Lovers and Liars (11 page)

He closed his eyes briefly. For an instant he saw Gini, the Gini had known then. She was standing, quietly, near the window. was dawn, the shutters were closed, and the pale outline of her

d body was striped with the pinkish light from the louvres. was watching him, silently, a little sadly, as he slept. Waking,

seeing her, he at once ached to hold her. He lifted his hand to her.

‘Darling. Don’t worry. Don’t be sad. We’ll find a solution. I love you. Come back to bed.’

He swore under his breath, closed the address book, opened it again. The memory faded, eased away, but he knew it would come back. Names, contacts, he said to himself. Somewhere in this address book there would be someone who could help with the Hawthorne story. Someone - but who? Of all these numbers

- which?

Pascal’s contacts were his life blood. They had to be better than those of his competitors: his contacts, as much as his camera skills, kept him ahead of the pack. These connections spanned the social scale: at one end were the hostesses, the party-givers, the jet-set pleasure-seekers; at the other end were those who serviced the needs of the first - the private plane pilots, the chauffeurs, the hotel clerks, the ski-instructors, the security operatives, the maids, nannies and gardeners - all those who quietly, efficiently and invisibly served the whims and caprices of the rich.

The night-club owners, the croupiers, the swimming-pool servicers, the golf pros, the tennis coaches, the vendeuses, the call-girls: it was a huge and useful underclass. Pascal had experienced the pulse of their resentment. Their banked hostility to their employers no longer surprised him. Like them, he had learned from proximity. He had little sympathy for the hypocrisies of the privileged and powerful, little sympathy for the sublime carelessness of the rich.

He paid well and promptly for information received. Sometimes the advantage this gave him amused him, and sometimes it disgusted him. His mother, tough, forthright and uncompromising, had attacked him for this work, right up to and including the day of her death.

‘Once your work meant something/ she said. ‘Now what are you? A jackal, a hyena, une espce de parasite.’

Pascal had not replied. He was adding bills in his head. French lawyers. English lawyers. A house in the suburbs that cost five million francs he didn’t have. A house - or so the French lawyer believed, so Helen had said - which would make his ex-wife happy and keep her in France. Keep Marianne in France, near by, near him, at a French school, speaking French.

This had mattered to him once, passionately. Now even that achievement, that attempt to rescue some security for his child from the wreckage of the marriage, even that might be lost.

Pascal flicked through the pages of his address book, closed it ,.,again.

,,‘If there was no wrong-doing, Maman, I would have no … ‘ He had said that once, twenty times. ‘People lie, ry

man. They cheat. They double-cross. My photographs show doing that. They show the truth.’

His mother had not deigned to answer him, and Pascal, shamed, d turned away. Better not to try to justify this work, although it d be justified, perhaps. He needed money and this paid better wars or deprivation. There was an inexhaustible appetite for

*ese stories. He was in tune with his society’s values: let that be excuse.

f,,He stood up, and switched on the television. On the news ,Orwarnme were reports from several Middle Eastern countries. ‘The previous week, Israeli troops had .opened up on a village

the occupied territories: sixteen Arabs had died, two of them sible terrorists, and five of them children. The incident had ed while the latest round of US-Israeli talks was proceeding.

ased US aid to Israel, and a boost in US arms supplies were ely rumoured to be part of the new package. The anti-US onstrations had begun in Egypt, in Syria, now in Iraq and outside the US embassies, outside the premises of US busies. Pascal watched his past in his present: the processions, placards, the slogans, the burial of the dead.

n London, the latest IRA bombing campaign was continuing. bomb had been defused in a van outside Victoria Station. In ssels, EEC ministers had met to … In the West Country, re flooding had … Pascal rose and switched off the set. spent some time on the telephone to various contacts of his,

cluding one - formerly the madame of an exquisite brothel in the enth arrondissement of Paris, who might know where a powerman would go, once a month, to hire blondes for a liaison with

-masochistic overtones. The results of the calls might prove ful, but for the moment were inconclusive. Pascal stood, and d at the wall of his hotel room. He thought of Genevieve; he

the music of that small room above a dance hall in Beirut. t seven, needing air, feeling trapped, he left the hotel and the streets for a while. He passed through a silent Mayfair . ed the brilliant empty shops of Oxford Street. He thought

walked at random, without purpose or direction, but this not the case. His footsteps led him to Grosvenor Square, to the US embassy there.

