Lovers and Liars (45 page)

Mary had finally reached their table. She looked down at Lise in consternation. Lise wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and rose to her feet. She embraced Mary warn-dy, then kissed Gini.

‘I’m sorry, Mary/ she said. ‘The tears just started, and then I couldn’t stop. I miss the boys so … I’ll go home now with Malone. Thank you both. This has helped, really it has … ‘

Without another word, she picked up her coat, and began to walk through the restaurant. Mary hurried after her but by the time she reached the door, the car was pulling away with Lise and Malone in the back.

Mary stood watching the car disappear. When she turned back to Gini, there were tears of sympathy in her eyes. She pressed Gini’s hand.

I fear for her,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid for her, Gini. Two such marvellous people - and now this. All that good work she does, all that love she’s poured into her marriage - and now this. Life is cruel, Gini, don’t you think?’

‘People are/ Gini replied, but Mary did not hear her.

CAI. ii,u) been speaking to Gini on the telephone in his wife’s C

g-room. He put down the receiver, stared into the silence for ile, then returned to the kitchen. Helen was sitting where he left her, at the table, her head slumped in her hands.

11 sta),, Helen/ he said at last. ‘It’s all right, I won’t leave you e. I’ll stay tonight and maybe tomorrow - until we’re both she’s better.’

n gave him a blank look. Her face was tear-stained. When

sat down opposite her, he could still detect the faint lunchal

mell of wine on her breath. A clock was ticking. The room s

Itsn; as white, as hygienic, as an operating theatre. Upstairs, S

nne was now sleeping peacefully, her English nanny keeping na

h. It was half-past eight, and it felt like a week since he’d ed at the house.

kliv ‘Scarlet fever/ Helen said, in a dull voice. ‘I don’t understand. ne gets that. Not any more … ‘

It’s unusual, but it responds to penicillin. Helen, don’t cry any . The crisis is over. She’ll be all right, the doctor said.’

I wasn’t here.’ Helen looked away. ‘I wasn’t here and I re

‘t forgive myself for that.’

Helen, you can’t be here all the time. I was here. And I wasn’t -great deal of use either . He gave a helpless shrug.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She raised her eyes to look at him. ‘You did your best. It’s never happened before. I wouldn’t have known what to do either. Sponge her down, give more aspirin sooner … I wouldn’t have known that.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you make me some tea, Pascal? It might stop me feeling sick.’

Pascal made the tea. All the time he was doing so, he could feel her watching him.

Eventually, in a stiff way, she said, ‘I haven’t always been fair to you, Pascal. I do realize that. In my better mornents.’ She gave a shrug.

‘I realize too.’ Pascal passed her the tea. He produced a tired smile. ‘In my better moments, I see where I went wrong. What I did.’

‘Do youT She sipped the tea, gave him a long considering look. ‘Well, it’s in the past now, Pascal, anyway. It’s just .

She hesitated. He watched her fight back the tears. Helen hated to show weakness.

When she had succeeded in controlling the tears, she said, ‘I’m not good at showing affection any more. Even with Marianne. I’ve lost the knack.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘No, you’re wrong. It is.’ She paused, her colour deepening, then began speaking again, rushing past the words, as if she had to admit this, but hated to do so. ‘It’s because I’m afraid. That’s why. I always think, if I show any love, sooner or later it will get thrown back in my face. No, don’t say anything. It’s not your fault. I was always like that. Long before I married you.’

Pascal looked at her wordlessly. After a moment, he reached across and took her hand. ‘Helen/ he began. ‘Why did you never tell me that? If we’d talked more, been more open with each other … ‘

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. We were never right for each other. I know that. You know that. There it is.’

Pascal removed his hand. They looked at each other. Helen gave a sad smile.

‘You see? We both know it’s true. That’s a kind of progress, at least. You see,’ she looked away, ‘I was hoping, Pascal, I have been hoping, that I could change. Learn actually to trust someone, perhaps. There’s another reason why I want to go back to England.’

There was silence. Pascal counted the seconds. He said, ‘I see. You’ve met someone elseT

s, I have.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s a good man. Very English, reliable, very steady. Not as exciting as you were - but I don’t excitement any more. Not now. I want peace.’

