Precious Things (16 page)

‘I'm afraid that won't work. It was hard enough to convince him as is. Father is very set in his ways. I only just talked him around.'

It was then Maggie realised who Michael Masterson was, and who his father must be. James Masterson was a prominent Tory politician, who was said to be one of the most influential men in Westminster. Maggie swallowed and bent her head over her notebook, thinking fast. This would be an amazing win for the company . . . and Bonningham would likely have her head if he thought she'd let an opportunity like this slip through her fingers.

‘I thought you worked on some sort of commission,' Michael pressed her gently, his eyes sparkling. ‘And I really do think we'd work well together, don't you?'

Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. There certainly would be a very big bonus in this for her if she managed to secure the Masterson estate. Something even Tim would have to admit was worth cancelling their holiday for. Just thinking what a boon the tidy sum would be for their renovation budget made Maggie feel slightly lightheaded. God, Tim was going to go mental when she told him, though.

‘I . . . Is there any way at all to move it?' she asked, making a last-ditch attempt to change his mind, knowing already that she would cave.

‘I don't think so,' said Michael, shrugging, flicking through the diary. ‘I'm booked up for the next few months working on a show – the timing would be perfect for me. So . . .?'

He let the word hang in the air, and Maggie realised she was very much in danger of losing him.

‘Oh, okay. I'm sure I can rearrange things,' she said, shaking her head and smiling to cover her misgivings.

‘Great!' he said brightly, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gently as he stared into her eyes. ‘That's wonderful! We'll have to have a few more meetings then, possibly over lunch, to plan things.'

Maggie's shoulder burned as two rows of exceptionally white teeth flashed at her, and her heart thumped in her chest at the thought of Tim, and what she'd just committed herself to.

ZEPHYR: Excerpts from
All My Desires: A Memoir,
Scarlett House Press, 1967

I often needed to travel incognito. To the better hotel clerks I was Zephyr Anh De Roux – quite a mouthful. To fans at the stage door it was simply Zephyr. My sister Vera called me Buzzie.

I was in Shanghai when I saw my lovely circlet, my good luck charm. I was massaging my feet and it was lying there, discarded on the floor. An open crown made of pearl and silver and gold, like two outstretched angel wings. It was beneath the brocade-covered chair that I'd thrown myself on only moments before, bone-weary and ready to leave.

I was waiting for my sister, lamenting the state of my oft-broken toes (a dancer's legacy), but she caught my eye with a wink and I knew we wouldn't be leaving any time soon. That lovely crown looked as though it had been left there, just for me. Hiding in plain sight. It was such a grand ball we were at that evening. Held for important visiting dignitaries – we were thrilled to attend. The tip of the headpiece sparkled, its stones twinkling up at me, drawing me in, with pewter ribbons trailing away out of sight. I just knew she would be mine.

You're eager to be found, little nightingale
, I thought. (I've always been partial to a spot of anthropomorphism – my buttons are my little insect friends, and my bracelet, a coiled snake). So I picked up my nightingale in a practised swoop and placed her in the hidden pocket of my blue star-flecked culottes.

The party we'd been at had all but dispersed. It was one of those rare occasions where everyone seemed to leave with their good looks, reputation and fortune intact, although some were very messy. I have to admit I was half-cut too. But not Vera. Never my Vera. We arrived late that night, well after the festivities had begun. There'd been some sort of commotion beforehand, but we missed it. There was still something in the air, hard to define until someone told us what had happened: a trapeze artist had fallen. Unthinkable. But, instead of perishing, she'd been caught by some poor man whose body collapsed in the effort to save her. It was all very tragic. But exciting, too.

The floor had been cleared and the band was in full swing when we got there. The night was ending and the dawn was heralding a new day. It's always been my favourite time, daybreak. There's so much promise in the air.

That year, Vera and I had just stopped dancing professionally. We were visiting friends in Shanghai before returning to Mother in Hanoi. We were still young, but we'd been dancing since we were seventeen years old – over seven years! – and it was time to hang up our shoes. But, oh, how we still loved to captivate a room. That's why we went to the Klang Club almost every night when we lived in Malaya, after I was married. We put those other girls to shame with their badly executed steps. They could barely manage the Charleston. It was all very heated and illicit. But how we glowed! And how our husbands relished striding into the room with us glittering on their arms like rare jewels. Those dull expatriate wives looked so defeated when we took to the floor. People assumed we were mistresses, but we were respectable women, Vera and I.

