Nine and a half hours later I am sitting in my brother’s mistress’s flat. Nadia is out, and he was close by. I lower myself into a brand new white sofa and look around curiously. It is an odd place. In fact, I think it is the most unlived-in place I have ever been in throughout my life. There is not a spot of dirt, anywhere. It is just white—cold and soulless.
‘Like a drink?’ he asks.
‘What’ve you got?’
He holds up a green bottle that he bought at an auction in Bonhams, London. A Special Liqueur Whiskey, from the Glenavon Distillery in Ballindalloch, Scotland. The distillery ceased production in the 1950s. He pours us two glasses of pale gold liquid, and crosses the extraordinarily white carpet to hold a glass out to me. I thank him and take a sip. The two-hundred-and-sixty-year-old smoky liquid slides down my throat tasting of copper pot stills, oak barrels, peat moss, and its own smooth patina. All the people who made it are dead. I only feel the bite when it splashes into my empty stomach and burns.
Marcus drops into a pristine sofa opposite me. ‘So what’s going on?’ So close to me his voice echoes in the disconcertingly empty place.
I take another sip of his fine whiskey. ‘Just found out today that I’m not a Barrington.’
His jaw drops. Well, at least I know now that he didn’t know. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, apparently I’m not a Barrington.’
He recovers fast, I’ll give him that. He snaps his mouth shut and goes silent for a bit while all kinds of thoughts pass through his head and flash across his eyes. All of them self-serving. ‘Who told you?’
‘Victoria.’
His eyes narrow. Disappointment? ‘Isn’t she in an asylum for the insane?’
‘She had DNA results.’
He leans forward, his eyes gleaming. He looks like a man who can hardly believe his luck. I haven’t seen this side of him. ‘Have you…verified the results?’
‘No need to. I always knew I was different.’
He leans back. His voice is dry. ‘You weren’t different. Quinn was different.’
‘Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I want to walk away from being a Barrington heir. I want you to take over my portfolios and generally find a replacement for me in the Barrington hierarchy. The only thing I will retain are my own personal investments and Quinn’s portfolio.’
He looks at me strangely, suspiciously. Once, I called this man my brother. Today I am about to see his real face. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ve got hours to kill,’ he says languidly.
I explain what happened so far and as I speak Marcus exhales slowly, looks into his whiskey, shoots it, and goes back to the sparkling chrome and glass bar. He lets his glass hit the surface too loudly and winces. He sloshes whiskey carelessly into the glass, spills it on the gleaming surface. He brings the glass blindly to his lips, takes a sip and swallows. He is drunk on my misfortune.
‘Any lawyer worth his salt will tell you—any contract you sign under duress can be easily declared null and void.’
‘That’s just the thing. I want out.’
‘What do you mean when you say you want out?’ he asks casually. As if I could be spooked into changing my mind.
‘I’m walking away from it all.’
He takes a large gulp, swallows and coughs. ‘All?’
‘All.’ I stare at him curiously. Was I once like this? Was nothing ever enough for my insatiable lust for more? ‘Well, anything that is not already in my name,’ I confirm.
He makes a disbelieving sound. ‘You’ll be a pauper.’ But I notice that he is not trying too hard to persuade me, otherwise. Simply gauging how serious I am.
‘Hardly.’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’ There. There is that self-serving smile again.
‘Yes, by your standards, I will.’
‘Then you’ll need a job. You can run the business for me.’
Strange, how I never saw the supercilious arch of his eyebrow, that condescending tilt of his chin. For the first time I see what my father or rather my stepfather saw. A greedy, grasping man of dissolute tastes who can’t even pretend to lead. A spineless fool without even a whiff of what it takes to sit at the front of a dynasty as vast and powerful as the Barrington’s.
I smile. ‘No. I’d like to strike out on my own. Do something different.’
‘You sound like Quinn.’
‘You’ll manage.’
‘I really need you, Blake. I’ll make it worth your while.’
I look at him and I am glad that he is not my brother. He wants to hire me as his employee. ‘Sorry, Marcus, but I’m sure you’ll forge new alliances.’
‘You’re just going to walk away from it all?’ He is pleased with his good luck, but seems angered and irritated by my decision not to work for him. Later, when he is at the bottom of the bottle, it might occur to him to make it all legal as soon as possible.
I shrug. ‘Yeah.’
He frowns, genuinely confused. ‘Why?’
‘When I was younger, the idea that all of nature—humans, animals, flowers, trees, mountains, rivers, galaxies, even universes—is nothing more than self-replicating fractals of an interactive biological software program based on golden ratio or the Fibonacci spiral was depressing. We are all animated mathematical constructs of great precision. It took the magic out of creation. I understood I was in a geometric prison, but I didn’t know how I could escape it. Until recently. Now I find new beauty and astonishment whenever I act out of autopilot. Whenever I leave the hive mentality, stop being a predator or lead a life of love and harmlessness.’
‘Because of her?’ he asks, his voice edged with some deep rage.
Ah, that’s where the irritation comes from. He is envious of what I have with Lana. ‘Don’t go there, Marcus,’ I warn, watching him over the rim of my glass.
Twenty-Three
Blake Law Barrington
“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. When, then, did he come?”
—Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of the Four (1980)
My mother lives overlooking Central Park in an apartment that takes up three entire floors. The ceilings are twenty-three feet high, the windows are ceiling to floor, and the endless views are quite literally breathtaking. Darkness has already fallen and the city lies a glitzy carpet of lights below me. I gaze down at the beautiful sight and feel crumpled and jaded.
A maid brings sage tea flavored with honey and warm brioches filled with foie gras and bacon curls. By the time my mother makes her fantastically elegant entrance, I have already been cooling my heels for fifteen minutes. I turn around to watch her sweep dramatically into the room, porcelain white, blonde and flawless, and remember her, when she used to dress in floor-length evening gowns and was what you would call an all-star beauty. Among other things she wore coats made out of ocelots. The memory leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She smiles ruefully. ‘Have I kept you waiting long?’
My mouth twists. ‘Not at all.’
She sinks languidly onto a sofa, and after dutifully kissing either side of her smooth and perfumed cheeks, I take the seat opposite hers. She curls her fingers delicately into a half fist and lifts it to her mouth to conceal a sigh. Everything about her is designed to disguise the predatory gleam in her eyes.
‘There is a Byzantine church in Syria, called The Heart of the Almond. Imagine such a name for a church.’
‘Did Marcus call you?’
‘What do you think?’