Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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his blazer, he put it on the back of the chair and sat down, thinking about the clients he had to see here. But soon his thoughts drifted, and he focused on the words he had said to Charles a short while before. He had called the world a powder keg, and it was the truth. Anything could happen, anywhere, at any time.
As a historian he knew that the history of the world was actually a history of wars. Endless wars since the beginning of time. He was convinced that fighting was genetic, a compulsion man could not resist. There would always be wars because man had no choice. Making war was hardwired into the human mind. And whatever reason was given, it was to gain one thing, and one thing only. Power. He sighed under his breath. All he could do was what he was doing, and hope that sanity would prevail.
That expression immediately reminded him of Vanessa, his former fiancée, and the last conversation they had had four months ago. She had told him she hoped sanity would prevail and that he would sell his company, take the money he was being offered and run. With her by his side. He had known at this particular moment that she could not, would not change. She loathed what he did for a living, and wanted him to lead an entirely different life. In fact, she wanted to change him completely. Remake him into someone else.
And so he had run. Not with the money he got for his company, because he had turned down the deal, had declined to sell. He had run from her because the doubts he had had about her had suddenly become certainties. He understood she was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That woman was one he had not yet met but hoped he would. What he wanted was to be loved for who and what he was, for the man he had become. He did not want to be turned into an entirely different person, or be some woman’s puppet.
The ringing phone brought him to his feet. He strode into the room and over to the desk. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, darling. What time shall I expect you?’
‘In about an hour, sweetheart. Is that all right?’
‘Of course it is, and I can’t wait to see you.’
‘I feel the same way.’
She simply laughed and hung up, and he smiled as he walked back to the terrace to get his blazer. He loved that laugh of hers. It was full of joy. That was what he wanted in his life. Joy. It struck him suddenly that this was something he had not experienced for the longest time, not for the entire year he had been with Vanessa. She was not acquainted with joy. It was an emotion she didn’t understand. Or perhaps didn’t even have.
Nasty thought, Michael, he chastised himself as he returned to the sitting room, hung his blazer in the closet and picked out a silk tie to wear to dinner. He wanted to look his best tonight. He smiled again at the thought of the evening ahead.
ELEVEN
Istanbul. City of contrasts. European. Oriental. Exotic, Justine wrote in her Moleskine notebook, then added, a cosmopolitan city: diverse in every way… and put down the pen as her cell phone began to sing its little tune. Pushing back the chair on the terrace, she ran into the bedroom and picked it up off the bedside table. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Justine,’ her brother said, sounding as if he was next door.
He had taken her by surprise, and she exclaimed, ‘Is something wrong? Why are you calling me now? It’s four o’clock in the morning in New York.’
‘I couldn’t sleep; I woke up about half an hour ago. And I felt a compulsion to call you. I suppose you’re on the way out – it’s noon there, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, and oddly enough I’ve been wanting to speak to you too, Rich, but obviously I couldn’t, it was too early.’ She cleared her throat, went on, ‘How’s Daisy? And how’s the installation going?’
‘Daisy’s terrific, what with everyone fussing over her and all that jazz, and the installation has gone without a hitch, so far. It’ll be finished on time. I guess you’re down in the dumps?’
‘I am, yes, a bit. I arrived here a week ago yesterday and still haven’t found Gran, and it frustrates the hell out of me, Richard.’
‘I know… just as I know you’ve done everything you can. Local television interviews, stories in the newspapers: everybody in Istanbul must be aware that you’re there by now.’
‘I guess so. I did think of one thing… maybe Anita and Gran do live here but are away somewhere, and haven’t seen all the publicity about me and “Proof of Life”. That’s possible, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it is…’ He paused, then said somewhat hesitantly, ‘Listen, Justine, I did have an idea—’
‘What?’ she asked, cutting across him, wondering what she could have missed. ‘What idea?’
‘We could call Mom. She must know where Anita Lowe lives, otherwise Anita would have written her address in the letter.’
‘I’m not going to call her. You have to do it.’
‘No, I can’t, it would be better if you called.’
‘No way. Tackling our mother on the phone won’t work. She’ll say that Anita Lowe has dementia or Alzheimer’s. We’ve discussed this before. The only way we’ll ever get the truth is to confront her in person and wrestle it out of her. You know what she’s like – you grew up with her too.’
‘Not really, if you think about it. We grew up with Dad, and Gran on the sidelines.’
‘True. Honestly, I won’t call her, Richard, and you shouldn’t either. She won’t tell us a single thing, and we’ll only alert her that we’re aware of the truth about her, what a despicable person she is.’
‘You’re correct in everything you say, but what are we going to do, Justine? We’ve reached a dead end.’
‘That’s the way it looks, and Iffet hasn’t come up with anything either, though she’s tried very hard. She had someone in her office check various organizations and clubs where foreign residents congregate for social evenings, and the British Consulate as well, but nobody seems to know them. As Eddie would say, we’ve come up with zilch.’ Justine paused, fighting back rising anxiety mingled with frustration yet again.
‘So, we’re adrift at sea in a leaky boat,’ Richard muttered. ‘About to sink.’
Justine couldn’t help laughing. ‘That was one of Gran’s favourite sayings.’
‘Along with, “There’ll be tears before midnight.” That was another favourite… warning.’
‘And “Stop crying, tears won’t get you anywhere.” Gran had a line for almost every situation, all from her auntie Beryl – at least that’s what she told me. Anyway, I did come up with one possibility and it might just work. I was waiting until a bit later to call you, to pass it by you, see whether you agree that I should do it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m going to take some newspaper ads and—’
‘Ads!’ he cried, his voice rising. ‘That’ll embarrass Gran, not to mention Anita Lowe, whom we don’t even know. You can’t do that.’
‘I don’t care about embarrassing anybody right now; I care about finding these two women, in particular our grandmother. Anyway, the ads aren’t about them, but about my new documentary. It’s called “Biography of a City”, and it’s all about the history and peoples of Istanbul.’
‘When did you think this up?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.
Justine could almost see him frowning as he spoke, and she answered, ‘Since I’ve been here. And it’s all started to come together in my head in the last few days – the documentary, I mean.’
‘So what are the ads, actually?’
‘I will ask foreign, English-speaking residents to come and see me, to talk about their feelings