-can understand that.’

ou canT She looked surprised. ‘The thing is, I wouldn’t rush anything, I promise you. I’d be very sure this time before I *tted myself.’

e wants to marry youT

e says he does. I met him today, it’s him I was meeting. talked about it then. I told him he’d have to be patient. And . be … ‘ A tiny flurry of emotion passed across her face. s a kind man, Pascal. I think you’d like him. He’d be good to anne. He has children, too, he’s a widower. He wouldn’t try

lace you - nothing like that. He’s sensitive and kind and a bit dull and it would ease the money situation for you, and Pascal. I’m only thirty-one. I have to have a life.’

know that.’ Pascal stared down at the white table in front He tried to tell himself that he had known this was

you mean thatT

scal looked up. He frowned. ‘Yes, I do, oddly enough. Since t saw you I’ve had time to think. So much bitterness - I never ted it to be like that. It shouldn’t be like that for Marianne’s I

rs too.’ She looked at him closely. ‘And we did like each once. Almost loved each other. For a time. You were good , after the miscarriage. Under all the pain and the bitterness

t, I did know that. And tonight, when I came back, when I your face … ‘ She broke off. ‘I do know how much you love anne, Pascal. And I hope you know I love her too.’

e bent her head, and began to cry a little. Then she wiped eyes, and straightened.

could talk to the lawyers,’ she said, in a stiff way. ‘I’d be pared to do that. When I’m in England we could alter - the dy arrangements to make it easier for you … ‘

scal hesitated. He looked at the table. He moved his teacup ard then back. ‘If I were living in England,’ he began slowly. I made Fngland my base, would you object to thatT

England?‘She looked astonished, then frowned. ‘No, I suppose ouIdn’t object. I don’t want you next door, or in the next village, ousl%,.’

hyou know I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She paused. ‘Well, I suppose it might work out. Marianne would be pleased. You never know … ‘ She gave him a dry look. ‘We n-dght even end up friends, Pascal. Stranger things have happened. I must say I’m surprised though. England? You? Whatever draws you to EnglandT

‘Oh, the past. The future/ Pascal hesitated, his face suddenly anxious. ‘May I use your phone again?’ he asked.

Gini returned to her flat at ten. There was a pile of mail on her mat. She stood in the centre of her living-room holding it. Outside, footsteps passed, then a car. She tried to tell herself that this was her home. But it did not feel like her home; it did not feel safe.

When Pascal telephoned to explain he could not return, he had tried to persuade her to stay at Mary’s that night. She had refused, and when she did so, had felt a rebellious anger in herself. She would not be driven out of her own space by a breakin, by the fear of what she had seen in Venice the previous night. Let them send their sick parcels, and their sick audiotapes. Pascal had phoned back twice at Mary’s to try to dissuade her, but she refused to back down. ‘I will not be made a fugitive/ she had said. And that was fine, when Mary was near by, just through in the kitchen, clattering plates. It was less fine now she was alone, and it was night.

She locked and bolted both front and back doors. She checked that all the windows were securely fastened. She drew the curtains and the blinds, moving swiftly from room to room, still in her overcoat. She fit the fire, switched on every lamp, tossed the pile of letters onto her desk, removed her overcoat, looked around her, and at once felt better. It might be foolish, but with the curtains drawn she felt more secure; at least she knew she could not be watched.

Napoleon was sitting on the sofa watching these activities. When she crossed to him, he turned away his topaz eyesand flicked his tail. Cats could speak, Gini thought, in their way, and every line of Napoleon’s body indicated reproach.

He did not like to be left; with her neighbour Mrs Henshaw absent too, he clearly felt doubly abandoned. Gini stroked him, and kissed his marmalade ears, but Napoleon refused to be mollified. He gave her a cold feline stare. Then, as if other priorities had just occurred to him, he leapt to the floor, and made his way to the kitchen at a dignified pace.

