Treacherous Longings

‘So where is she?’ he asked, resisting Hector’s efforts to turn his capitulation into a celebration. He was fairly sure he was going to have a wasted journey. Julia Harvey would never agree to do what Hector wanted.

‘San Jacinto,’ the older man replied now, with an air of triumph, and Quinn’s spirits plummeted. ‘It’s a small island, just off the Caymans,’ continued the older man, pouring himself another glass of Scotch and savouring its bouquet. ‘I doubt if anybody’s even heard of it. From what I can gather, she’s been living like a recluse all these years.’

* * *

Lunchtime found Quinn perched on a bar-stool scanning the huge file of information Hector had given him about Julia Harvey. The file was thick enough, certainly, containing as it did the massive wedge of press clippings gleaned from newspapers and magazines ten and twenty years old.

Some of the cuttings were from the seventies, when she had first been noticed in a drama school production. Unlike most would-be actresses, Julia hadn’t had to struggle to become successful. As one fulsome reviewer had put it, ‘artistes of Miss Harvey’s calibre were born to delight the senses of other mere mortals’. And she was regarded as having divine inspiration and an unassuming character to boot.

Of course, as she had become more successful the reviews had become less idealistic, though no less glowing. Stories about her love-life had begun to circulate, and she was suspected of having affairs with all her leading men. Bitchy subordinates had accused her of being a man-eater, and rumours of adulterous liaisons had fanned the fires of notoriety.

Yet through it all Julia had emerged as a woman much loved by her public—and by those people who believed they’d known her as she really was, Quinn acknowledged sardonically, ordering another beer. Whatever the real truth, she had appeared serene and untouchable, an irritation to her enemies and an icon to her friends.

There were dozens of pictures, and although Quinn had no real desire to look at the woman he couldn’t help being drawn by her beauty. Hair that was more silver than gold, creamy skin, green eyes, and a generous mouth to die for: Julia Harvey had had more than her fair share of life’s endowments. So why had she chosen to give it all up? What had persuaded her to abandon her career? She’d kept her secret, whatever it was, for ten years. Couldn’t Hector see that she’d never divulge it now?

‘Sorry I’m late, darling.’

Susan Aitken slid on to the stool beside him, and bestowed a cold-lipped kiss on his cheek. Outside, the temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing-point, but it was warm in the bar and she hunched her slim shoulders appreciatively.

‘No problem.’

Quinn offered her a smile that required more of an effort than he’d anticipated, and nodded towards the bartender. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, my usual, I think,’ she responded warmly, and Quinn ordered a spritzer as she peered over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

Suppressing a quite ridiculous desire to hide the file from her, instead Quinn pushed it towards her. ‘See for yourself,’ he said, picking up his beer and emptying his glass, before signalling to the barman that he’d have another. They were only half-pint bottles after all, he consoled himself, aware that he was drinking more than he usually did at lunchtime. ‘Pickard wants to do a profile on her, if we can find her.’

Susan bent over the file, her cap of chestnut hair swinging confidingly against her cheek. Unlike Julia Harvey, whose beauty had had a wholly sensual appeal, Susan’s charm lay in her smallness, in the diminutive frame of her body, in the delicate shape of her face. Her father called her his pocket Venus, and the description was not inappropriate.

‘Julia Harvey,’ she said now wonderingly. ‘I thought she was dead.’

Quinn stilled the urge to drag the file back to him, and managed a careless shrug. ‘So do a lot of people.’

Susan looked up. ‘But she’s not?’

‘Obviously not.’ Quinn could hear the impatience creeping into his voice and determinedly controlled it. ‘According to Hector she’s living on some remote island in the Caribbean. Somehow—I’m not sure I want to know how—he’s traced her supposed whereabouts. He—wants me to try and see her. To persuade her to co-operate.’

‘You!’ Susan’s blue eyes widened. ‘Why you? That’s not your job.’

‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point, unsure of how much he wanted to tell her. ‘It’s just that—well, my mother used to be a fan of hers.’

‘Just your mother?’

