Lovers and Liars (30 page)

She woke exhausted. Grey light filtered through her curtains. From beyond came the sound of rain beating down on the small enclosed yard behind the house. When she went out into the living-room, Pascal was standing by her desk. His back was towards her; the air was rich with the smell of coffee brewing. There was a faint hum of machinery. When Pascal turned, she could detect no signs of strain, or sleeplessness. His face was concentrated and alert. My colleague, Gini thought. He held out to her a fax.

e story continues,’ he said. ‘It’s speeding up. Appleyard has surfaced, look. He’s flying into London this morning, he says. s

proposing a meeting - and we can fit it in, just. We can see S

S then go on to your stepmother’s house. Meet the Hawthornes tanned.’ He paused, halfsmiled.

i said nothing. Her dream was still with her. She was not n

IJ r ‘

n of the year, she felt, let alone the day of the week. ti]

took the fax from Pascal. It was brief, typed, but otherharacteristic of Appleyard. Assurrdng availability, he was c

posing they meet for dinner at a Mayfair restaurant, at eight P(

k that night.

10c

10c

THAT SATURDAY morning, Mary rose early: there were twenty people coming to dinner, she could no longer afford staff, and twenty people to feed meant hours of work. Mary did not mind this: from her childhood, it had always given her pleasure to cook. Sometimes, it was true, she would look back with a certain wry nostalgia to her embassy days. She would think of her father’s and mother’s perfectionism, and then of her husband’s and her own: such a retinue of cooks and secretaries and butlers and helpers. All she had had to do was fuss about placements and precedence and how she would dress. All those years spent carefully entertaining a succession of strangers - she looked back and found she did not regret them one jot.

Meanwhide, she had to make up her mind on the menu for tonight. She was half-decided, almost decided, but there was a certain anxiety at the back of her mind, an anxiety that had nothing to do with this food or the dinner itself, and that anxiety was distracting her. It made her flurried, and indecisive. She opened her larder, examined the contents of her fridge. When distracted, she cooked badly. Concentrate, she told herself, stick to your original menu and don’t vacillate; vacillation made things worse.

They would begin with the smoked salmon as planned, she decided, then move on to a dish which was always a success,

sants cooked with apples and Calvados. Finally, the desMary had a great weakness for puddings, and even if that [ea

kness was not shared by guests such as Lise, she intended to k

ide a choice: pears baked in red wine and cinnamon would v

bea u t i fu 1, the colour of rubies, and then - even more wicked, more calorie-laden - her chocolate mousse.

n e tied on her apron, and humming to herself, began her h

h ration, already feeling less anxious. The dinner, she told a

P.a P f, would be a success. It had the virtue of simplicity - and,

l er, the menu brought back happy memories of Richard. Odd hi

tastes could remind you of contentment and of love. And apart from this menu, she had chosen her guests well. Some undeniably boring, it was true, but they would be useful to e

Hawthorne - indeed had been invited at John’s request. n

‘yo u devious man/ she had said to him, laughing, when he Yo

ntioned their names.

1’But of course/ he had replied. ‘I’m a diplomat now and deviWsness comes with the territory, Mary. You know that.’

O’You were born devious,’ she had countered stoutly. ‘One of Obture’s Machiavellis - Richard always said that.’

:‘It takes one to know one,’ he replied in his dry way. ‘Besides, my position . he gave a shrug, ‘you learn early, to watch r

r back.’

Indeed, Mary thought now. A well-developed sense of selfIr

[eTI tection was necessary for any man or woman in public life. r father might have made the same comment; so might her sband. A little streak of ruthlessness was indispensable.

s W: Feeling pleased with herself, she began to grate the chocolate for the mousse, absent-mincledly nibbling at tiny chunks. She found the cream and the eggs; a little zest of orange peel, she thought conWntedly, that always gave it a lift. She separated the eggs, began to whip & egg-whites, and let her mind drift back to happier days.

