn’t even come to her funeral, the rotten sod,’ Robert said. ‘But listen to me,’ he went on, his voice growing serious. ‘Not all men are like your father, Selmere and Alvarez. I’m not. Surely you understand that after all these years.’
‘I do. I do, Robin, honestly. But I want … to be free, independent, my own woman. I don’t want marriage, not at any price.’ She gave him a pleading look. ‘Can we drop the subject now? Please?’
‘Absolutely. We won’t discuss it any further.’ He took a sip of tea, and went on, ‘Thanks for coming down to the beach with Lucas.’
‘You didn’t hurt yourself when you tripped over the pile of rocks, did you?’
‘No, I just got cold and wet. I’m feeling better now. In a few minutes I’ll get dressed, and we’ll have a drink.’
‘You have forgiven me, haven’t you, Robin?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ he said for the second time.
‘It’s a beautiful sunny day, Robin,’ Elizabeth said, as she drew back the curtains and looked out of the window on Sunday morning. ‘The storm’s gone farther north, I suspect. Come on, get up, lazy bones, let’s go downstairs and have breakfast.’
‘It’s not even six o’clock,’ Robert muttered, but nonetheless he was awake and he threw back the bedclothes, got out of bed. Reaching for his robe, he pulled it on, and found his slippers. ‘So, what do you plan to make for breakfast, Miss Turner?’
‘I’m sure there are all sorts of things in the refrigerator. Lucas always buys kippers. Would you like some of those? Or mushrooms and kidneys? They’re his standbys.’
‘How about simple boiled eggs and toast?’ he suggested, leading her out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
‘Boiled eggs it is,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll have the same.’
Once they were in the kitchen Elizabeth turned on the coffee pot, went to the refrigerator, took out the carton of milk and the eggs, and hurried over to the island in the middle of the room.
‘Is there any orange juice?’ Robin asked.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. Yes, it’s in the fridge.’
After filling two glasses, Robert carried them over to the kitchen table, picked up the remote control and turned on the television. ‘I just want to see what they say about the weather –’ He broke off, frowning, staring at the set, and Elizabeth swung around, followed his gaze.
‘The car Princess Diana was travelling in drove into the Point D’Alma Tunnel at twenty-three minutes past midnight,’ the voice of the newscaster was saying. ‘The ambulance which arrived just after the crash took her to Pitié-Sâlpetrière, the hospital where she died in the early hours of the morning.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘It can’t be possible. No, no, it can’t be.’ She turned to Robert, who was rooted to the spot near the table, and very carefully put down the carton of eggs before she dropped it. Her voice shook as she added, ‘It just can’t be, Robin. Not Princess Diana.’
Robert was speechless. Putting his arm around Elizabeth, he eased her down into the chair, then sat next to her, all the time staring at the television set in disbelief. Like Elizabeth, he was unable to absorb the horrific news for a few seconds.
Tears were rolling down Elizabeth’s cheeks, and she pulled a tissue out of her pocket, wiped her eyes. ‘Those poor little boys, her young sons,’ she whispered, filled with enormous sorrow, and began to weep again.
It was Robert who eventually brought two mugs of coffee to the table, which is where they sat for the next few hours listening to the reports coming in from Paris and London. It was August thirty-first, 1997. Like the rest of Britain, and of the whole world, they were stunned and grief-stricken by the tragic death of the beautiful princess who had been cut down in the prime of her life.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Quiet as death. That is how it is here today. I’ve never known Deravenels to be like this. So silent, so heavy in spirit. People are working as usual but sadness casts a strange haze over their faces. They slowly move along the corridors, talk in whispers, do their jobs efficiently, but that cloud of pain is a palpable thing, hangs over them like a mist. And that is the way it is in the whole of Britain, and even in the rest of the world, at least part of it.
A vibrant and beautiful young woman no longer exists on this planet. And yet … she does. She is in our hearts and minds where she will live with us forever. Sudden and unexpected, her violent death has had a violent impact on us, made us feel mortal and vulnerable, somehow at risk. Grief stuns, brings us to mourning.
