Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time

‘’Fraid so. I’ve a meeting at three.’ Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. ‘I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.’

Jo smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?’

She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives them to commit murder.

She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. ‘Jo! How’s life?’ He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.

‘Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champers.’

Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms. ‘Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?’

He raised his eyebrows, hurt. ‘When am I not?’

‘Frequently. I’ve a job for you. Six to be precise and I want to talk about them. Then we’ll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.’

‘Ah, another great exposé for Women in A!’ He put the can down with exaggerated care and placed his fist on his right breast as though about to take an oath. ‘The Leith Police Dismisseth Us! There. Right first time. Not a milligram over the limit. Fit to drive a beautiful lady reporter-person anywhere, any time. Reporting for duty, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Better give me coffee too, though, just in case. I’ve just been spurned by a little corker of a dolly. Old enough to be her father, she said I was.’ He pulled a mournful face.

Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé. ‘How old are you, Tim?’

‘Guess.’

She put her head on one side. ‘Pushing fifty I’d say.’

He groaned, clutching at his head. ‘The bitch. She sees my soul and not my body. Actually I’m forty-two next Wednesday. You and Nick must come to my party. Ouch. What have I said?’

He slumped once more onto the couch and held out his hand for the coffee.

‘Not me and Nick.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Separately if you like. Together. Not.’

‘Sorry. When did it happen?’

‘A couple of days ago, going on a couple of years. Forget it, Tim. It’s not important. I want to talk business.’

‘Always the hard worker, our Jo.’ He glanced at her, completely attentive suddenly. ‘OK. Fire. What do you want? A series for W I A you say. Is it going to be colour or are we going for black and white?’

She pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. ‘Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.’

He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. ‘Presumably it’s the approach that’s going to be new, sweetie? When’s the deadline?’

‘I’ve got months. There’s quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?’

He glanced up at her, his clear light green eyes intense. ‘Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff – whole-foods and weaving – the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one specially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she’s Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing.’ He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I saw someone being hypnotised a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.’

Jo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Faked, of course.’

‘Uh-uh. I don’t think so. The chap swore he’d never learned German at all, and there’s no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn’t manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.’

Jo smiled gleefully. ‘Do you think it’ll make a good article?’

‘More like a book, love. Don’t be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there’s a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That’s the hypnotist chap.’

Jo nodded. ‘Please, Tim. I’m genned up on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It’s incredible that people really believe that it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.’ She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black and white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

He grinned. ‘Who else? Like them?’

‘Does her husband?’

‘I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.’

Jo looked back at him and laughed. ‘OK, Tim. You tell your Mr Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?’ She got up to examine the photos. ‘It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.’

‘That’s what they pay me for, Jo.’ He was watching her closely. ‘I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?’

‘I know.’ She turned. ‘So you know about it.’

‘About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.’

She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. ‘It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.’ She looked at him with a small grimace. ‘I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.’ She drew a finger across her throat expressively.

Tim hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.’ He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?’

‘Not if I can bring someone too.’

He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. ‘Someone?’

‘I’ll think of someone.’

‘Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.’ He laughed. ‘’Course you can.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. ‘It could always be me, you know, Jo.’

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.’

He groaned. ‘The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. “I like you too much,”’ he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. ‘At least you didn’t say I was too old, though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.’

Nick Franklyn sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.

‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.

‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.

Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower.

‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.

He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’

‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’

‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.