...read all about it !!!
Sidney
Shelton’s The Tides of Memory
By: Tilly Bagshawe
Blurb:
On
the surface the De Vere family appear to have it all: Wealth, political power,
and idyllic life split between their London mansion, Oxfordshire country house
and their idyllic, sprawling Martha’s Vineyard estate.
But beneath the gilded façade, and the family’s apparently watertight bonds with one another, lie many secrets, some of them deadly. When the mistakes of youth refuse to stay buried, and generation old hatreds resurface, the De Veres find themselves on the brink of losing everything. How far will each of them go to conceal the truth and protect the family?
Author
Info:
The late novelist and
screenwriter Sidney Sheldon remains one of the world’s top bestselling authors,
having sold more than 300 million copies of his books. ARE YOU AFRAID OF THE
DARK? was his most recent in a long line of huge hits on bestseller lists
everywhere. He is also the only writer to have won an Oscar, a Tony, and an
Edgar. THE GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS heralds him as the most translated
author in the world.
Tilly Bagshawe is a New York Times Bestselling author. She lives in Los Angeles, California, and London with her husband and children.
Tilly Bagshawe is a New York Times Bestselling author. She lives in Los Angeles, California, and London with her husband and children.
Links:
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
“Was there anything else,
Home Secretary?”
Alexia De Vere smiled. Home
Secretary. Surely the most beautiful two words in the English language.
Except forPrime Minister, of course. The Tory party’s newest superstar
laughed at herself. One step at a time, Alexia.
“No thank you Edward. I’ll
call if I need you.”
Sir Edward Manning nodded
briefly and left the room. A senior civil servant in his early sixties and
bastion of the Westminster political establishment, Sir Edward Manning was as
tall and grey and rigid as a matchstick. In the coming months, Sir Edward would
be Alexia De Vere’s constant companion: advising, cautioning, expertly guiding
her through the maze of Home Office politics. But right now, in these first few
hours in the job, Alexia De Vere wanted to be alone. She wanted to savor the
sweet taste of victory without an audience. To sit back and revel in the
profound thrill of power.
After all, she’d earned it.
Getting up from her desk,
she paced around her new office, a vast eyrie of a room perched high in one of
the baroque towers of the Palace of Westminster. The interior design was more
functional than fabulous. A matching pair of ugly brown sofas at one end (those
must go), a simple desk and chair at the other, and a bookcase stuffed with
dusty, un-read tomes of political history. But none of that mattered once you
saw the view. Spectacular didn’t begin to cover it. Floor to ceiling windows
provided a panoramic vista of London, from the towers of Canary Wharf in the
east to the mansions of Chelsea in the west. It was a view that said one thing
and one thing only.
Power.
And it was all hers.
I am theHome Secretary of
Great Britain. The second most important member of Her Majesty’s Government.
How had it happened? How
had a junior prisons minister, and a deeply unpopular one at that, leapfrogged
so many other senior candidates to land the big job? Poor Kevin Lomax over at
Trade & Industry must be spitting yellow, coffee-stained teeth. The thought
made Alexia De Vere feel warm inside. Patronizing old fossil. He wrote me
off years ago, but who’s laughing now?
Pilloried in the press for
being wealthy, aristocratic and out-of-touch with ordinary voters, and dubbed
the new Iron Lady by the tabloids, Alexia De Vere’’s sentencing reform bill had
been savaged by MPs on both sides of the house for being ‘compassionless’ and
‘brutal.’ No parole sentences might work in America, a country so barbaric they
still had the death penalty. But they weren’t going to fly here, in civilized
Great Britain.
That’s what theysaid. But
when push came to shove, they’d all voted the bill through.
Cowards. Cowards and
hypocrites the lot of them.
Alexia De Vere knew how
unpopular the bill had made her, with colleagues, with the media, with lower
income voters. So she was as shocked as everyone else when the Prime Minister,
Henry Whitman, chose to appoint her as his Home Secretary. But she didn’t dwell
on it. The fact was, Henry Whitmanhad appointed her. At the end of the
day that was all that mattered.