He halted, and watched the building from across the street. Rain now fell heavily, in a thick curtain. Lights still blazed from the office windows with their protective bomb-blast curtaining. Outside the main doorway, at the head of the steps, two Marines stood on guard. This was unusual; Pascal stared. He could see the startling white of their puttees, the glint of their cap badges. The front of the building was floodlit. Pascal’s eyes moved up to where the bronze eagle, wings outspread, soared along the roof-line.

Protective in its attitude, yet predatory: Pascal regarded it with distrust. Eagles, hammers, sickles - he disliked the icons of imperialism. He shifted his eyes higher to the flagpole, with its stars and stripes.

The Marines alerted him. He heard the stamp of their feet as they came to attention. As he lowered his gaze, the doors were already swinging back.

A cluster of men in dark coats was moving rapidly down the steps. At the foot of those steps, a long black limousine had drawn up, engine running, doors open. Two operatives were already in position, one at the front of the car, one at the back, their practised eyes raking the square.

Still the cluster of men came down the steps. Then, just by the car, as if at a hidden signal, the group parted and drew aside. One of the bodyguards raised his arm and spoke into his wrist-mike. For half a second - no more - one man stood alone on the brink of the car. Light caught his pale hair. Then he ducked and was inside the car, the door was closed, and the limousine was pulling away from the pavement.

Fast, discreet, one back-up car, no outriders. From across the square, Pascal had that half-second to glimpse the ambassador’s face.

Pure chance - but he had glimpsed his quarry. Pascal turned, and retraced his steps.

AT Miss Hunter? Miss Genevieve HunterT said the telephone

e line was bad. The voice was interrupted by a series of clicks. evieve shook the receiver. She had been back in her flat less five minutes. Her cat was demanding food. She still had her on. She didn’t recognize the voice.

t? Yes. Yes, that’s me . s George, Miss Hunter.’ o? George whoT

orge from ICD. The courier service.’ He sounded reproachful. told me to call.’

that George. I’m sorry.’ Gini struggled out of her coat. the receiver under her chin, she negotiated her livingIt was not tidy. Books and papers had spilled over on to

chairs; more piles of papers lay in wait underfoot. She made it tiny kitchen, Napoleon - a demanding cat - rubbing against ,legs. ‘I’ve only just got in. I wasn’t thinking. Can you hear that

t? It’s my cat. Demanding food. Go on talking. Ignore him. listening, I’m just trying to find a tin-opener.‘And a tin.’

ell, I made my enquiries.’ George sounded conspiratorial. He Gini thought, enjoying this. She found a tin of cat food, ted to open it one-handed, and gave a cry.

‘What’s the matterT

‘Nothing. I just cut myself on this damn can, that’s all. Go on.’

‘The parcel went out from the City office, like I said. It was one of a batch of four, apparently.’

‘Four?’ ‘That’s tight. All identical, the supervisor said. Same wrapping, all used sealingwax. He remembered that.’

‘There were four? That’s odd.’ Gini spooned the cat-food into Napoleon’s bowl, and set it down by the sink. Napoleon stopped mewing and began in a fastidious but determined way to eat.

‘Four.’ Gini smiled. ‘You think they were all handcuffs?’ ‘Articles of clothing, that’s what the form sa ‘id. The other three all went abroad. I couldn’t find out much more than that.’

‘You couldn’t get addressesT

‘No. That side of things is confidential and I didn’t like to ask too much. You could, maybe. Talk to the girl upstairs, in despatch.’ ‘I might just do that. In the morning. Thank you, George.’ ‘You get any problems, you can always give me a ring. I might

be able to find out a bit more … ‘He paused. ‘It’s not nice, getting sent something like that anonymously. It’s a shock.’

‘You’re right, George, it is.’ Gini felt a sudden pity for the man: she could hear loneliness, and recognize it, she thought wryly, since she was often lonely herself.

She took his number, scribbled it on the back of an insurance bill she should have paid the previous week, and rang off. Napoleon had finished his supper. He looked pointedly at the meaty chunks remaining in the tin. When the tin was replaced in the refrigerator, he gave her one reproachful glance, then set about his toilette.

