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Then it clicked into place. Jarret and Fee had read the magazine. She had become over a period of decades a woman of position and power according to the art press. In the eyes of her former lover and his Byzantine friend, she had graduated from B list to A, a woman now worthy of being pandered to by Jarret and Fee as they had done all women who could enrich their lives. Desperation not love had made them seek her out.

Amy switched off the light and returned to her bedroom. Propped up against the bed pillows she put the Kramer file in order and then began to read. Two hours later she knew a great deal more about the houses available for the Anthony Kramer Museum in Istanbul. Only one was a
yalis
. It was called the Yalis Contessa Armida, and there was no mention of Jarret or Fee as being connected with the property. An excellent floor plan and several renderings of the interior gave Amy a clear and concise picture of the place.

There were other more impressive buildings but Amy was too distracted by the
yalis
and the mystery surrounding it to pay much attention to them. A mystery not only because of the reappearance of Jarret and Fee so suddenly in her life, but for the
yalis
being made available for the museum by the Turkish authorities. It was the odd building out compared to the others. Before Amy went to sleep she knew every nook and cranny of it. That the
yalis
had come to her attention was something she would never let on to Jarret and Fee.

‘For old love’s sake’, that was the game they were playing with her. She too could play that game, if for no
other reason than to see how far they would go to get whatever it was they wanted from her.

Amy reached out to the small pedestal dish on the table by her bed and plucked the last white chocolate from it. She looked at the delectable confection before biting into it and said aloud, ‘And you? Where are you, Brice, whoever you are?’

Chapter 18

Amy had never realised she could be so very wicked. All morning as the three men, Tennant, Fee and Jarret, accompanied her round the London art galleries, they made repeated attempts to engage her in more personal talk. Each of them tried in vain and as the morning stretched out to lunchtime, they became less subtle about it. Amy saw it all and deliberately ignored it. She had no intention of making it easy for them. In fact, she rather enjoyed torturing them.

She was amused at the manner in which each of them, in their own way, was laying the seductive charm on her. Jarret’s constant erotic insinuations; Fee’s reminder of Jarret and Amy’s love for each other; and Tennant reiterating how beautiful and vital she was, and how right his father had been to have loved her so long and so well. Jarret and Fee were as good at it as ever. And the young Tennant? They had taught him well. He was as irresistible as his father had been, a flirt who knew when to sparkle, how to kiss a lady’s hand, how to turn on the soulful gaze. He would love women just as his father had, would be as self-serving and conniving as Fee had ever been. How many women would he ruin? He had been taught by masters.

She saw it in Tennant’s eyes just as she had seen it in
his father’s when she had first met him. Erotic desire, passion to be used as directed by ambition, a quiet arrogance and a toughness hidden behind a guise of being the most sensitive and talented of people. The amoral son of an amoral man, born and brought up in an amoral lifestyle. What chance did he have of being anything other than the way he was? Amy had no doubt that women would fall madly, passionately, in love with him. Obsessively so even. They would accept him for what he was, flaws and all, and pay the price for their great romantic idyll. Hadn’t she, after all, done so herself?

Still, all in all Amy was having a great time, swanning round with her three escorts. They were an impressive and interesting-looking entourage. She had dressed for the occasion, looking more glamorous than most art dealers had ever seen her. They rushed forward when the party appeared at a gallery; after all, they rarely had a chance to see Amy Ross doing the galleries with friends. Speculation was rife when she introduced the three artists to the various gallery owners. Did she know something they didn’t about these men? Was there a talent here they had missed? Amy Ross was known not to waste her time.

Leaving the Marlborough Gallery, the last they would do before lunch, and walking up King Street, Amy between Jarret and Fee, Tennant just in front of them, she was reminded of those marvellous days in the early sixties when she and Jarret used to do the New York galleries. She was surprised when he picked up on her thoughts.

‘This is great but I miss that frenetic buzz of the New York art world when you and I were there, Amy.’

‘That was when you had that big breakthrough in your work, wasn’t it, Pa?’

Fee looked pinched. Amy had her arm through his and actually felt him tense up, though he continued to keep pace with her and Jarret. ‘That happened in Venice. And Jarret has had many breakthroughs, we all do. That’s called progress in one’s work.’

Amy tried not to gloat. She had always known that Fee could never accept her as Jarret’s muse during the time they had been together. That had not been the role Fee cast her in. She could almost feel sorry for him. But almost was not enough. She was having too good a time enjoying his discomfort.