‘What do you—?’ Quinn had started a defensive response when he realised Susan was only joking. Her expression had been full of mischief, and only the half-aggressive swiftness of his reply had brought a trace of anxiety to her eyes. ‘She was my mother’s contemporary, not mine,’ he finished, with more defiance than conviction. ‘Give me a break.’

Susan was quick to forgive him. ‘Well, men have been known to worship lesser idols,’ she responded, eager to restore their previous closeness. ‘All the same, I don’t see what your mother being a fan has to do with it.’

‘They were—friends,’ admitted Quinn reluctantly. ‘Well, close acquaintances, anyway. She—Julia Harvey, that is—spent several weekends at Courtlands.’

‘Really?’ Susan stared at him. ‘You never told me.’

‘Why would I?’ Quinn was unwillingly defensive again. ‘It was long before we knew one another. And, as you say, she dropped out of circulation.’

‘So did your mother keep in touch with her?’

Susan was annoyingly persistent, sipping her wine and watching him over the rim of her glass with disturbing intent. Quinn wished he hadn’t brought the Harvey file with him. But curiosity had got the better of him, and he had told himself he was eager to start his research.

‘No,’ he replied now, taking the file from her and sliding it beneath his elbow. ‘They weren’t that close. I seem to remember Julia went off to Hollywood to make a film with Intercontinental—’

‘Intercontinental Studios?’ put in Susan, and Quinn nodded.

‘And after some kind of bust-up she just—disappeared.’

‘How intriguing!’ Susan regarded him excitedly. ‘So—do you know what happened?’

‘No.’ Quinn managed to sound casual about it. ‘I think my mother wrote to her a couple of times, but she didn’t get any reply. We don’t even know if she got the letters.’

‘Goodness.’ Susan put down her glass and rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘Quite a mystery.’

‘Quite a mystery,’ echoed Quinn evenly. Then, with determination, he asked, ‘What would you like to eat?’ He glanced at the menu card at the end of the bar. ‘Pizza? Lasagne? Or just a sandwich?’

‘Just a sandwich, please,’ said Susan, evidently deciding it was warm enough to pull off her gloves. ‘So—where did you say she is now?’

Quinn hadn’t said, other than mentioning the fairly vague area of the Caribbean. Besides, he had hoped that they could shelve Julia Harvey for the time being. It was bad enough that Hector was talking about his leaving within the next few days. He had no wish to spend the time rehashing all he knew about her.

‘Somewhere off the Caymans,’ he said repressively, his tone indicating his unwillingness to continue with this discussion. ‘I’ll have a sandwich too. Which do you prefer? Egg mayonnaise or beef?’

‘Beef, please,’ replied Susan in a small voice, and Quinn hoped she was not going to get huffy over his impatience. For God’s sake, she’d never shown much interest in his work before. Susan was first and foremost a pleasure person. She’d never been able to understand why Quinn worked so hard when he didn’t have to. Until today it had been the one sour note in their relationship.

‘So,’ he said, after the sandwiches were ordered, ‘let’s find a table, shall we?’ He tucked the bulging file beneath his arm and picked up her glass as well as his own. ‘There’s one over there.’ He slid smoothly off the stool. ‘Need any help?’

Susan shook her head, and although her legs were considerably shorter than his own she climbed down rather elegantly. Then, preceding him, she led the way to the corner table he had indicated, choosing to sit opposite him instead of sharing his banquette.

‘And what have you been doing this morning?’ Quinn asked after they were seated, refusing to be daunted by her sulky face. He could guess, of course. She’d probably been shopping. A lazy saunter through Harrods, and coffee with one of her girlfriends.

Susan shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’

‘Shopping?’

‘I don’t just go shopping,’ she flared, and Quinn’s lips twitched at the transparency of her defence.

‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘So what have you been doing? Of course. I’d forgotten. It’s Tuesday. You visit the health club on Tuesdays. No wonder your cheeks are so pink.’

‘If my cheeks are pink, it’s because I’m cross with you,’ retorted Susan shortly. ‘You’re always saying I show no interest in your work, and now, just because I have, you’re acting as if I was asking you to divulge state secrets or something.’

‘Suse—’

‘Who cares about Julia Harvey anyway?’