Reaching into a box, Alexia
pulled out some family photographs. She preferred to keep her
work and home
lives separate, but these days everyone was so touchy-feely, having pictures of
one’s children on one’s desk had become de rigeur.
There was her daughter
Roxie at eighteen, her blonde head thrown back, laughing. How Alexia missed
that laugh. Of course, the picture had been taken before the accident.
The accident Alexia De Vere hated the euphemism for her daughter’s suicide
attempt, a three story leap that had left Roxie wheelchair bound for the rest
of her life. In Alexia’s view, one should call a spade a spade. But Alexia’s
husband, Teddy insisted on it. Dear Teddy. He always was a soft touch.
Placing her husband’s
photograph next to their daughter’s, Alexia smiled. An unprepossessing, paunchy
middle aged man, with thinning hair and permanently ruddy cheeks, Teddy De Vere
beamed at the camera like a lovable bear.
How different my life would
have been without him. How much, how very
much, I owe him.
Of course, Teddy De Vere
was not the only man to whom Alexia owed her good fortune. There was Henry
Whitman, the new Tory Prime Minister and Alexia’s self-appointed political
mentor. And somewhere, far, far away from here, there was another man. A good
man. A man who had helped her.
But she mustn’t think about
that man. Not now. Not today.
Today was a day of triumph
and celebration. It was no time for regrets.
The third picture was of
Alexia’s son, Michael. What an insanely beautiful boy he was, with his dark curls
and slate-grey eyes and that mischievous smile that melted female hearts from a
thousand paces. Sometimes Alexia thought that Michael was the only person on
earth she had ever loved unconditionally. Roxie ought to fall into that
category too, but after everything that had happened between them, the bad
blood had poisoned the relationship beyond repair
After the photographs it
was time for the congratulations cards, which had been arriving in a steady
stream since Alexia’s shock appointment was announced two days earlier. Most of
them were dull, corporate affairs sent by lobbyists or constituency hangers-on.
They had pictures of popping champagne bottles or dreary floral still-lifes.
But one card in particular immediately caught Alexia’s eye. Against a stars and
stripes background, the words ‘YOU ROCK!” were emblazoned in garish gold. The
message inside read:
‘Congratulations,
darling Alexia! SO excited and SO proud of you. All my love, Lucy!!!! xxx’
Alexia De Vere grinned. She
had very few female friends – very few friends of any kind, in fact - but Lucy
Meyer was the exception that proved the rule. A neighbor from Martha’s
Vineyard, where the De Veres owned a summer home – Teddy had fallen in love
with the island whilst at Harvard Business School - , Lucy Meyer had become
almost like a sister. Lucy was a traditional home-maker, albeit of the
uber-wealthy variety, and as American as apple pie. Alternately motherly and
child-like, she was the sort of woman who used a lot of exclamation points in
emails and wrote her I’s with full circles instead of dots on the top. To say
that Lucy Meyer and Alexia De Vere had little in common would be like saying
that Israel and Palestine didn’t always see exactly eye to eye. And yet the two
women’s friendship, forged over so many blissful summers on Martha’s Vineyard,
had survived all the ups and downs of Alexia’s crazy political life.
Standing by the window,
Alexia gazed down at the Thames. From up here the river looked benign and
stately, a softly flowing ribbon of silver snaking its silent way through the
city. But down below, Alexia knew, its currents could be deadly. Even now, at
fifty nine years of age and at the pinnacle of her career, Alexia De Vere
couldn’t look at water without feeling a shudder of foreboding. She twisted her
wedding ring nervously.
How easily it can all be
washed away! Power, happiness, even life itself. It only takes an instant, a
single unguarded instant. And it’s gone.
Her phone buzzed loudly.
“Sorry to disturb you Home
Secretary. But I have Ten Downing Street on line one . I assume you’ll take the
Prime Minister’s call?”
Alexia De Vere shook her
head, willing the ghosts of the past away.