- This recipe had been given her by one of Richard’s aunts, an becentric woman, who had lived for forty years as an expatriate, in Provence. She had had the most wonderful house, halfway up lhe side of a hill, the approach road flanked by huge bushes of Obsemarv and lavender. Richard had picked a sprig of lavender for ker, crushed it slightly, then held it out to her. She had inhaled Seeply; a hot dry aromatic scent. Richard said: ‘To me, that’s the lanell of France, the South of France … ‘

Marv sto ped. She put down the whisk. The anxiety had rep

6rned, sharply and abruptly. This very evening, just a few hours

from now, this Pascal Lamartine would be here, in her house. The prospect filled her with alarm. There was no point in

ignoring it any longer, she thought; she would have to confront it, deal with it, decide what to do. Should she or should she not make it clear to this Frenchman that she knew about his past conduct? Should she tell him she knew exactly who, and what, he was?

Unnerved, Mary made herself some coffee, and broke an inviolable rule - she lit a morning cigarette. She sat at her kitchen table, and stared unseeingly into the middle distance, unhappy and perplexed.

She was certain that when, out of the blue, Gini had mentioned Lamartine’s name, her own reaction had been quick. She was sure she had covered up well, and disguised from Gini the confusion and shock she immediately felt. Mary felt quite proud of herself for this. She knew that she was not the world’s most accomplished actress, and that Gini was astute. Even so, Mary had been both a diplomat’s daughter and a diplomat’s wife. In emergencies she could summon up a repertoire of social deceit. She might not like to do so, for it was not in her nature to lie, especially to Gini, whom she loved; nevertheless, she had been schooled to conceal boredom or dislike, and she could disguise anxiety just as well. She had learned the techniques of the white lie, the polite evasion, the digression, from her childhood. She had employed them in the past at a hundred embassy receptions; last Wednesday, when Gini dropped the bombshell of Lamartine’s name, those techniques had come to her aid. No, Gini had suspected nothing

- she was certain of that. Her comments about the paparazzi had been idiotic, she knew, and in the circumstances, her matchmaking tone had been ill-advised. But they had achieved their objective, and they had bought her time. Now, unfortunately, time was running out. She had to decide what to do when she finally met Lamartine tonight.

After Gini had left her last Wednesday, Mary had not slept. She had tossed and turned half the night. On the Thursday evening she had been at a party at the French embassy, and John Hawthorne, who was there without his wife, had given her a lift home. He had come in with her, accepted a drink, seen that she was worried, questioned her gently … She had resisted for a while, then the whole story had poured out.

Well, she did not regret that, she thought now. John had never betrayed a confidence in his life. She had never discussed this with anyone, for Gini’s sake, yet when she began her story, she had

the greatest relief. One of the worst and most painful aspects owhood, she had decided, was the loneliness of decisiong. She missed acutely Richard’s capacity for listening, his rt, his quiet and almost infallibly wise advice.

t gap in her life was increasingly filled by John Hawthorne, e was grateful to him for that. A harder man than her d had ever been - though Richard could be tough - John

e shared many of her husband’s qualities, none the less. acity for listening was famous, of course; those who liked said it was the source of his charm, and those who disliked said it accounted for his success. Beyond that, as she had vered this past year, John Hawthorne was kind, generous acute. He did not mince his words; he did not flatter or falsely

le. He gave straight advice, in a straight manner, even when advice was not what Mary always wanted to hear, and she Id see, later, that the advice he gave was subtle. A reserved , she thought now, a clever man; a man who, this past year, gradually revealed to her hidden depths. How fortunate, to e such a man as a friend; how fortunate, to know she could on his protection and his trust.

You mean - Gini knew this man beforeT he had said, frowning. More than that. Much worse. Oh God, John, what am I going o? If Sam finds out, he’ll be furious … ‘

ohn, who had known her ex-husband in the past, gave a dry . ‘And Sam in one of his rages is quite a sight. To be avoided I costs, I’d say. Go on.’

Oh John, I don’t know where to begin. Gini has no idea I know t happened. It was all so ghastly. Sam and this Lamartine man d a fight - really, a physical fight. Sam had a cut eye, and a cked rib. Gini - poor Gini, she was in such a state of misery for

ths and months. I was absolutely terrified she was pregnant t of course, she wasn’t, thank God. I kept telling myself she’d fide in me, and then she never did, never - not to this day, Is how deep it went. And now this bloody man has turned up in - and I just know she still feels something for him, John, I Id see it in her face. What am I to do? Should I say nothing or rvene? Should I tell Sam this Lamartine’s re-emerged - I always mised him I would, but that was twelve years ago. It seems lish now, after all, Gini’s grown up. There’s nothing either of could do, except advise her. Well, I did think, perhaps if I said

ething to Lamartine, on Saturday, he might back off. That is, he’s still interested in Gini, and he’s probably not …

