Secrets From the Past - Barbara Taylor Bradford- Extract

8/22/2019 Secrets From the Past - Barbara Taylor Bradford- Extract

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Secretsfrom the Past

arbara

BradfordTaylor

B


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HARPERAn imprint o HarperCollinsPublishers

7785 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 20131

Copyright Barbara Taylor Bradord 2013

Barbara Taylor Bradord asserts the moral right tobe identifed as the author o this work

A catalogue record or this bookis available rom the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-00-730418-9

This novel is entirely a work o fction.The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work o the authors imagination. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

Set in Sabon LT Std by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,Falkirk, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain byClays Ltd, St Ives plc

All rights reserved. No part o this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

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FSC label are independently certifed to assure consumers that they comerom orests that are managed to meet the social, economic and

ecological needs o present and uture generations,and other controlled sources.

Find out more about HarperCollins and the environment atwww.harpercollins.co.uk/green


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PART ONE

Snapshot Memories:

Manhattan, March 2011In my own very sel, I am part o my amily.

D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse

Memories o love abound,In my heart and in my mind.They give me comort, keep me sane,And lit my spirits up again.

Anonymous


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ONE

It was a beautiul day. The sky was a huge arc odelphinium blue, cloudless, and shimmering with brightsunlight above the soaring skyline o Manhattan. The citywhere I had lived, o and on, or most o my lie, was

looking its best on this cold Saturday morning.As I walked up Sutton Place, returning to my apartment,I began to shiver. Gusts o strong wind were blowing othe East River, and I was glad I was wearing jeans insteado a skirt, and warm clothes. Still shivering, I turned upthe collar o my navy-blue pea jacket and wrapped mycashmere scar tighter around my neck.

It was unusually chilly or March. On the other hand,I was enjoying my walk ater being holed up or our daysendeavouring to fnish a difcult chapter.

Although I was a photojournalist and photographer byproession, Id recently decided to write a book, my frst.Having hit a difcult part earlier this week, Id beenworrying it to death or days, like a dog with a bone.

Finally Id got it right last night. It elt good to get out,to stretch my legs, to look around me and to remind myselthat there was a big wide world out here.


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I increased my pace. Despite the sun, the wind wasbitter. The weather seemed to be growing icier by theminute, and I hurried aster, almost running, needing toget home to the warmth.

My apartment was on the corner o Sutton and EastFity-Seventh, and I was relieved when it came into view.Once the trafc light changed, I dashed across the streetand into my building, exclaiming to the doorman, as Isped past him, Its Arctic weather, Sam.

It is, Miss Stone. Youre better o staying inside today.I nodded, smiled, headed or the elevator. Once inside

my apartment I hung up my scar and pea jacket in the hallcupboard, went into the kitchen, put the kettle on or teaand headed or my ofce.

I glanced at the answering machine on my desk andsaw that I had two messages. I sat down, pressed playand listened.

The frst was rom my older sister Cara, who was callingrom Nice. Hi, Serena, its me. Ive ound another box ophotographs, mostly o Mom. Looking ab. You mightwant to use a ew in the book. Shall I send by FedEx? Orwhat? Im heading out now, so leave a message. Or callme tomorrow. Big kiss.

The second message was rom my godather. Its Harry.

Just confrming Monday night, Serena honey. Seven thirty.Usual place. Dont bother to call back. See ya.

The whistling kettle brought me to my eet. As I madethe tea I elt a risson o apprehension, then an odd senseo oreboding . . . something bad was going to happen, Ielt it in my bones.

I pushed this dark eeling away, carried the mug o tea

back to my ofce, telling mysel that I usually experiencedpremonitions only when I was at the ront, when I sensedimminent danger, knew I had to run or my lie beore I


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was blown to smithereens by a bomb, or took a bullet.To have such eelings now was irrational. I shook myhead, chiding mysel or being overly imaginative. But inact I was to remember this moment later and wonder i

Id had some sort o sixth sense.


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TWO

The room I used as an ofce was once my mothers den,years ago. It was light, airy, with large plate-glass windowsat one end. She had decorated it in cream and deep peachwith a touch o raspberry; I had kept those colours because

they emphasized its spaciousness and I ound them restul.In act I had pretty much let the room as it was, exceptor buying a modern desk chair. I loved her antiqueGeorgian desk, the long wall o bookshelves that held hervarious decorative objects and amily photographs as wellas books.