“Of course Edward. Put him
through.”
South of the river, less
than a mile from Alexia De Vere’s opulent Westminster office but a world apart,
Gilbert Drake sat in Maggie’s café, hunched over his egg and beans. A classic
British ‘greasy spoon’, complete with grime encrusted windows and a peeling
linoleum floor, Maggie’s was a popular haunt for cabbies and builders on their
way to work on the more affluent north side of the river. Gilbert Drake was a
regular. Most mornings he was chatty and full of smiles. But not today. Staring
at the picture in his newspaper as if he’d seen a ghost, he pressed his hands
to his temples.
This can’t be happening.
How is this happening?
There she was, that bitch Alexia De Vere, smiling for the camera
as she shook hands with the Prime Minister. Gilbert Drake would never forget
that face as long as he lived. The proud, jutting jaw, the disdainful curl of
the lips, the cold, steely glint of those blue eyes, as pretty and empty and
heartless as a doll’s. The caption beneath the picture read ‘Britain’s new
Home Secretary starts work.’
Reading the article was painful, like picking at a newly healed
scab, but Gilbert Drake forced himself to go on.
‘In an appointment that surprised many at Westminster and wrong
footed both the media and the bookies, junior prisons minister Alexia De Vere
was named as the new Home Secretary yesterday. The Prime Minister, Henry
Whitman, has described Mrs De Vere as ‘a star’ and ‘a pivotal figure’ in his
new look cabinet. Kevin Lomax, the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry,
who had been widely tipped to replace Humphrey Crewe at the home office after his
resignation in March, told reporters he was ‘delighted’ to hear of Mrs De
Vere’s appointment and that he ‘hugely looked forward’ to working with her.’
Gilbert Drake closed his
newspaper in disgust.
Gilbert’s best friend
Sanjay Patel was dead because of that bitch. Sanjay who had protected
Gilbert
from the bullies at school and on their Peckham public housing. Sanjay who’d
worked hard all his life to put food on his family’s table, and faced all life’s
disappointments with a smile. Sanjay who’d been imprisoned, wrongly imprisoned,
set up by the police, simply for trying to help a cousin to escape persecution.
Sanjay was dead. While that whore, that she-wolf Alexia De Vere, was
riding high, the toast of London.
It was not to be borne. Gilbert Drake would not bear it.
The righteous will be glad when they are avenged, when they bathe
their feet in the blood of the wicked.
Maggie, the café’s eponymous proprietress, refilled Gilbert’s mug
of tea. “Eat up, Gil. Your egg’s going cold.”
Gilbert Drake didn’t hear her.
All he heard were his
friend Sanjay Patel’s voice begging for mercy.
Charlotte Whitman, the Prime Minister’s wife, rolled over in bed
and stroked her husband’s chest. It was four in the morning and Henry was
awake, again, staring at the ceiling like a prisoner waiting for the firing
squad.
“What is it Henry? What’s the matter?”
Henry Whitman covered his wife’s hand with his.
“Nothing. I’m not sleeping too well, that’s all. Sorry if I woke
you.”
“You would tell me if there were a problem, wouldn’t you?”
“Darling Charlotte.” He pulled her close. “I’m the Prime Minister.
My life is nothing but problems as far as the eye can see.”
“You know what I mean. I mean a real problem. Something you can’t
handle.”
“I’m fine, darling,
honestly. Try and go back to sleep.”
Soon Charlotte Whitman was slumbering soundly. Henry watched her,
her words ringing in his ears.Something you can’t handle…
Thanks to him, Alexia De Vere’s face was on the front page of
every newspaper. Speculation about her appointment was rife, but no one knew
anything. No one except Henry Whitman. And he intended to take the secret to
his grave.
Was Alexia De Vere a problem that he couldn’t handle? Henry
Whitman sincerely hoped not. Either way it was too late now. The appointment
was made. The deed was done.
Britain’s new Prime Minister lay awake until dawn, just as he knew
he would.
No rest for the wicked.
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