They crossed Piccadilly and were walking down Bond Street towards Claridge’s. Amy directed a casual glance at Jarret. He was still one of the most attractive men around. She could understand why she had fallen in love with him, how she might do it all over again, except that she knew the dark side of his nature, that his self-absorption killed any love he might have for her or anyone else.

They were meeting Charles in his rooms for drinks before going down to the dining-room. Fee primped in the lift. Someone new to meet and conquer. Jarret put on his aloof manner. It never failed to draw attention to him. Tennant was just young and impressed with his morning and now Claridge’s.

They were early and Charles was late and that gave
Fee the opening Amy had been depriving him of all morning. Raskin offered drinks but no one accepted. The men were dazzled by Charles’s drawing-room, especially the paintings. They walked round looking at them and Amy sat quietly and watched them. Fee went to sit next to her. He was about to say something, but she stopped him with a question.

‘What are you doing in London, Fee?’

Both Jarret and Tennant turned round. She hadn’t meant the question to sound so aggressive, but it was and clearly put them on the spot.

‘Looking for you,’ Jarret answered very matter-of-factly, and went to sit on the settee next to her. Tennant took a chair close by.

‘I know you’re here on a lost love mission, Jarret. You and your family have told me that enough times. But I still don’t know what Fee is doing here, why he came to my house without you to seek me out. To plead your case and make sure I would see you? I think not. And Tennant? Tennant, while it’s really nice to meet my one-time lover’s son, and I find you an interesting and very handsome young man, I find it all a bit strange that you three should appear at my door at this particular time in my life when I was left behind so many years ago.’

‘Are you angry with us?’ asked Tennant.

‘Oh, dear! Do I sound angry? I’m not. Tennant, your father and Fee and I, once, long before you were born, were rather more than friends. And then, hey presto, they vanished from my life. I think my anger, if indeed that was what I felt, has had enough time to peter out.
Maybe I just need to know what this is all about?’

At this point she picked up Jarret’s hand and raised it to her lips. Kissing it, she added, ‘I mean, aside from love and passion the second time around.’

Clearly here was an Amy Ross that Jarret and Fee had never seen before. Jarret considered her: this woman so assured and in control of her life, so content with herself and her world, her sexuality. This woman whom they had never believed could make anywhere near the mark she had done as an art historian. It was true they had had something between them once that he had not forgotten. He felt almost sad that now thirty years later she had all the things to add to his life, and Tennant’s and Fee’s, that she had not had then.

Amy had toughened over the years. Her naivety was gone, although that innocence and unworldliness had been what set her aside from the other women he had had sexual affairs with. It had been such a burden for him, and for Fee as well.

He knew her far better than she thought he did. She loved him still. A love where you would happily give your life for your partner? That sort of love never wholly dies, it merely gets put aside when life intervenes. He had no doubts that Amy still felt deeply for him. He was giving her another chance to love him. When she knew the facts, and what she must do if there was to be a chance for them to be as happy in love as they had once been, she would play.

‘We need your help, Amy. You’re in a position to help us. Possibly the only person who is. If you don’t we’ll
have lost everything, be on the streets in our old age.’

‘I somehow don’t believe that, Fee.’

‘It’s true, Amy,’ said a concerned-sounding Tennant.

‘Maybe you had better explain?’

Jarret began to speak but she interrupted him. ‘No, not you. I want to hear it from Fee. And Fee, don’t dress up the truth in the colours that suit you. Do that and I’ll walk out of here right now.’

Amy could see the look of surprise in the men’s faces. She realised that that was just what they had planned to do and she had caught them out. Looks of desperation replaced their surprise, giving Amy no satisfaction.

‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘The beginning, Fee, and tell it straight. There’s too much at stake for you to manipulate and play games with me this time around.’

Amy was astonished that not one of them looked embarrassed at her directness. Hardened criminals, she thought. But at the time had no idea how right she was.

‘The first ten years after we met you were wonderful years for Jarret and me. There’s no need to go into detail – you know what our life was like. Jarret’s work, his successes, and I too began to paint again. Money was never in abundance but we lived well, travelled, saw amazing things – in some cases very spiritual. Tibet, India, China. We did incredibly interesting things, and there were always patrons to ease our way. We lived a social life when we wanted it and a reclusive one when we were working. The
palazzo
in Venice, the
yalis
in Istanbul, the flat in Paris.’

‘Savannah?’

‘Maybe you should ask Jarret about Savannah.’

‘I’m asking you, Fee.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, Fee. There are no secrets from Amy any more.’