She stopped, out of breath, and turned to him. ‘You see my one concern is Gini. She’s much more vulnerable than she looks. I can’t bear to see her hurt again. He hurt her so badly before, John - and it was obvious, he couldn’t have cared less. Why are some men like that? WhyT

‘I don’t know, Mary,‘Hawthome replied. He shot her an amused, affectionate glance. ‘I might give you a better answer if you slowed down, and told me the story from the beginning. I’m not clear. Are we talking about a seduction, or a romanceT

‘A seduction, of course.’ Mary gave him an indignant look. ‘John, it was twelve years ago. Gini was just fifteen years old … ‘

At that, his amusement vanished, and his expression became intent. He leaned forward, and he listened with absolute attention. It was a long story, as Mary told it, and he scarcely interrupted once.

‘It was that horrible summer/ Mary began. ‘The summer of nineteen eighty-one. It was the worst year of my life - one of the worst years. I hadn’t seen Sam in ages, and he had gone out to Beirut … ‘

She went through it all then - the icy telephone call from Gini’s headmistress, the ghastliness of contacting the police, the relief when late that night Gini telephoned from the Hotel Ledoyen and explained where she was. The conversation with Sam that same night, when Sam had been slightly drunk, at the three-bourbon stage, Mary would have judged. Sam’s careless reassurances that, of course, Gini would be fine, that he’d keep an eye on her, and Mary’s anxiety: Beirut was a dangerous place, and Sam Hunter had never kept an eye on Gini in his life.

‘Oh stop fussing, Mary/ Sam had said. ‘She’s here and she may as well stay for a while. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into her. You know what she’s saying now? She wants to be a journalist, for God’s sake.’

‘She’s been saying that for the last five years, Sam. If you listened once in a while, on the rare occasions when you see her, you’d know that.’

‘Mary, listen … This is a child we’re talking about here. A sixteen-year-old kid-2

‘Fifteen, Sam. She isn’t sixteen for another four weeks.’ ‘Fifteen, sixteen, what difference does it makeT His voice had faded into a crackle of interference on the line. ‘Journalist!’ Mary

out, as it cleared. ‘For Christ’s sake. Well, let her find out pade

reporting really means. I guarantee it - she’ll be out of here week.’

ve iw1E .g into the fire, Mary paused, frowned, then continued

k vokm story. Sam, of course, had not been right. Two weeks went

tol to r ee. Mary herself would try to telephone, but Sam never

[ he er calls, and Gini always seemed to be out, even when she

uite late. q

described the mounting anxiety and impotence she had Sh

e described how she had scanned, every day, the Beirut S

in the newspapers. And she described the day when Sam ‘Gini suddenly arrived back on her doorstep, unannounced. G

ten in the morning; there had been problems with their r*as

ts. She had heard the taxi pulling up outside the house in t. She had rushed out, full of questions, seen their faces, felt thunder and tension in the air, and stopped.

rt, ini’s face was white and streaked with tears. Sam was sweatOG

& cursing, belligerent. He had a swollen jaw, ten stitches in a

higed cut above his eye, and he was walking with a limp. He Wf-pulled, half-pushed Gini into the hall.

0MI right,‘he said. ‘You go to your room now, and you goddamn W stay in it. You come out when I say so and not before. s Christ, Mary. I’ve been up all goddamn night. Fix me a zl will vou? A large drink.’

OGini ran up the stairs without a backward glance. Her bedroom W in the attic; in the distance a door slammed. Sam and Mary

0Dved into the drawing-room. Sam shut the door behind him. fury stared at him in consternation, white-faced. He drank three brhes of bourbon straight down, then he came to the point. o’You want to know what’s wrong? You want to know what’s oppened? Fine, I’ll tell you. A man’s happened. His name’s Wkscal Lamartine. A fucking Frenchman. A photographer. One of k Leica leeches. That’s who’s happened. Get a hold of yourself, (ary. He’s been screwing Gini. He’s been screwing Gini day and ight for weeks … ‘ He stopped.