Mother always spoiled us. Vera, my twin, was my half-heart, my beloved. No one can understand the bond you can have with another person unless you've been a twin. I loved Vera dearly but ever since we were young she was always too, too good.

We loved to travel. We were the dazzling stars of the Blue Moon Company. A reviewer even called us the Anna Pavlovas of the Orient. A prince
almost
proposed to me. We gained crowds of followers throughout Asia like a pair of raven-haired Pied Pipers, performing in the finest theatres and humblest church halls. We knew how to adapt our routines, and Vera and I were adept at almost everything. Not everyone knows how to excite an audience, but we could play to any crowd, from the most refined ladies and gentlemen to peasants alike. I'm a born performer, and Vera eager to please. We got rather good at judging the mood. From whirling dervishes to folk dancing to the Bolshoi Ballet, they all made it into our repertoire at some point.

Creatures of the road, that was us, and it was hardly surprising. We'd been like that since we were tiny. Our mother encouraged us. She must have had more money than sense, but I think she considered it our education. Instead of an ordinary governess, she gifted us with the famed Florrie Martin, presenting her to us on our sixth birthday. I think that was when she was seeing Dieter or maybe Olivier, I'm not quite sure. Father was a Frenchman – our Vietnamese mother did have a thing for Colonials. Terrible business when his factory went bust, but Mother told us we had to make our own way in the world . . . Florrie was the beginning of all that.

Florrie, the prima ballerina (or
former
prima ballerina – she'd fallen on tough times), entered our nursery with a flourish. She was an extraordinary woman. Sashaying across the room towards us, so sweet and light on her feet. But she was a force to be reckoned with, was Florrie. And quite, quite strict.

‘Mademoiselles De Roux,' Florrie purred to us, bowing her head. ‘I am to be your dance tutor. Pray tell, do either of you know what a plié is?' she asked, before proceeding to show us. We were mesmerised from that first moment. Absolutely
hooked.
Vera and I just adored
her, loved her to bits. She was all sparkling eyes, very intelligent, and wispily draped in pale grey tulle worn to beneath the knee. A beautiful woman, although she died from something awful, back in the thirties. I think it was cancer – she wasted away to nothing. But back then we fought over whom she adored best, in that particular, bickering way that Vera and I had developed in the womb. I do believe we wished to
absorb
her, if that makes any sense, into every pore of our being. And I was quite the alchemist. I took Florrie's failed charms and turned them into gold.

I remember when we left Hanoi. Florrie bid us farewell from the harbour. We were seventeen and off to make our fortunes. To each of us she gave a remembrance in the form of small artist's plates, depicting the key scenes from
Swan Lake.
‘Such a tragic ballet,' Florrie mused, fixing us with that gimlet gaze. Perhaps she always knew what was going to happen between us. I still have mine – it's attached to a wall above the dresser in my small apartment and it has travelled everywhere with me. Through all the ups and downs, the years of plenty and the . . . leaner times. It's a little worse for wear, but you can still see the images clearly. Black swan, white swan. Guess which I am. The plate is one of my favourite treasures. But my nightingale, my most favourite of all, doesn't sing to me any more. Sadly.

We weren't identical twins. In the pictures you can see my features are quite symmetrical, whereas hers have a sort of lopsided quality. She inherited those sloping shoulders from Father's side of the family. Before he suicided. Mine are more like Mother's. I told her not to slouch but she always did, poor Vera. Apology was written
all
over her face. Not like me. I know how to stand up for myself. She was the quiet one, of course. John Donne was right.
Comparisons are odious –
especially between sisters. But there was no parting us, despite all our differences. I was prone to being excitable, shall we say, and she was steady.

Vera was the one who suggested we retire. I was close to reaching the same conclusion. We could have kept going into our thirties, of course, but she was quite right: the best dancers always did stop at their peak. And there had been one rather sticky episode with a suave
– and rather married – co-star from Blue Moon. Suddenly an escape from our nomadic lifestyle seemed attractive. When we got back to Hanoi, Mother lined up a bevy of suitors before we'd barely set foot off the pier. She had friends in high places and angled us some highly sought-after invitations to the Diplomats' Ball, where all the best people would be. I received three marriage proposals within the month. Poor Vera scored love, as they say in tennis.