At the windowed end o the room my mother had

created a charming seating area with a big comortablesoa, several armchairs and a coee table. I headed therenow, carrying my mug. I sat down on the soa, sippedthe tea, and, as always, marvelled at the panoramic viewspread out beore me: the East River, the suspensionbridges and the amazing skyscrapers that helped to makethis city so unique.

The windows aced downtown, and just to my rightwas the elegant Art Deco spire o the Chrysler Buildingand next to it the equally impressive Empire State. The


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city had never looked better, had made an unusuallyspectacular comeback ater the bombing o the WorldTrade Center in 2001.

I realized, with a small jolt o surprise, that it was ten

years ago already. The anniversary o that horrifc attackwould be this coming September, since we were now inthe year 2011.

What mattered, though, was that One World, the newtower, was already on its way up, would keep on goingup and up and up, until it reached 1,776 eet, that well-known number not only commemorating IndependenceDay, but also making it the highest building in the Westernhemisphere.

That particular September remained vivid in my mind,not only because o the heinous crime that had beencommitted, but because we had all been here together asa amily. In this very apartment, which my mother had

bought thirty years ago now, in around 1980, just beoreI was born.My mother, who had an amazing eye or art and archi-

tecture, had a predilection or buying apartments andhouses, which is why my sisters and I had grown up allover the world: New York, London, Paris, Nice and BelAir. My grandmother used to say we were like gypsies

with money.My ather, who loved to tease my mother about anything

and everything, would point out how proud he waso himsel, because he had never elt the need to indulgehimsel in this way, had never invested money in bricksand mortar, and never would.

My mothers pithy answer was always the same.

She would point out that despite this, he managedsomehow to commandeer most o the closets in theirdierent homes, in which he would then hang his


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extensive collection o beautiul, very expensive clothes.This was true, and they would laugh about it, as alwaysenjoying being together, loving each other, the best oriends.

Suddenly, I saw them in my minds eye. They were trueblue, those two. True to each other and to us, to me andmy twin sisters Cara and Jessica, who were eight yearsolder than me and who used to boss me around, albeit ina genial way. My ather called us his all-girl team, and hewas so proud o us. We were such a happy amily.

That September o 2001 my ather was in New York,not o somewhere covering a war, and so was his bestriend and partner, Harry Redord. They had been palssince childhood; both o them had been born and broughtup in Manhattan, had gone to the same school, becomephotographers together, then partnered up and roamedthe world, plying their trade.

My ather and Harry had ounded Global Images in1971, a photographic agency that was managed by Harryssister, Florence, since the two men were not always in NewYork. My ather and Harry were joined at the hip, andhe was very much part o the amily, loved by all o us.Dads compadre, my mothers protector and champion.And an avuncular presence in our lives, always there or

us, no matter what. And these days he was my best riendas well as my godather. He had always treated me as apal, was never condescending, and Id been his confdantesince I was eighteen . . . he told me frst when he wasgetting a divorce rom Melanie, his frst wie, who wastoo temperamental, and then again when he got his seconddivorce rom Holly Grey, who was jealous o any woman

who looked at him. And many did. He usually brought agirlriend when he came to Nice.

The weather that autumn had been glorious. Indian


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summer weather. Balmy, sot, with light blue skies, sunshineand no hint o autumn.

Even though we were all angry, shocked and sorrowingbecause o the brutal terrorist attacks on New York and

Washington, we were able to draw enjoyment rom eachothers company, and also comort rom being together atthis rightening time.

Cara and Jessica had own in rom Nice, where theylived at the old house up in the hills, in order to celebratetheir twenty-eighth birthdays in October.

Beore 9/11 we had been to see Broadway plays andmovies, eaten at my athers avourite restaurants, mostespecially Raos. There was a great deal o amily bondingduring that period, and now, when I looked back, I wasglad we had this special time together.

My mothers mother, Alice Vasson, and her sister, DoraCliord, had come in rom Caliornia to celebrate the

twins birthdays with us. The two o them were stayingat the Carlyle Hotel, but they were mostly at the apart-ment during the day.

My mother, an only child, nonetheless had a greatsense o amily, and revelled in such occasions. This madeus happy, especially my ather, and particularly since mymother wasnt in the best o health during this period.

Being surrounded by those who loved her helped tomake her eel better, and she was more radiant andhappier than I had seen her or a long time.

