Lovers and Liars (34 page)

Malone, Mary realized, had not replied. She turned back to him. One more try. ‘Still, even you have to take a break sometimes. I expect Frank was due some leaveT

‘Yes ma’am. He’s not on duty this weekend.’ ‘How nice for him .

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I always think it must be so exhausting for you/ Mary conued, with a vague and incoherent gesture of the hand. ‘Always the alert. Ever watchful .

‘Yes, ma’am.’

T, Rather like Cerberus, you know . She broke off. This was the most tactful comparison - the dog Cerberus, eternally n ing guard over the gates of hell. She attempted to cover her

sion, told herself that Malone was unlikely to be well versed Greek mythology, had probably never even heard of Cerberus and then realized that he had. She saw amusement way back his eyes, then the bland blank look they all assumed.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You wouldn’t like a drink or anything, Mr Malone? Some er, perhapsT

‘No thank you, ma’am.’

He had moved away a few steps. He was doing another thing -#ley all did, something at which they were all skilled. He was aking himself invisible. He was fading into the wall.

‘Well, yes, of course, indeed,’ Mary said, feeling flustered, fpehng she had just made an idiot of herself. She glanced down her watch. Ten-thirty: Gini and that Lamartine man would here any minute. She felt suddenly very anxious, but her tincts as a hostess came to the fore. Going back into her large wing-room, she edged past her other guests, around the backs the two remaining bores, and crossed to the fireplace. Lise s still standing there alone.

o Dog?’ she asked, as Mary bent and put another log on the ,*e. Lise held out her hands to the flames. Mary saw that Lise Was shivering, although she was three feet from the fire and the Voorn was warm.

‘No. He’s been banished upstairs.’ Mary smiled. ‘He will beg for tit-bits. Besides, I have to face facts. I may adore him, but he’s old ,and he smells.’

‘He’s sweet,’ Lise said without great conviction. Lise had never Aiked dogs. ‘Terribly sweet. So . . - ‘

” She stopped. Apparently she could think of no appropriate Her eyes met Mary’s, in mute distress, then Lise looked away.

Mary took her arm. ‘Lise,’ she said firmly, ‘is something wrong?’ ‘Wrong? No, of course not. I’m having a perfectly lovely time.’ Mary regarded Lise carefully. She looked very beautiful tonight

in a white dress which, like all Lise’s clothes, was austere in design, It was long-sleeved, high-necked, plain. As the right frame sets off a painting, so this dress, by its simplicity, by its exquisite cut, emphasized Lise’s loveliness. She wore the necklace which had been her birthday present from John, and very little other jewellery; her black hair, worn loose, framed her face. That face, with its large dark blue eyes, now wore an anxious expression, like that of an apprehensive child. Today was Lise’s thirty-eighth birthday. She was approaching forty, had admitted to Mary on numerous occasions that this watershed filled her with dread, and she looked, Mary thought, no more than twentyfive.

Except … she was looking strained. She was becoming painfully thin, and her long beautiful hands, adorned only by her wedding ring, were still clasping that glass tightly. Her knuckles were white. As Mary looked at her, she shivered again.

‘Come on, Lise. Don’t pretend, not to me.’ Mary patted her arm. ‘You’ve been on edge all evening. I know there’s something wrong.’

Lise bit her lip like a little girl, lowered her eyes, then gave Mary a sidelong glance. ‘Oh, Mary. All right. I’ll admit it. I know it’s very stupid, but I worry so about John. All this horrible Middle East business. I just know they’re on a high-security alert, though, of course, John will never admit that. There was a bomb, you know, outside our embassy in Paris. They defused it tonight.’

‘I hadn’t heard that. It wasn’t on the news.’

‘It will be tomorrow. John told me this evening, when we were getting dressed to come here. There’s a news black-out, I think. But you see, if the Paris embassy, why not hereT

‘You mustn’t think like that, you know, Lise. I’m sure John’s perfectly safe.’ Mary gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Look at his security! Men everywhere - that nice Mr Malone outside in the hall … ‘

‘Is he niceT Lise gave her an odd look. ‘I don’t think he’s nice, not at all. They’re all so grim and silent. I hate them. Especially Frank. He’s the worst of all.’

‘I thought you liked Frank?’ Mary looked at her in surprise. ‘Don’t you remember, Lise, when we had lunch before Christmas? You said then how much you liked him. You said he was very efficient and polite.’