It is five days since she died and we remain in shock, unable to truly comprehend that she is gone. I feel it strongly … the sense of hurt and staggering loss, as though a shimmering dream has been smashed to smithereens. She was so vitally alive, so exuberant, so caring and full of love to give, especially to the lost, the abandoned, the helpless and the frail. The flash of that valiant smile. the sparkle in those bright blue eyes … it hardly seems believable that we will never see them again … except in our memories …
The death of Princess Diana has made me feel vulnerable, in so many different ways. Not about my own mortality, but about Robin and the different aspects of our relationship. Last night I could not sleep … I lay awake worrying about him … what if he was killed or suddenly died? What would I do without him? My life would be over. That is the way I feel because he is my whole existence. And yet I hurt him so badly this past weekend. My words cut to the quick, I know that. I should be more careful in the things I say … I should not rush in where angels fear to tread. That was one of my father’s often said remarks, borrowed from one of his favourite songs. He had a good voice, my father. I can hear it now in my head, hear him singing: ‘Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread.’ He was a tenor and so good he could have sung in the opera.
My father loved music, and he frequently wrote it. He might well have written this song, but he didn’t. I asked him once and he said he wished he could claim it as his own but that it had been written by Johnny Mercer and Rube Bloom. My father the romantic … the romantic fool. Robin called him a monstrosity the other day, and perhaps he did become that. But once he had been the Golden Boy. Glorious. Handsome, charming, irresistible. Women fell at his feet.
What’s this? Tears on my cheeks? Am I crying for my father? Or Robin? Or Princess Diana? My feelings are muddled up today and my emotions are on the surface.
My father Harry Turner. I loved him and now I also revere him. How proud I am of his great accomplishments and what he did for Deravenels during the years he ran it …
Does the victim always love the tormentor? Is that the way it is with everyone? I have often wondered why my father treated me so shabbily when I was a child, why he was so violent verbally, so appallingly nasty to me. He shouted and ranted and sent me away. He was a wealthy man and yet he kept Kat Ashe on a tight budget and we were always short of money those years when I was growing up. It was people like Aunt Grace Rose and John Dunley, Robin’s father, who showed me kindness and brought some happiness into my life. John because he allowed his son to come and stay at Waverley Court, and Grace Rose because she invited me to visit her at Stonehurst Farm. And when I was there, either alone or with Robin, we were dreadfully spoiled by her. She created magical times for us.
Why did my father hate me when I was a little girl? Was it because he saw my mother in me? And had he hated my mother so much that he had to take it out on me? An innocent child, who could only have been HIS, with my bright auburn hair and tall, slender build like my grandfather Henry Turner. Harry Turner never laid a hand on me in violence, but his tongue was like a lash. I was his victim and yet I loved him, and tried so hard to please him. Was that because I wanted him so desperately to love me; to bring me back into the fold? He did that when I least expected it, when I had not seen him for years.
He invited me to come and visit him with Mary, my half-sister, and we all had lunch together. He liked what he saw, I think, and he was impressed by my intelligence and tickled to death that I had his colouring and bright red hair. And so I was accepted. According to Kat Ashe, my father was awed by my knowledge, and proud of my extraordinary education, at least so she informed me at that time.
Robin believes my vow never to marry springs from my fear of it. And he says I fear marriage because I’ve seen such terrible examples of the state of matrimony. Perhaps he’s correct. I cannot fathom out why a piece of paper makes a difference in a relationship. It is, after all, just a piece of paper … no, not true. It’s a LEGAL piece of paper that has a great deal of importance in many matters in our lives. I am not enamoured of it even though I an enamoured of Robin. I must therefore consider that piece of paper … most carefully. I must also do my best to make Robin feel better. I must reassure him …
‘Come in, Merry,’ Elizabeth called out, in answer to the loud knock on her office door.
Merry’s beautiful face appeared around it, and she said, ‘Marcus Johnson’s here. Shall I show him in?’