My grandmother and great aunt had been instrumentalin developing my mothers career, and, not unnaturally,they couldnt help boasting a bit, taking bows. They hadmade her into a megastar, one o the greatest movie stars

in the world.Their tall tales and antics amused my ather no end,

and made him laugh hilariously; my mother merely smiled,


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said not a word, her expression benign. And we girls, well,we just listened, once again awestruck, even though wedheard these yarns beore.

I sighed under my breath, remembering my grandmother

and great aunt, the roles they had played in our lives, andI thought o their deaths, and the other losses over thelast ew years . . .

When someone you love has died, everything changes.Instantly. Nothing can ever be the same again. The world

becomes an entirely dierent place . . . alien, cold, emptywithout the presence o that person you love.When one quarrels with a loved one, there is oten a

reconciliation, maybe a compromise, or we go our separateways. I a riend or relative decides to live somewhere else,in another place, it is easy to reach out to them, speak onthe phone, send emails or text. In other words, to remain

part o their lives is not difcult at all.Death does not oer that consolation.Death is the fnalexit.Memories. Those are what I had in my heart, abundant

memories that would be with me until the day I died.They were ounded on reality, on things that actuallyhappened, and so they were true. And because o this,

they oered real solace.My ather died eleven months ago. I was in total

shock, flled with sorrow, grie and guilt. A terrible guiltthat still haunted me at times, guilt because I did notget there in time to tell him how much I loved him, tosay goodbye.

I was late because o a missed plane in Aghanistan.

Only a paltry ew hours too late, but it might as well havebeen a month or even a year. Too late is exactly that.

When death came, that sly pale rider on his pale horse,


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he relentlessly snatched his prize and was gone. Suddenlythere was nothing. A void. Emptiness. A shattering silence.But inevitably the memories did come back. Very slowlyat frst, they were nonetheless sure-ooted, and they

brought a measure o comort.

The book I had been writing or the last ew months wasabout my ather. As I delved into his past, to tell hisamazing story, he came alive again. He was quite a guy.Thats what everyone said about him. Quite a guy, they

told me, admiration echoing in their voices.My ather, John Thomas Stone, known to everyoneeverywhere simply as Tommy, was one o the worldsgreatest war photographers. O the same ilk as the amousRobert Capa, who died covering the war in Vietnam whenhe stepped on a land mine.

Until my ather appeared on the scene many years later,

there had never been many comparisons to the great Capa.At least, not o the kind my ather inspired.

For years Tommy cheated death on the ront line, andthen, unexpectedly, he died. At home in his own bed, onatural causes a second heart attack, this one massive.He was gone, just like that, in the ick o an eyelash,without warning. No prior notice given here.

It was the suddenness, the unexpectedness o it that didthe worst damage to me. Atershock. My ather, who wasgiven to using military lingo, would have called it blow-back, and thats what it was. Blowback. It elled me.

My mother, Elizabeth Vasson Stone, died our yearsago, and I was devastated. I still grieved or her attimes, and I would always miss her. Yet my athers death

aected me in a wholly dierent way. It crippled meor a while.

It could be that my reaction was not the same because


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my mother had always suered rom poor health,whereas my ather was strong and ft. Invincible, to me.That perhaps was the dierence. I suppose I thoughthe would live orever.

My sisters still believed I was our athers avourite child.Naturally, Id continued to deny this over the years,reminded them that I was the youngest, and because othis perhaps I was spoilt, even pampered a bit when I wasgrowing up.

Traditionally, there is always a lot o ocus on the babyo the amily. But despite my comments, I was well awarethey were right. I was his avourite.

Not that he ever actually came out and said this, to meor anyone else. He was ar too nice to hurt anyones eel-ings. Still, he made it clear in other ways that he avouredme, implied I was his special girl.

He would oten remark that I was the most like himin character, had inherited his temperament, many o hisquirky ways, and certainly it pleased him that I was theone daughter who had ollowed in his ootsteps, andbecome a photographer.

I had a camera in my hand when I was old enough tohold one. He taught me everything I knew about photog-

raphy and, very importantly, how to take care o myselwhen I was out there working in the dangerous world welive in today.

My ather impressed on me that I should look straightahead, be on the alert and ready or the unexpected. Hepointed out that I must keep my eyes peeled in order tospot danger, which could spring up anywhere, especially

in a war.It was rom him that I learned how to dodge bullets

when we were in the middle o a battle, how to make


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rapid exits rom disaster zones, and seek the best possibleshelter when bombs were dropping.

My ather was a man the whole world seemed to love.People were immediately drawn to him, smitten, men as

well as women, and he was fercely intelligent and char-ismatic. My mother said that he gave something o himselto everyone, and that they elt better or having met him.

