Lovers and Liars (10 page)

‘Friends/ Gini began in a rush. ‘We can work together as friends,

114brely? We always said that was how it would be - if we met again. ‘0*o bitterness. No recriminations.’

‘Is that what we saidT

‘It was. You know it was. More or less.’

‘Maybe. I remember it rather differently.’ It was his turn to look away. He frowned up at the sky, then turned back with a shrug. ‘Still. Friends. I’m sure you’re right. Reporters. Colleagues. Tout a fait, les professionels, toi et moi.’

‘Pascal, please don’t speak French.’

‘You used to speak it once.’ He smiled. ‘Bad grammar, the accent not so good - but you still spoke it. I can still hear the sound of your voice. Gini-!

‘No. Don’t do this. I won’t work with you if you do this.’ She had raised her voice. It echoed around the courtyard. Pascal seemed about to argue, then reconsidered. Gini thought: He has changed; he would have argued once. -She glanced toward him; there was a tired grey resignation on his face.

‘It throws me,’ he said simply. ‘It throws me badly, meeting you like this.’

‘I know.’ She set her lips. ‘Me too. We’ll get over that.’

There was defiance in her tone; Pascal ignored it. He made no comment. Turning, he began to walk back towards the gates. Gini fell into step beside him. Behind them, from the News offices, a cold fluorescence spilled into the dusk. As they reached her small Volkswagen Beetle, Pascal said, ‘I’m divorced now.’

‘I know. I heard. Someone in the office mentioned it. I thought of writing to you to say how sorry I was. I am sorry, Pascal.’

‘It happens.’ His tone was flat. Then his face lightened. ‘I still see my daughter, of course. Marianne. She’s seven now. She lives with my wife, but I see her every week. In the holidays . He paused. ‘You never married, thenT

‘No. I never married. I live alone. Maybe I’m not the marrying type. You know how it is.’

There was another silence. How awkward we are, Gini thought, and how bleak we sound. She opened her bag, and began to rummage inside it for her car keys.

‘I used to think of you,’ Pascal said, in a sudden abrupt way. ‘I’d see articles you wrote. I could see you were doing well. I was glad. I always wanted you to succeed. To be happy. I hope you know that was the case—2

‘I am happy/Gini replied quickly. ‘I’m fine. Everything’s worked out very well. Listen, I should go, Pascal. We’ve got work to do. I think I’ll go over to the Press Association, go through the clippings on the Hawthornes. And you’ll want to check in at your hotel. Can I give you a hft?’

‘No, no. There’s a cab pulling in. I’ll take that.’

He signalled to the taxi-driver. Gini still fumbled for her keys in her overflowing bag. Her fingers touched wrapping paper, a box, the cold metal of a pair of handcuffs. She had almost forgotten this parcel. She fumbled again, and found the keys at last. When she looked up, she found Pascal was still watching her, a slight frown on his face.

‘Your father? How is he?’ he asked. ‘Well, I hope.’

‘My father’s at the Washington bureau now. Drinking just a little bit more. I rarely see him. You don’t have to be polite.’ ‘And your stepmother? She lives in the country still?’

‘No. In London. She remarried some years ago. Very happily. Her husband died last year. So ies been hard for her. But she’s Ighting back. She’s like that.’ She paused. ‘You’d like her, I think. You should meet her anyway.’

I ‘I shouldT He looked surprised.

‘Oh yes. She might help us. She’s the reason Jenkins put me

9n this story. She’s the “contact” Jenkins mentioned.’

Your stepmother?’

‘Yes. Mary’s known the Hawthorne family for forty years at least. They’re old old friends. She and Hawthorne are very close. ki

It was through Mary that I met him. At her house, at her party.’ J

A look she could not quite interpret crossed Pascal’s face. ‘Oh, of course/ he said. ‘All those family connections of yours. Instant

‘I don’t advertise them, Pascal.

‘I’m sure you don’t.’

‘Mary’s nothing like my father, in any case. And my father . broke off. ‘Pascal. You shouldn’t have blamed him.’

‘I didn’t blame him.’ He spoke sharply. ‘I blamed myself.’ Across

4he yard the taxi-driver leaned on his horn. ‘Damn.’ Pascal glanced er his shoulder. ‘He’s getting impatient, I’d better go. And Wd better hurry, if you want to go through the clippings on wthorne. The files will be a foot thick. So… ‘ He turned to

ce at her. ‘What shall we do? Would you like to meet later? we have dinner tonight?’