‘Yes, and will you please let Grace Rose know that I’ll be there for drinks with her at six o’clock, as I promised.’
‘Yes, I will.’ Merry disappeared and closed the door behind her.
Elizabeth pulled the black folder towards her, opened it, and ran her eyes down the list of points which had been made on the first sheet by Marcus Johnson. Then she looked up as Merry showed him in.
Standing, she went around the desk, took his outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Good morning, Marcus, I’m glad you could come today instead of tomorrow. I’m very appreciative.’
‘Morning, Elizabeth, and there was no problem at all.’
‘Do sit down,’ she murmured, and took a seat opposite him behind her desk.
‘Tragic, wasn’t it, about Princess Diana? Everybody’s still reeling,’ Marcus remarked as he settled in the chair.
‘Including me. I haven’t been able to shake off the sadness or the sense of … doom,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I can’t help thinking it was an accident that needn’t have happened.’
‘I think that as well, and so do a lot of people. Not enough care was taken of her … it seems to me that it was a … well, a bit of a chaotic situation.’
‘Now that you mention it, I have a feeling it probably was.’ Glancing at the page in front of her, she went on, ‘Well, let’s get down to business, Marcus. I’m really pleased with this proposal of yours, thrilled actually.’ She smiled, and added, ‘I want to hire your company to do the launch of the Elizabeth Turner Spas, and also I’d like you to help with the publicity for the auction of the Deravenel–Turner Collections. Sotheby’s will be doing a great deal, of course, but I have a feeling I might need some … well, let’s just call it auxiliary publicity, shall we? How do you feel about this?’
‘We can handle everything for you, and thank you for your confidence in us, Elizabeth. I’ll put two different account executives on. One, with her own staff, will deal with publicity for the spas, and the other person, also with a staff, can work on the auction.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘You obviously like our plan, and the way we wish to launch the spas. How do you feel about the launch party being held at a hotel though, rather than at the spa in London?’
‘I love it! And you came up with the best suggestion, in my opinion, the perfect solution,’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘I was really worried about my white floors, white curtains and white furniture. And masses of people spilling drinks, dropping food and scuffing the floors.’
‘I know what you mean. It’s a nightmarish scenario. And that was the first thing Isabella Fort came up with. She focused on it immediately and opted for the hotel reception. She suggested the Dorchester for the launch, as you’ve read in our presentation. Or do you prefer another hotel?’
‘The Dorchester is fine for the reception. Also, I’m keen on the idea of giving tours to a few beauty, health and fashion editors. Showing the spa to them in groups of six, with a catered lunch at the spa afterwards is brilliant. In fact, I approve of all of your ideas, which is why I’m hiring you. When do you think you’ll need to start?’
‘If you still plan to open the first spa in London in April of 1998, then it would have to be now. Immediately. We do need six months to plan everything properly.’
‘I’ll give the contracts you prepared to Merry and she’ll look them over, as will my lawyers, before I sign them. We’ll get them back to you as quickly as possible. In the meantime, there are a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ Marcus said. ‘I’ve plenty of time this morning.’
‘I really believe she’s going too fast, too soon,’ Mark Lott said, lifting his dry martini, taking a sip. ‘Too big for her breeches, this one.’
Alexander Dawson laughed gleefully. ‘Got it in for her, Mark, have you? Or would you rather have it in her, eh?’
‘Don’t be bloody daft! Do you honestly think I’d even consider putting my most prized possession where bloody Dunley’s been? Not on your life, mate. Anyway, she’s not my type.’
‘She’s certainly his. Those two are fucking like rabbits day and night, and the whole bloody town knows it. And don’t think it sits well in the City. There’s a lot of talk about the lady boss of Deravenels and her right-hand man having it off. Those guys might like to have a bit of the old fornication on the side, but they’re very disapproving when it comes to doing it in the office.’
‘They’re not doing it in the office, are they?’ Mark asked shrilly, starring at his colleague askance.