‘Did I say that? I don’t remember.’ Lise shivered again. ‘Well, if I did, I’ve changed my mind. He’s too efficient. It’s like some horrible shadow, always following me around.’

,,, ,Well, you don’t have to worry about him, anyway,’ Mary said n a comfortable way. ‘It’s his weekend off, I gather, so-2

6 it isT Lise swung around to look at her. ‘Who told you that? Ighn? Where’s Frank goneT

K.‘Lise, how would I know?’ Mary stared at her in surprise. ‘That ]one man mentioned it just now. I don’t know where they take

to - I can’t imagine. Maybe they get drunk for two days. Chase W

s. Ring up their aged mothers in Omaha. God knows.’ Mary Oil

pniled. ‘What do ex-Marines do with their free time? Parachuting? karget practice? Fifty-mile runsT

Marines? Frank isn’t an ex-Marine. What made you think

question was sharply put, but Mary was distracted. Across The room, there were some new arrivals, she saw - the more kntertaining guests, who always started to arrive around this hour. She made out the features of a well-known poet; there was jorneone else with him. Really, she must get some glasses … but no, it was not Gini, or that Lamartine man. A couple of actor ftiends, and - yes - that amusing little journalist man, editor of one of London’s more scurrilous magazines. She must remember ko keep h i m well away from John.

‘I’m sorrvT She turned back to Lise. ‘I was just looking for Gini. What did you say, LiseT

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ ‘No, what was it?’

‘Oh, just Frank. He isn’t a Marine. He was never a Marine.’

i ‘Oh. I thought they all were … ‘ Mary looked back across the ivorn. The two remaining bores were now by the hall. Time to detach them …

;,. ‘Frank used to work for John’s father. Didn’t you know thatT Use was now staring at her in a fixed, almost suspicious way, as If she thought Mary was hiding something from her.

r ‘No. No, I didn’t/ Mary said, frowning.

‘Oh.’ Lise shivered again. ‘Well, he did. John’s father wasn’t satisfied with the security arrangements when John took this post. You know how he is.’

‘I do indeed.’

i ‘fie insisted the official security people be supplemented. Frank was one of the ones who came over.’ She stopped, and looked directly into Mary’s eyes. ‘John never mentioned that to youT ‘No, Lise. He didn’t.’

Lise gave a tremulous sigh. Her gaze fell. ‘Oh. I just wondered.

It’s just - you and John are such good friends. You see each other all the time.’

Mary stared at her in astonishment. For a moment, she had sounded almost jealous. Use,’ she said firmly, ‘I’ve known John since he was ten years old. I’m a fat frumpy old widow, and John’s been very kind to me since Richard died. When he comes to see me, he does it to cheer me up. Which he’s very good at, incidentally. We don’t sit here talking about his security people. Why on earth should weT

Lise sensed the reproach at once. She gave Mary a shy smile, and took her arm. ‘Oh, Mary, Mary, I’m being such an idiot tonight. I didn’t mean - I’m so glad you are John’s friend. He gets very tense, and he needs someone to talk to .

‘He has you to talk to, Lise.’

Lise did not reply. Her dark eyes met Mary’s and for one appalling moment Mary thought she was about to cry. Mary watched her fight back the tears, then Lise moved away with an odd defensive gesture of the hand. She was carrying a small evening bag under her arm. She opened it, and began to fumble inside. ‘Actually/ she said. ‘Actually, I think I have one of my headaches coming on. Those hideous migraine things … ‘

‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to go home? Let me have a word with John-‘

‘No. No. Don’t do that.’ For a second Lise looked terrified; she almost dropped the bag. ‘No. He’d be so cross. I know he’s looking forward to meeting Gini properly. And, of course, so am 1. 1 have these wonderful little pills. My miracle pills … Ah, here they are. Truly, Mary. One of these and a glass of water, and I’ll be just fine … ‘

Her manner had grown hectic, and her hands were shaking. Quietly, feeling troubled, Mary fetched her some water. She glanced back towards the hall, checked the room as she did so. The last bores, thank heaven, had left - and without saying goodbye. Bores, and bad-mannered, she thought. John was talking to the two actors; she heard the words Academy Awards. Everyone was occupied, had a drink; someone else was just arriving now.

She handed Lise the glass of Malvern water. Lise appeared calmer now. She swallowed the small white pill, and gave Mary a grateful glance. She too looked across the room.