But I said yes to Gerrit, when he asked me to marry him, just one month after we arrived in Vietnam. When I agreed to marry the poor love, he had no idea how persuasive I could be. To give him his due, we'd only courted a few short weeks, but I had seduced him well and truly. Gently cajoled him, with that little trick I had of running my fingers across his wrist and whispering in his ear. It worked like magic. It wasn't long before I convinced him that Vera must come with us to Malaya, his home. We'd barely spent a night apart in twenty-four years, and I didn't see why marriage should change things.

‘How can I leave my half-heart behind, even for you?' I begged, and of course Gerrit agreed, even if a little unwillingly. She unsettled him, I think, with her quietness, her refusal to flirt or say silly things. She could be so dull, Vera. Gerrit really had no intention of marrying twins. But for all that she was occasionally frustrating, I needed Vera around. She brought out the best in me. Or, at least, she loved me – unconditionally. I could trust her to always love me, no matter what I did.

Vera and I shared the trip from Hanoi to Malaya together. Gerrit had set sail a full week earlier on his own. He took another White Star Line vessel directly to Kuala Lumpur with a shipment of para tree seeds.
Hevea brasiliensis –
that's the botanical term. Rubber plantations. His family owned several and he was loaded, of course. I think I was destined to marry rich.

I took my time saying goodbye to everyone in Hanoi and tying up loose ends. My fellow was wealthy
and
good-looking. The best kind. From the most venerable Dutch family Mother knew. I was feeling quite giddy by then, like the cat who ate the cream. And I suppose I am a bit feline. It's Mother's heritage in me.

The voyage passed in a dream of anticipation. I couldn't wait to be married to Gerrit. I was feeling quite triumphant. A woman on top of the world. And Vera was so happy for us as well. She might have been single, but she preferred to be by my side rather than languishing back in Hanoi.

Gerrit was so doting, and a skilful dancer. Ours had been a whirlwind romance. Just a small spark, which I stoked to rapid burning. And who'd have thought I could do any better than him at that precise moment? But then Gerrit introduced me to his business partner, Frank, at the Renaissance Hotel.

‘
Enchanté,
' Frank said in the language of love, before bending down to kiss my right hand. His lips sent a bolt of electricity straight to the heart of me, even as my husband held my left hand. Vera stood by, watching in silence. I was certain she sensed my reaction – we knew each other so well. My stomach turned to water and I do believe I blushed.

It was just three weeks after our wedding. Frank was the dashing best friend I never suspected Gerrit had hiding in his résumé. Oh, how I wish I'd known! They'd been friends since they were boys, but the similarities between them ended there. Frank was dark and brooding, tall and broad shouldered, and he became swarthier as the evening progressed. Wealthy too, of course. With an animal presence, almost. Total Heathcliff. Whereas I'm not sure Gerrit could even grow a beard.

Later that night, I overheard Frank and Gerrit talking. ‘You're right, my friend. She's a peach,' Frank sang with a low whistle.

I was returning from the powder room but stopped dead in my tracks. So he felt it, too. I lurched a little on my heels then, but managed to catch myself before pitching forward into a potted palm. They were dotted all around the room, providing the perfect screen. Just as well – that would have been embarrassing.

‘Are you envious?' asked Gerrit, not really serious.

I saw Frank give him a long look. ‘Maybe.' And then they laughed.

I turned around and briskly walked back to the powder room, joining Vera. We emerged together, returning to the table as though nothing had happened. But my cheeks were flushed again. It changed
the way I felt about Frank, and certainly about Gerrit. It changed everything.

Over the following months, the four of us lived in each other's pockets: me, Gerrit, Frank and Vera. Barely a day passed when we didn't meet.

Frank had a small apartment above the office in town, while Vera lived with us, in our house on the plantation. The expatriate life is so cloistered really. Of course I saw it coming. It was inevitable. But by then I wanted him so badly, I was almost paralysed with it. There we were, smiling and laughing and going through the motions, but every time I made love to Gerrit, I thought of Frank.

There were empty Scotch bottles lining the sideboard of our sitting room when Frank made his move. Vera, my half-heart, had drifted off to sleep on the sofa, and Gerrit had had a fraught week at the mill. He'd gone to bed and the staff had disappeared, too. It was late.

The weight of Frank's gaze upon me that night was a pin, securing me in place like an insect against felt. And I was every inch the precious specimen, excited by the sly pressure of his roving palm against my bare skin. Fine hairs prickled across the nape of my neck, even in the moist tropical heat.