‘No, not toni

ght. I’m going out tonight. Let’s make a start in

1he morning. Call me then. You’ve got the numberT

She stopped. Another memory had come back. For an instant felt on her skin the heat of a Beirut summer. Sometimes, when was working, Pascal would be away all night. If he was, he

I-.ays called her hotel first thing in the morning. He always ed at eight. She always picked up on the first ring. That was

their ritual. Darling, can you come over now? I got the pictures. It’s all right. I’m safe. She turned away. These memories hurt.

Pascal hesitated, as if about to say more, then moved off to the waiting cab. Over his shoulder, from a few yards off, he said, ‘I’ll call in the morning. I’ll call at eight.’

Inside her little Beetle it was cold. The seats felt damp. Gini switched on the windscreen wipers. She watched the cab pull away, then disappear through the gates. She switched off the car engine. Water rattled against the car roof. The windscreen became a blur. She slumped against the steering wheel, and covered her face.

She felt tense with the effort of concealment. If she had known she was to meet him, then she would have coped so much better, she thought. It was hard to be greeted by him as an acquaintance, a virtual stranger, yet if she had had time she could have prepared for that.

She straightened, started the engine once more and looked out across this prison-yard place. It was twelve years since Beirut, and five since the last occasion, the only other occasion, when they had met. Sitting outside a caf6 on a wide Paris boulevard on the left bank. It had been a day of bright sunshine, the light dazzled in the street. And she had not been alone, she had been with another journalist, an Englishman much older than herself. Her affair with him had been uneasy and quarrelsome from the first; the visit to Paris had not improved things. They had spent much of the previous night arguing, and all of the morning. As she sat outside the caf6, she was trying to blot out the stream of accusations that came from her left. She had been thinking: In a moment, I’ll just stand up and leave. Then I’ll never need to see him again. And she looked away, up the boulevard, with its plane trees, watching the passing people, and her eyes focused on a single family group.

They were walking towards her at a leisurely pace, a tall darkhaired man, a darkhaired woman, and their child. The man had his arms around the woman’s shoulders; the woman was pushing a buggy with a little girl in it. The child was laughing, and waving her fists. She looked about two years old, Gini thought. It was their ease, their evident contentment, which drew her eye. She watched them approach, the little girl was wearing a bright blue frock, a little pinafore - and then she realized. It was Pascal who was laughing at something this woman had just said to him. It was Pascal who took one of her hands, and swung it, and increased his

pace. It was Pascal, who stopped just a few yards away, turned to her, said something, and kissed her upturned face.

The shock was acute. She had known that he was married; Yshe had heard he had a child; until that moment she had not understood what she had lost.

She had looked away quickly, and bent her head. She told herself that he would not notice her, and that if he did, he would walk on by, but he did not. He stopped, hesitated, and then he spoke.

4,’,,;’ She did not want to remember the scene after that. The stiff introductions, the meaningless exchanges, the fixed and glassy smiles. The air eddied with undercurrents. Pascal’s wife’s face became tight. The little girl began to cry. Eventually, the family group moved off. Beside her, her companion knocked back his drink.

‘Well, well, well/ he said. ‘Pascal Lamartine, no less. So tell me, when did you screw him - and don’t bother denying it, Gini. It was written all over your face. And his.’

She had not said one word. She simply rose and walked away. ‘As she did so, she felt the headiest relief. She ran back to their hotel, packed her bags, and left. The man was completely unim—

ant. Now, still sitting in her car, she could scarcely remember name let alone his face.

Aut that glimpse of marital happiness - she could remember t`-,.Aat only too clearly. Looking across the wet yard, she watched -gesture by gesture, Pascal’s other life. When, just a few minutes

h had mentioned his daughter, he had made no reference r, er, e

“-7,,`Jb the incident. Perhaps he had forgotten it, forgotten she had

40w, seen his wife or Marianne.

it was likely, to be expected. Releasing the brake, she drove -ard, and out of the gates.

cal’s hotel turned out to be in Park Lane. It was large, efficient, mational and anonymous. He had been assigned a business with two telephones and a fax machine. His life was now in similar hotel rooms. He felt he could move around them dfolded. It took him two seconds to unpack.

e checked his cameras, dialled room service, and told them to g some food at eight. He showered, changed, inspected the pled garments in the closets, and resolved to reform. Would want to work with a man who looked as if he’d slept the night

in a hedge? No, she would not. He rang the valet service, feeling proud of himself, gestured grandly at the closets.