He had ignored the food she had left for him, but Gini, who had anticipated this, had brought an offering from Mary’s. A

poached salmon, Napoleon’s favourite dish. The instant he ed it, he licked his lips. By the time he had eaten it, exited gh the cat-flap to the yard beyond, explored the dank and orous dustbins in the lane beyond that, and returned, his ur was restored. He followed Gini back into the living-room, leapt up onto her lap.

ini yawned and stretched. She would just go through her mail, decided - it was sure to be bills - and then have an early night. he morning she intended to go to the News offices first thing:

was work to do, leads to follow, and there were certain stions she was eager - very eager - to ask Nicholas Jenkins. ch as, who else knew they were assigned to this story, because, ite obviously, he had lied and someone did.

he began to leaf through the letters. Circulars. Bills. There re a couple of invitations, a couple of postcards; the first, that unmemorable man friend now in Australia, she read

ckly then tossed to one side. The second … She stared at second. Who had sent her this?

n the front of it was a reproduction of a painting by Uccello. showed, quaintly and with charm, a mounted St George slaying ragon. Close by stood the maiden he was saving. She stood the mouth of a cave, waiting calmly for the dragon’s death. eenth century, Florentine school. It was a famous painting, and Gini knew well. The perspective and proportions were naive:

George and the dragon were large, the lady small. Gini turned postcard over; the message was brief and neatly written:

Do vou remember those three books I lent you? Could you’let me have them back when you’re next in Oxford? Need them for revision - ugh! Thanks for the pasta the other week. You make a great bolognese - the best! See you soon. Don’t work too hard. Take care.

Lots of love, Jacob.

16ni stared at the card. She knew no-one named Jacob, she knew

0-one studying at Oxford; she had borrowed no books from Oayone recently, and it was at least a year since she had served hyone - it had been Lindsay in any case - spaghetti bolognese. She turned the card this way and that. An Italian painting, hough it was not identified as such on the card; three books. lould it be? Was this McMullen’s way of contacting her? She

looked at her other mail - the bills, the brochures. They showed no signs of being tampered with, but then they wouldn’t, of course. If he had wanted to contact her, what could be more apparently innocuous than an open postcard, a postcard with a cheery inconsequential message from some friend, little different from that other postcard from Australia.

She looked at the postcard more closely, and then realized: of course - Jacob. And her mind slid back to her hated English boarding-school, to the Latin lessons, to the history lessons. The Latin form of the name ‘James’ was Jacobus. It had been used by English kings, James 1, James 11 - Jacobus rex.

It was cunning, she thought - too cunning. If this was some form of coded message it was not one she understood. Which sentences carried hidden meanings, and which were there purely for decoration? She seemed to be being pointed towards Oxford, that was simple enough, and back yet again to those three books left out on McMullen’s desk. But what did ‘revision’ mean? Were the references to Italian food important or unimportant?

Puzzled, she retrieved the piece of paper she had found in McMullen’s apartment. She looked at the numbers, she considered the three books, she looked back at the postcard. It still made no sense. One of the books had been The Oxford Book of Modern Verse. Oxford again - and Milton twice, if she included the paperback found in Venice. Milton and Oxford, a Carson McCullers novel. Perhaps the first set of numbers were page references, she thought, and the second referred to words on those pages. If so, she was thwarted; to check, she needed those editions, those books. Surely it had to be simpler than that? She sat there for an hour, and she could feel her brain starting to lock.

Around midnight, she gave up. She left all the lights in the living-room on - it felt safer - and went to bed.

Even then, she could not sleep. She lay in the semi-darkness, light driffing through the doorway, Napoleon curled up on her feet. She stared at the ceiling, and the details of this story went round and round in her mind. She saw those brass buttons on Frank Romero’s jacket, then Lise Hawthorne’s anguished white face. She went back to that first conversation with Nicholas Jenkins, and remembered a phrase he had used then.

The patterns of obsessive behaviour, he had said. It was not a comforting phrase, Gini thought. She had interviewed some people in the past who might be described as obsessives, and she thought

th em now. The man serving a life sentence in Broadmoor r

n for the Criminally Insane, for instance, who had lived with his dog in a North London flat, and who always aphed himself embracing his victims’ bodies before he

mbered and disposed of them.

had had his rules: all his boy victims were under twenty, e