Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game. Tilly Bagshawe
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you like it?’
Eve’s voice was husky, barely a whisper. Max gazed at her face. With the outside world, his mother always went to great lengths to hide herself. But not with him. Max was special. He got to see the real Eve Blackwell, scars and all. He loved her so much it sometimes made him weep.
‘Mom!’ He gasped. ‘Is it … real?’
‘Of course it’s real. And very old. It’s been in my family for a long, long time.’
Lovingly, Max stroked the gun’s trigger, his childish fingers caressing, exploring. Such power. And it was all his.
Eve said: ‘You’re almost a grown man now, Max. You’re too old for toys. Keith doesn’t understand that, but I do.’
Eve Blackwell always referred to her husband by his Christian name in front of their son, never as ‘dad’ or ‘daddy’. In the early days, Keith had complained about it.
‘I wish you’d drop the whole first-name thing. It’s creepy. Max doesn’t call you “Eve”.’
But Keith’s sporadic efforts to introduce the ‘d’ word into his son’s vocabulary always petered out after a few weeks.
Eve would insist. ‘It’s not me, darling, it’s Max. Besides, I don’t see that it’s such a big deal. It’s just one of his little quirks. The more you go on about it, the more he’ll dig his heels in. You know what children are like.’
‘Does Keith know you’ve given it to me?’
Max was still mesmerized by the gun. It was perfect. Like his mother.
Eve smiled. ‘No. It’s our secret. I’ll keep it in the safe for you, so as not to arouse his suspicions. You may take it out whenever you wish. Just ask me and I’ll fetch it for you.’
A shocking thought suddenly occurred to Max.
‘It isn’t Uncle Peter’s gun, is it? The one he … you know. When I was little?’
Four years ago Max’s uncle, Dr Peter Templeton, had almost shot his children in a drunken rage. No one was sure whether he’d intended to kill himself, or Lexi, or Robert. Peter himself was too drunk to remember. All anyone knew was that the housekeeper had arrived at the Templeton brownstone early one morning to the sound of shots; that she’d wrestled the gun from Uncle Peter’s hands; and that in the process she’d been shot in the arm.
The woman had been paid off, of course. Max overheard Keith saying that the check was ‘in the millions’, but evidently the money had been well spent: the story never made its way into the press. From that day to this, Max’s Uncle Peter had not touched a drop of liquor. The gun he used had mysteriously disappeared.
Eve shook her head.
‘No darling. It’s not Uncle Peter’s gun. It’s far more special than that. This gun once belonged to my Grandfather David Blackwell. Your great-grandfather.’
Max’s eight-year-old chest swelled with pride. He loved to hear his mother tell stories about her family. His family.
Max’s earliest memories were of his mother’s deep, sensuous voice lulling him to sleep with tales of his great-great-grandfather, Jamie McGregor, and the thrilling empire that he had founded. Max’s first word was ‘Mama’, his second ‘Kruger’, and his third ‘Brent’. While other boys dreamed about dinosaurs and Superman, Max’s subconscious glittered with the stolen diamonds on which Jamie McGregor had built his fortune. My fortune. Max Webster had no need of fairy tales, of wronged princesses and dragons and gingerbread castles. His mother was the wronged princess. Eve had had her kingdom stolen from her and had been imprisoned by his evil father in her penthouse tower. He, Max, was Eve’s avenging knight. Kruger-Brent was their castle. As for the dragons to be slain, there were too many to count. Everyone Max knew was an enemy, from the despicable Keith, to the boys at school who made fun of his mother, to his Templeton cousins, Robert and Lexi.
Your cousins have stolen your inheritance, my darling. They have taken what’s yours and cast you out like a serpent in the desert. Just as I was cast out.
Max’s mother made their struggle sound prophetic. And so it was. Eve had been cast out of the Garden of Eden. Max was the chosen one, the prophet, the messiah. It was Max who would restore the promised land to Eve.
Only by returning Kruger-Brent to his mother would Max win the greatest prize of all: her love. That was their covenant, sealed with the blood of his birth. Max thought about it constantly.
Until that day, the glorious day when he fulfilled his destiny, he must learn to survive on the scraps of love Eve tossed him. Usually his mother was cold and distant. Her constant physical presence in the apartment was like exquisite torture. Max longed for her embrace like a scorched river bed longs for rain, but time after time he was denied. Keith Webster could touch her, with his sick, cold hands. But Max could not. On the rare occasions when his mother held him close, like today, the little boy felt he could move mountains. Pressed against her, lost in the intoxicating smell of her skin, joy coursed through his child’s body like heroin.
Eve stood up. Drawing her silk robe more tightly around her, she walked over to the window.
Max sat alone on the bed. As always he felt his mother’s leaving like a physical pain. He clasped the gun, her gift, pressing it lovingly to his cheek.
‘Your great-grandfather David never used that pistol. Never fired a single shot.’
Eve was looking out of the window. She seemed to be speaking to herself, rather than him.
‘He was too much of a coward.’
Max took the bait, an innocent lamb gamboling to the slaughter. ‘I’m not a coward, Mommy. I’m not afraid to use it.’
Eve turned around.
‘Is that so? And what will you use it for, my darling?’
Max didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
They both knew what the gift was for.
I’ll use it to kill Keith Webster.
I’ll use it to kill my father.
Lionel Neuman looked at the young man sitting opposite him and found his mind wandering back into the past.
It was 1952, a similar, bright June morning. Kate Blackwell was sitting in the very same chair as the young man. Counting back, Lionel Neuman realized with a shock that Kate must already have been sixty at the time. The image his mind’s eye had carefully filed away was of a middle-aged, but still beautiful, woman: slim, impeccably dressed and with a full head of glossy black hair only intermittently laced with silver threads. She was worried about her son.
Tony isn’t himself, Lionel. It’s as if something has died inside. I’ve tried everything I can to make him happy, but it’s no use. He’s determined not to marry.
The problem with Kate Blackwell was that although she sought advice from time to time, from Lionel Neuman, Brad Rogers and a few other Kruger-Brent lifers, she never took any of it. Any fool could see what was wrong with Tony Blackwell. The boy wanted to be an artist, and Kate wouldn’t let him. Her ruthless trampling on his dreams eventually cost poor Tony his sanity. But Kate Blackwell could never see it that way. She went to her grave believing she’d done the best for her son. That it was Tony who had let her down.
Of course, Tony Blackwell did marry. For a few short months he was happy, blissfully happy, until his wife Marianne died giving birth to their twins, Eve and Alexandra.
They’re all dead now. Kate, Tony, Marianne, Alexandra. But I’m still here. Same office. Same family. Same problems. What a curious thing life is.
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