‘Take them away/ he said. ‘All of them. I want them all cleaned and pressed. Oh, and the shirts laundered. Can you do thatT

The valet smiled and said he could. He made no comment when he opened the closet doors to find it contained three ancient shirts, three pairs of blue jeans, and innumerable pairs of odd socks.

‘The leather jacket as well, would it be, sirT

Pascal ran his hands through his hair, so it stood on end. ‘No. Maybe not the jacket. It’s cold. I’ll need this.’

‘Replace the missing buttons on the shirts, sirT ‘That is possible? Superb.’

‘If you’ll be staying with us some while, sir, I could make a suggestion .

‘One week. Two weeks. Maybe more. What?’

‘There is a very good shop in the hotel arcade, sir. It sells excellent gentlemen’s clothing

‘Suits?’ Pascal said, on a suspicious note.

‘More your actual informal wear, sir. I think you’d find it to your taste. It stays open until eight.’

‘Excellent.’ Pascal gave the man a very generous tip. He went downstairs at once. He inspected the shop in question warily, since clothes did not interest him in the least, and he bought them rarely, only when the previous garments gave up the ghost. Steeling himself, he went inside and began grabbing things from shelves.

‘These/ he said, ‘and these. And three of these. And those over there .

The pile on the counter mounted. The assistant watched hirn, straight-faced. ‘They’re all black, sir. You’re sure you-!

‘Yes, yes, black/ said Pascal, proffering plastic. He was already bored with this. ‘Everything black. It’s simpler like that.’

The assistant knew a pushover when he saw one: customers in a hurry were usually the best. Besides, this customer would be a pleasure to advise: he was tall, lean, rangy. He deserved to be well dressed.

‘If I might make a few suggestions, sir? To complement these purchases. A classic white shirt, perhaps? We have Turnbull and Asser in stock. And a nice tie to go with it. Knitted silk is back …

Pascal was not aware that knitted silk had ever been away. He gave the man a blank look. ‘Ties? Ties? I never wear ties .

‘For a dinner engagement, sir? Or a business meeting, perhapsT Pascal hesitated. He had a sudden vision of Gini seated next to him at a candlelit table. He and Gini were drinking champagne and eating wonderful food. Gini looked rapturously happy.

Women liked to be taken to restaurants, he thought vaguely. He frowned.

‘A tie,’ he said in a meditative tone. ‘A tie. Yes, maybe you are

‘And then, sir, we have the new Armani jackets just in. The look, with just a fraction more tailoring than last

Year. Now this one here . ‘He produced a jacket. Unfortunately iftscal looked at the price tag. An expression of pure horror came vpon his face.

‘Ah no. Here I draw the line. Impossible. Unthinkable. Inde—

4ensible. I have a leather jacket upstairs.’

,;,‘Ah Yes. But for that dinner engagement, sir? Would the leather ieally be suitable? This is cashmere, of course.’

t . Pascal still looked shaken, and unconvinced. Inspiration came Ito the assistant.

then it would last, sir, there’s always that. Classic styling, b f b * . Ten years from now, you could still be wearing it.’ rper a ric

Pascal was less nafve than he seemed. He knew an astute sales ji,.,ptch when he heard one, and he smiled at this. He made a quick —vdcula

tion: perhaps it could be justified, this once. He added the shirt, the knitted tie and the jacket to the pile.

suffit. Not a sock, not a belt, not an item more. Enough.’

N,‘Jtetuming to his hotel room, Pascal made an effort. He actually

11,-iwng up the new clothes. Then they made him feel guilty, and

ondent - restaurant, what restaurant? He’d probably never -0,

n take Gini to a restaurant. They would work together during day, and then in the evenings she’d go out with whoever was new man in her life. He glowered at the foolish clothes and t the door on them at once.

Work, he said to himself, and he set himself to work. He could I the memories, just there at the edge of his consciousness, he wanted them no closer. Work would keep them at bay. opened his heavy address book and began to run down the es of contacts. Forget Beirut, forget that small square bare m above the harbour, forget everything that happened there. t was in another country, in another life.