Lovers and Liars (19 page)

‘I’ve met her father,’ Pascal interjected. He gave Jenkins a quick glance, but there was no reaction. Again Jenkins grinned.

‘You have? Well then, you’ll know. Just stay off the subject of Sam Hunter and his fucking Pulitzer prize. She’ll sing his praises for an entire evening. Believe me, I know.’ A-note of more personal resentment entered his voice as he made this remark. An overture rejected?

‘Anything elseT Pascal said.

‘Yes. She’s pushy. Sharp. Very good-looking, of course, but a bit short in the female charm department.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Put it this way. She can freeze a man’s balls at five paces. $o don’t try making a pass.’

,i,,,IThat’s OKI Pascal gave him a cold look. ‘I’m here to work with

0,,.Jenkins laughed. ‘Pascal, please - so very PC. Just wait till you Oe her He sketched a female outline with his hands. ‘You Pay just change your mind.’

“, And then Gini had come into the room; for a moment Pascal ‘4-df not recognize her. He stared at this tall, thin young woman. Owe had a cool manner, a slightly combative air. He looked at her Oth dismay and regret. He thought: My lovely Gini; and then he Okought: all that beauty, and it’s gone.

kAll through lunch, he felt the same. He could see that she Aoliked Jenkins, and was containing her hostility to him with W*ne difficulty - that was fine; his own reaction was much the “me. But it was more than that: she gave off an almost palbable chill. She sat opposite him, and she never once smiled. V seemed to him, as time passed, that there was something WWI something forced in her behaviour, as if she chose to act O.,.part. Such pains, to play the professional, to emphasize the Oformation on Hawthorne she possessed. And then, she couldn’t

0,Mst capping the remarks Pascal himself made, remarks to which Obe had listened with a tight set face.

p,‘Your turn, Gini, there’s plenty to add,’ Jenkins had said.

v-,‘There certainly is,’ she had replied, with a disn-dssive glance in

14scal’s direction. ‘I’ll stick to politics, I think … I

k1t: was a put-down, and it startled him. Watching her, he thought: lkw changed she is - she’s hard as nails.

She showed no emotion as the story about Hawthorne emerged: re was no sign of shock, or sympathy, just that cold alert The

assionate appraisal. Pascal had watched it, listened to it, and rspe

seemed to him deeply unferninine. By the end of the lunch, was hideously depressed. He had known that Gini must be Oltered; it had not occurred to him she would become a woman disliked.

en they left the building, he was arguing with himself; he Was telling himself that with dislike came relief. He could work lVith this woman: there was no entanglement here. The girl he Omembered, he told himself, was dead. She was a ghost, a Obantom, alive only in his memory; how strange. For twelve bears he had been thinking about her, and now that hef d met mer again, she did not exist.

And then something happened - something he could not explain. A little magic, a trick of the fight, some accidental angle of the head, some shadow that passed across her eyes. She had been silent in the half-dusk, staring towards the security gates across the yard, and then, suddenly, a transformation took place. Suddenly he could see the girl in the woman she had become: he glimpsed vulnerability beneath that new combative facade. He saw the ghost of the girl in the shape of her eyes, in the curve of her cheek. He rested his eyes on her face, and he saw again that she was lovely. Recognition flooded through him; a sudden and astonishing joy swept through him. Before he could stop himself, he greeted her. He said her name, in the old way, in the old accents. She swung around, startled, colour ebbing from her cheeks, and before she could disguise it, it was there, still there, absolutely unaltered, that quality he had once loved, transparent in her face.

Nothing he could define: gravity, honesty, the courage to give joy - in the past he had used these poor terms, and others equally inexact to explain the inexplicable, what it was that he found delightful in her face. He had tried many times in Beirut to capture it on film. He had, of course, failed. Film could not capture her resonance any more than words could: film froze the instant. it could not convey the touch of her hand, or the tone of her I

voice. This reductiveness became a challenge. Pascal told himself that the camera could and did convey so much: it could convey anger, happiness, desolation, vanity, grief … His determination to capture her on film became an obsession with him, a quest. ‘Stand here,’ he would say. ‘Turn your face to the light. Look at me. Yes. Yes. That’s right … I

But what he saw with his eyes was not what his lenses recorded. When he looked at the printed images, they were effective but dead. He kept them, nevertheless, and one of them in particular, just a small black-and-white shot, he kept still. Sitting in Gini’s London room now, he drew it out.