That he had good looks was immaterial. It was hischarm and outsized personality that captivated everyone.Those who worked with him knew how dedicated he wasto his job. He eared nothing and no one, plunged intodanger whenever it was necessary to get the most powerulimages on flm. He was also helpul to his colleagues andthose who worked with him in the feld, a riend to all.

Over the past ew months, as Id done research or mybiography o him, Id talked to a great many people whoknew him. Almost all o them told me that there was

something truly heroic about Tommy, and I believed theywere right.I idolized my ather, but during the course o the week,

I had come to understand that I idealized him as well.And yet he was a man, not a god, with plenty o the aults,aws and railties all mortals have. In act, being a larger-than-lie character, I was quite certain he had more than

most people.But when I was growing up he was the miracle man to

me, the maker o magic who orever took us captive withhis charm; brought laughter, un and excitement to ourlives.

I leaned back on the soa, closed my eyes, listened to the

quiet in this tranquil room. And in the inner recesses omy head I heard my own voice, and words I had spokento my sisters twenty-one years ago. I could hear mysel


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telling them that our ather was Superman, a magician, amiracle maker all rolled into one.

I saw Jessica and Cara in my minds eye, as they werethen, staring back at me as i I was a creature who had

just landed rom some ar-distant planet. Disbelie ickeredin two pairs o dark eyes, ocused on me so intently.

At the time I was only nine, but I recalled how I suddenlyunderstood that they viewed Tommy dierently than I did.Thats why they were puzzled by my words. They couldntsee inside our ather the way I could; they didnt knowthe man I knew.

Our mother had been with us that aternoon. She hadbeen seated under the huge umbrella on the terrace o thehouse in the hills above Nice. She had laughed and nodded,Youre right, Serena. What a clever girl you are, spottingyour athers unique talents.

The twins had jumped up, laughing, had leapt away in

the direction o the swimming pool. They were boisterous,athletic, sports addicted. I was the artistic one; quiet,studious, a bookworm, paying strict attention to everydetail o my photographs, like my ather.

It was Jessica and Cara who physically resembledTommy, something that had always irked me. They hadinherited his height, his dark hair and warm brown eyes;

I didnt look like him or anyone else in the amily. Certainlynot my mother, who was very beautiul.

Once my sisters had disappeared and we were alone onthe terrace, my mother beckoned me to come and joinher. I had opped down in the chair next to her, and shehad poured a glass o lemonade or me. We had talkedor a while about my ather, the magician, as I called him,

and then unexpectedly she had confded a secret . . . shetold me that he had enchanted her, captivated her themoment they met.


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I couldnt take my eyes o him, and Ive only ever hadeyes or him since. You see, I ell under his spell. And Imstill under it. Then she had abruptly turned, stared downthe length o the terrace.

My ather had suddenly arrived with Harry, and, asusual, there was a urry o excitement. They had hurriedtowards us carrying lots o shopping bags rom poshboutiques, and when they came to a standstill my atherhad announced, Presents or our girls.

He had rushed to hug my mother and then me, and sohad Harry. And later Harry had taken pictures o me withmy parents. One o them was deemed so special by mymother she had had it ramed.

I opened my eyes, came out o my reverie and stoodup. I ound that remarkable photograph on the bookshelvesat once. There we were, the three o us. My ather stoodbehind my mothers chair. He was bending orward, his

arms around her shoulders, his ace next to hers. I wascrouched near my mothers knee and she had her armsaround me, holding me close to her.

We were all smiling, looked so careree. My handsomeather, my lovely mother and me. My little mouse, sheused to call me sometimes, and with great aection. Itwas her pet name or me. Oten Ive thought that I am a

bit mousey in appearance, with my light brown hair andgrey eyes. But in this picture, taken so long ago, I realizedthat I looked rather pretty that day, and certainly veryhappy.

Picking up the silver rame, I stared at the image o usor the longest moment, marvelling yet again at my mother.The camera loved her. Thats what my ather used to say,

and everyone else, or that matter. She was truly photo-genic, and it was one o the secrets o her success. Asusual, she looked incandescent.


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My mother, a movie star in the same league as ElizabethTaylor, had been beautiul, glamorous, beloved by millions,a box-ofce draw, odder or the gossip press. One o akind, actually, and, like the other Elizabeth, larger than

lie. My mother had remained a huge star until her death.

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Secrets From the Past - Barbara Taylor Bradford- Extract