‘The relationship between Savannah and Jarret always remained a tortured one. She fought him through the courts to get the Paris flat back, but we won. She fought for financial compensation, claiming that we had robbed her of her wealth, which simply isn’t true. There had been a pre-nuptial agreement. After years of litigation she lost that too. Still she haunted our lives, insisting on living in near penury and embarrassing us at every turn. There were any number of men who wanted to marry her but she refused. It got much worse when Jarret married Tennant’s mother. Savannah called herself Mrs Jarret Sparrow till the day she committed suicide.’

Amy felt sick with despair for Savannah whom she had never met. As if someone had winded her with a punch deep into her belly. She saw not an iota of sympathy for the dead woman in the men’s eyes, and Fee had spoken of Savannah’s suicide with no emotion or regret for the poor, unfortunate woman. The very one whom he had once professed to love and care for and whom he’d dreamed would one day get back together with Jarret. There by the grace of God go I, thought Amy, and managed to hide from the men how deeply disturbed she was by their news.

Fee, hardly catching his breath, continued, ‘It was
Tennant’s mother’s money that for years helped us to fight off Savannah. There was all sorts of treachery. Savannah’s mother agreed to pick up the legal fees for her though they remained estranged from the time Savannah and Jarret divorced.’

‘Why was that, Jarret?’

‘Because they were both in love with me.’

Amy had insisted on honesty and now she was getting it. Would that Jarret had been this honest with her when she was obsessively in love with him all those years ago. Lie upon lie, evasion upon evasion, had been the foundation of their love affair then. It was with such a degree of indifference that he delivered the information that Amy felt spurred on to ask anything she chose. It was like laying the ghosts that had haunted her love affair with Jarret.

‘What happened to your mother, Tennant?’

‘She and Pa decided they wanted to lead separate lives.’

‘An amicable divorce,’ interceded Fee.

‘And you chose to live with your father, Tennant?’

‘Yes. I have more in common with my father and Fee than I do with my mother.’

‘You love your father and Fee and their lifestyle and their work?’

‘I sure do. We’re a team.’

Amy was horrified. These two men who adored Tennant were creating him in their own image. Would another generation of women be taken in by him, used and abused? Where would it all end? What had happened to love?

Amy thought that it was about time she got round to the Contessa Armida and her
yalis
. The photographs of the house and the woman she had seen the night before were still fresh in her mind. She realised that she had been putting it off by asking questions she really wasn’t interested in, not only to frustrate Fee but because the memory of the Contessa’s love letter to Jarret still haunted her. A letter written by a woman very old in years yet young in heart, and in love with a man who, if rumour was to be believed, was taking over her mansion on the Bosphorus, room by room, reducing her circumstances while his own flourished.

Amy had always felt that that letter was one she could have written herself if the Contessa hadn’t done it for her. She had always felt that she owed this woman, whom she had never met and would now never meet, a debt of gratitude for saving her from such an indignity.

‘The Contessa Armida Montevicini – I’m sure she’s long since dead?’

Amy had seen Jarret and Fee turn cold on someone before. It had always been in their eyes, that coldness and anger. In their deportment they never showed emotion, but remained charming, Jarret a little aloof, Fee eccentric. Wonderful cover-ups for the real Fee and Jarret they never showed the world. Now it was there in their eyes, that coldness – and something else. Hatred. Was it for her or the Contessa? Amy was astonished to see how she had ruffled them.

‘Why do you mention her death?’ asked Jarret, his manner cool and very icily under control.

‘I was not
mentioning
her death, merely stating that she must be long since dead. Unless she’s lived to be over a hundred years old?’

The look that passed between Fee and Jarret was one Amy hoped never to see again. It came from some dark recess of their souls. She knew these men well. At least she’d thought she did until she saw that look pass between them. It actually sent a shiver down her spine.

Fee, having recovered himself somewhat, said, ‘How strange that you should remember the Contessa Armida.’

‘I don’t exactly remember her, more the violet ink she used to write her letters, and a charming, seductive voice which I heard when she called my flat, trying to talk to Jarret. Surely she’s not still alive and living with you in the
yalis
in Istanbul?’

‘Amy, I don’t know what you’ve heard but …’

‘I’ve heard a lot of things over the years, Jarret, but you would do better to ask me what I listened to.’

It was at that point that Charles arrived. Everyone stood up and Amy walked forward to meet him. Looking over her shoulder, she said, ‘Rest easy, Jarret, I’ve not heard her name mentioned since you last lived with me in New York.’