He had taken it late one afternoon, close by the harbour. From a technical point of view, it was a failure, he knew that. The light had been difficult, the shutter speed, possibly the aperture, incorrect. It was over-exposed: her face was given a translucent hazy quality, the fault of reflected light. Even so, it was his favourite picture. Looking at it in the past, even looking at it now, he knew why he had kept it, why he had allowed it to become such a talisman.

It was a young girl, just a girl, someone who had fied about her age and who was, in fact, much younger than he had realized

en he took this shot. Her pale hair blew across her forehead; she wearing only one ear-ring and a loose ordinary open-necked . She had a wide-set, level-eyed gaze; she was half-frowning, -smiling. It was an unremarkable picture in every way, it belied professional gifts; it was, to most eyes, just a pretty girl, with movement of waves behind her, a typical holiday snap - but

Pascal it was of crucial importance. To look at this, was to look his own truth, a truth which would never alter or erode. Whatever love meant, however much, later, he came to doubt deceptions and seductions, there was still this. The day he took s picture, his camera had been lucky - for once it had captured . That still had the capacity to astonish him: he was so used, then, to capturing death.

t happened, he told himself now. It happened, and this picture been his proof. Then, not half an hour ago, he had seen greater proof than this. He had seen the past as he rememd and hoped it had been: he had seen it written in Gini’s and face. Let go, he thought; he had no further need for graphs.

nding, on a sudden impulse, he touched the picture to the mes of the fire, and watched it catch. It burned instantly, in a of chemicals

, and he brushed the tell-tale ashes underfoot. als had their uses; to acknowledge once and for all that it had ened, but it was over, helped.

earing movement from the room beyond, he went out to kitchen and made coffee. Colleagues, friends, professionals, orking team: he said this to himself.

‘What we will do/ he said cheerfully, when Gini returned, ‘is out for dinner, yes? Have some good red wine, some food, uss the case.’

He broke off. Gini was watching him quietly. She agreed, in a bdued way, that this was a good course.

Pascal was careful; he kept up this note of camaraderie until, a ile later, they were about to leave her flat. Then, although he ew it was wise to leave the past interred, because that way it

ined its perfection and its power, and it remained untainted the mess he had made of the rest of his life, he asked a foolish Ouestion, one he had resolved not to ask.

PThat ear-ring/ he said, as they were moving towards the door. Ou remember? The one we chose together? Did you keep it? Do rou ever wear it?’

A bad question. Gini crimsoned. ‘The ear-ring? No - I don’t

wear it. In fact, I don’t know if I still have it. The last time I moved apartments I lost it, I think.’ She unlatched the chain on her door, and held it open for her cat, who marched ahead of them, tail waving, intent on exploring the streets.

‘Come on, Pascal . she said. ‘The reservation’s for eight. We’ll be late.’

The restaurant Gini had chosen was a few streets from her flat; it was a small, unpretentious, neighbourhood place, run by a local Italian family. Midweek, it was quiet and it served simple good food.

They were given an alcove table, to the rear of the restaurant. One side of them, there were photographs of Italian film actors and Italian football stars; the walls were painted white; the ceiling was strung with Chianti bottles and plastic vines. Pascal looked at these decorations and smiled.

‘A little Italy in North London. It’s nice, Gini.’ ‘It’s quiet. The pasta’s good. We can talk.’

When the waiter had brought them their spaghetti and salads, and Pascal had poured out the wine, he drew out a notebook. ‘Now/ he said. ‘Let’s make a start.’

‘List the possible leads? Sure.’

‘First there’s the courier company, obviously. We find out where the other two parcels went, and who sent them. That may indicate why they were sent, whether or not it’s a deliberate trail … ‘

‘Then there’s McMullen himself … ‘ Gini leaned forward. ‘We ought to trace his family, and his friends. Check out his past Oxford, that army career. It could help us to find him.’