‘Don’t be a twit! It’s a matter of speech. Colleagues doing it together, that’s what’s verboten. But getting back to your first point, about her going too fast, are you referring to the spas?’
‘Of course I am. They’re going to cost a fortune,’ Mark asserted.
Alexander motioned to the waiter, ordered two more dry martinis, then addressed Mark. ‘Where are your brains today, you old duffer? The company’s not paying for the spas. She is, with her own money.’
‘She doesn’t have any money, as you well know. Sweet little Mary saw to that, dropping all that lovely lolly into the hot greedy hands of that Spanish conniver, Alvarez. He certainly knew how to diddle her.’
‘In more ways than one,’ Alexander shot back with a suggestive smirk. ‘Much to the horror of Norfell. I’ve always thought he’d have liked to slip into her knickers any time he could. They were as thick as thieves, you know. In fact, maybe he did have a go now and then.’
‘Talking bloody nonsense, you are, laddie. Norfell and Mary went to the same church and that’s the sum total of it. Norfell’s picky when it comes to his tarts. He likes them pale-skinned and thin. And hot … hot to trot. Mary wasn’t his type; too dark, heavy and … mournful,’ Mark finished knowingly.
‘I always rather liked Mary,’ Alexander announced, and then absently glanced around the Grill Room of the Dorchester Hotel. ‘Bloody hell, talk of the devil!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘There she is. Elizabeth. Over there. And who’s the handsome guy she’s with? Don’t tell me she’s ditched Dunley for an older man? That would be a belly laugh indeed.’
‘That’s Marcus Johnson, you twit, the famous PR man. I was at Eton with him. His father’s Lord Johnson of Beverley. A Yorkshire family with pots and pots of it. And as far as I know, he wouldn’t be interested in her. Marcus has different interests … he used to have anyway.’ Mark sat back and smiled at Alexander. ‘He’s married though. Now, getting back to the spas. As I just said, they’re going to cost a lot of money, and she’s borrowed ten million pounds from the bank. Now tell me this, my lad. What if the spas fail? Who pays back the money? Elizabeth or the company? My guess is the company, because she won’t have the money to repay the bank loan.’
‘No, no, you’re wrong.’ Alexander shook his head, his expression vehement. ‘You’re forgetting s
he’s going to make at least fifty to seventy million pounds on the Sotheby’s auction of those antiques and possessions she’s inherited from the Deravenels and the Turners.’
Mark frowned, his eyes narrowing. ‘Are you certain of that, Alex? It seems an awful lot of money to me. What on earth is there to sell? Do you know?’
‘Yes, I do. Because it just so happens that my niece works at Sotheby’s, and I was staying with her parents in Hampshire last weekend. She was there, too, and she made mention of the auction. She says it’s the biggest auction Sotheby’s have had in many years, and that the stuff is simply marvellous. A lot of diamond tiaras and mind-boggling jewellery, but mostly she raved about the art. Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings that will go for millions.’
‘Get on with you!’
‘It’s true,’ Alexander insisted. ‘Believe me, it is, Mark. Elizabeth’s fallen into a sweet pot of shit, and the art is extremely valuable. Apparently a great deal of it came from Edward Deravenel’s mistress, a woman called Jane Shaw. Matisse, Manet, Monet, Van Gogh … big-name artists. In fact, my niece, Venetia, told me the first estimates are now considered too low, and the auction house is currently re-adjusting them.’
‘So what you’re telling me is that she’s not vulnerable after all?’ Mark’s brow lifted. ‘That we can’t topple her?’
‘I didn’t say that. She’s vulnerable all right. I was just pointing out that the spas will not be her downfall. But perhaps something else will. You never know. Come to think of it, Robert Dunley might well bring her down. There are plenty of people gunning for him in the company. And the gossip about them is still rampant.’
Drawing closer to Alexander, Mark asked, ‘Who’s gunning for him? Do tell.’ He grinned maliciously.
‘Norfell,’ Alexander said sotto voce. ‘And he has his own axe to grind, believe you me. He’s got his feet in both camps, of course.’