‘Is that GiniT she said. ‘Oh yes, it must be - how pretty she is, Mary. What a lovely dress. And who’s that man with herT

Mary sighed. ‘He’s a photographer, I gather,’ she said. ‘He’s n . His name’s Pascal Lamartine.’

Chow nice. I love France. I must talk to him later.’ Lise was now g off, towards the editor of the scurrilous magazine. Mary her firmly by the arm and redirected her towards the poet.

fyou remember,’ she said. ‘You’ve met before, Lise. Stephen. He a new collection of poems just out … ‘

e has? What’s it calledT Lise said, and Mary smiled. Lise was y recovering, her instincts reasserting themselves. ,Reflections.’

anks.’ Lise gave her a sudden amused glance, a sidelong . She approached the poet, and held out her hand.

tephen/ Mary heard. ‘How lovely. I was hoping you’d be here. tions is wonderful. John and I both love it. No, really, we were g it together, this evening. Yes, before we came here .

tell me, M. Lamartine, are you staying in London long?’

m not sure. Maybe a few more days only. Maybe a few ks … ‘

scal looked down at Mary, this stepmother of Gini’s. She not, somehow, what he had expected. For no very good n, he had imagined that any woman previously married

Hunter would be tall, elegant and forceful. This woman none of these things. She was short, no more than five feet and she was far from elegant. She was plump, and rather dressed in a very English way, in that she was wearing an ttering dress of some pale material which needed ironing. had white hair which stood up around her face in a fierce

fty halo. She had a superb English complexion, was wearing make-up, and she was smiling at him. The smile, as yet, did t reach her eyes, which were a clear blue and had been fixed

n him since he’d entered the room not two minutes before. scal’s immediate impression had been of vagueness and slight ntricity. That impression was now being revised. She had eted Gini and himself with warm affection and a blizzard of rds. There had been a flurry of hand gestures. Nevertheless, noted, Gini had somehow been detached from him with speedy iciency, and was now talking to John Hawthorne. He himself, realized, had also been detached, and was now backed into a mer by the fireplace. To his right was the fire, to his left was huge, ancient, sagging chintz-covered armchair, and in front of m, cutting off all possible means of escape, was this fierce plump

little woman. Pascal looked down at her, puzzled. Then he began to understand. She reminded him, suddenly, of his mother, and he had seen just that expression on his mother’s face in times past. It was how she had looked - exactly how she had looked - whenever as a young man he’d brought girls home. Pascal smiled.

Mary looked up at him. It was, she thought, a disarming smile, but she had no intention of being disarmed. True, this Frenchman was not what she had envisioned - not at all. For a start he didn’t look right. Mary had a vivid imagination, and she had had twelve years in which to summon up this man in her mind’s eye. She had not examined the material John Hawthorne had given her at all closely, and so the image of Lamartine conjured up at the time of Beirut was unimpaired. A French womanizer, Mary had decided twelve years before; she knew the type only too well. Good-looking, smarmy, with ghastly come-to-bed eyes. Mary had never actually met a Frenchman like that, but she was perfectly certain that’s how they were. Apart from the fact that he was good-looking, very good-looking - though he could have done with a haircut and a much closer shave - this Lamartine was none of these things. His manner was, if anything, slightly cool and distanced. His behaviour to Gini as they entered had been charming and correct. He had entered at her side, one hand at her elbow, to help steer her past the crush of other guests. On being introduced to Mary, he had shaken her hand, bent his head slightly in that rather delightful way some Frenchmen had, and said politely, ‘Madame.’

Not smarmy, Mary decided. She blinked. And not in his forties either, which he would have been had Sam given her his correct age. He was considerably younger, in his mid-thirties, she judged. Damn Sam, she thought, and damn my wretched eyesight. She peered up at Lamartine. He did not look in the least like some cheap womanizer. He did not have ghastly come-to-bed eyes. In fact, now that she looked more closely, he had rather good eyes, of a smoky-grey colour. Their expression was ironic, quizzical, as if something was amusing him … With a start, Mary realized that she was inspecting him in a quite unforgivable way. She took a step backwards. Lamartine’s smile broadened. He had, she thought, a really rather wonderful smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, speaking with great rapidity, and waving her hands. ‘It’s just … You’re not what I expected at all .

‘And you are not what I expected/ he replied.

‘You see/ Mary continued, rushing on, and trying to avoid the