‘Jenkins gave me some contacts - names and phone numbers. He sent them with the tape … ‘ Pascal tapped the notebook thoughtfully. ‘There’s that sister of his, for instance, the one mentioned on the tape. An ex-actress, apparently. It would be worth talking to her.’

‘She lives in LondonT

‘Yes. Near Sloane Square. The parents are still alive too - apparently the father’s an art historian. Distinguished, according to Jenkins.’

‘LondonT ‘No. Shropshire, unfortunately. Miles away - and I’d rather not approach them by phone. Not initially anyway. The sister first then, and some of the friends.’

‘Are there many?,

‘Not according to Jenkins. McMullen seems to be something of loner.’

‘And then there’s Hawthorne himself,’ Gini said. ‘We could try cking out parts of McMullen’s story. After all, if Hawthorne uires these blondes, every month, there must be some source supply. How do you hire a blonde, PascalT

Pascal shrugged. ‘Escort agencies, call-girl networks. Talk to the d porter in any top London hotel-!

‘Hawthorne’s not exactly likely to do that, is heT

‘No, but the point is, it’s not difficult. If a man has the money, e women are available.’

‘I can’t believe he’d go through some agency.’ Gini shook her d. ‘It’s too public, too risky.’

11 would say so too. On the other hand, he would use a false me, obviously.’

‘But he’s so well known, Pascal. He’d be recognized .

‘So? He wouldn’t be the first - or the last - famous man to hire ‘on-girls. You can buy discretion - and co-operation - if you know here to go.’

‘You sound very knowledgeable.’

‘I am very knowledgeable. I’ve been down this particular route fore.’

‘Call-girls? Prostitutes?’

‘Models. Massage parlours. Madames. Sure. Come on, Gini,’ tapped the notebook impatiently, ‘whom do you imagine I get s from? Bank presidents? You know the kind of work I do.’

‘Yes. Yes. I know.’ Gini looked away. There was a silence, while scal continued to make notes, and she toyed with her food. She d she had lost her appetite. The question of Pascal’s present

de of working, of the kind of stories he now chose to cover between them, a territory she would have liked to explore. would have liked to ask him why he had embarked on this k, and whether he saw it as a betrayal of himself and his gifts.

t the question was one she instinctively shied away from. Let wait until she had been working with him longer, until he rhaps had more reason to trust her than he did now. For he

not trust her now, not entirely; she could sense that. Perhaps trusted no-one. Any mention of his wife, his child, or his work the shutters came down.

A shadow had passed’across his face when he made his last rerk about his sources. As he concentrated on his notes, however, t momentary darkening passed. She watched him as he jotted

words and phrases, his concentration absolute. His dark hair, now greying a little at the temples, fell forward across his forehead. His eyes were lowered to the notebook in front of him. She could watch him with impunity and with a secret pleasure too.

Pascal, who was altered and unaltered. There was, on his left cheekbone, a tiny scar, the mark of some childhood accident, some fall. Once upon a time, lying in darkness while the music from the dancehall below moved the air in his room, she had traced that scar with her fingers as he slept beside her. She had read all the details of his face with her fingers, the dear geography of eyes, nose, chin, throat, hair. She could remember with absolute precision the particular scent of his skin, the shape and grip of his hands, the ways, words and hows of physical intimacy. She could remember little shafts of detail: ways he moved, inflections he used. It pained her, that these recollections were so sharp, for there was now, of course, one component missing, the component which gave vitality to all the rest. Once, when they looked at each other, there had been such interaction of the eyes. But then lovers did not need words, because a glance spoke a better language. ‘Is something wrong?’ Pascal looked up, suddenly.

‘No. Nothing.’ She snapped back to the lesser present. ‘Why?’ ‘You looked sad, that’s all.’

‘Not sad, concentrated. I was just thinking about this story . She gestured towards the waiter. ‘Shall we get some coffee?’ He nodded, lit a cigarette.

‘We have one other lead/ she went on, speaking rapidly. ‘That piece of paper I found in McMullen’s apartment, we mustn’t forget that. It might mean something - and it might mean nothing at all.’

She took out the piece of paper as she said this, and passed it across. Pascal frowned, holding it up to the candlelight. ‘Three sets of numbers - they’re not dates. They could be anything. A set of measurements, some combination … they could be old, or recent …