‘Oh, Napoleon, Napoleon.’ Gini kissed his head. ‘Handcuffs. And I’d almost forgotten them. Was someone trying to frighten me - or threaten me? Or just play a dumb joke? What do you think?’

Gini despised herself for this habit of talking to her cat but continued to indulge it. Napoleon took it well. When she returned to her living-room, he glided behind her, leapt up into the only chair not piled with papers, and composed himself for sleep.

Gini, who was not planning on going out - why had she said that? - made a brief and half-hearted attempt to tidy her flat. She transferred some of the papers from the floor to her desk. She lit the gas fire which made the somewhat shabby room more welcoming—

She kicked off her shoes, padded into the bedroom, surveyed r” oaching chaos, shoved some of it into cupboards, straightened uvet and thus made the bed.

_d ”,,She found a whole heap of washing she’d forgotten for days, ;,which several pairs of tights were inextricably entwined in an V,tpus grip She pushed the whole sorry lot into the machine,

00tched it on, and checked the fridge. It contained one orange, ,e of elderly cheese, the half-tin of cat-food, a clove of garlic,

limp lettuce leaves, and one tuna-fish sandwich wrapped in gfiln which she’d forgotten, and which now smelled off. ‘,’,.She tipped the sandwich into the bin, and slammed the fridge

.She briefly considered going out again, and walking three Elks to Mr Patel’s grocery store, the only one for miles which d open till eight o’clock. She phoned for a pizza instead.

.n an impulse, waiting for the pizza to arrive, and feeling e and guilty, she rifled through the drawers of her desk. despised sentimentality, just as she despised pathetic people talked to their cats, but even so, here at the back of a drawer, fully hidden so she would be reminded as little as possible, a shoebox. In the box were relics. Yes, relics, she said sternly rself.

tting by the fire, she took them out one by one. They were things, she thought: junk to most people, of significance only rself. A card listing the hours of room service in the Hotel

oyen, Beirut; on the back of it, in pencil, Pascal had written address. A yellowing paperback copy of a novel in French: ranger by Camus, bought because Pascal had once said he

e it, and because she had sworn to herself that she would it the second she improved her French. A one-page letter Pascal in French. A flower from a courtyard near his house,

he had picked for her once: it was unidentifiable now, a rittle thing, scattering its few remaining petals at her touch. et casing Pascal had once brought her for luck, when the in question had ricocheted and missed him by less than a One ear-ring, tiny, gold, of the kind made for and worn

Arab children. Pascal, a romantic, had talked the jewellery ant into selling them by instalments: this one now, for birthday, its pair for Christmas. Christmas was then four

s away. But by Christmas, they had parted. Pascal was t still, but she had left.

e took the little ear-ring out of the box, and held it in the palm r hand. Its purchase had been an extended transaction. She

could see the dim interior of the merchant’s shop, the glitter of gold and silver, the scales the merchant used to determine cost by weight. She and Pascal sat on upright chairs; a boy brought them sweet mint tea. The smallest, simplest purchase, she was leaming, had its rituals in Beirut. The jewellery merchant spoke to Pascal in a mixture of French and Arabic. He was explaining, Pascal said to her with a smile, that such a gift, from a young man to a young woman, was a sacred affair. ‘He will be disappointed if we choose quickly/ Pascal said, in English. ‘Sip the tea slowly, This has to last half an hour at least.’

She had sipped the tea. She could taste, now, the sugar and mint. She could hear the murmur and rasp of French and Arabic. She had stared at the floor, and told herself that now, now, was the moment to confess. She must explain to Pascal now, before the purchase was made, that she had lied about her age. The sentence was simple enough: Pascal, I am not eighteen, I’m fifteen. She stared at the floor. Gold glittered. The simple sentence refused to be said. Pascal was showing her a ring, then a bracelet. She shook her head. She swallowed: perhaps there was a softer way of putting it? If she explained that her forthcoming birthday would be her sixteenth, would that sound better? After all, back in Britain, sixteen was the official age of consent.

She averted her gaze. It made no difference: no matter how she put it, the fact remained that she had misled him, and if he discovered the truth, she knew how he would react. He would be angry, guilty - perhaps contrite. However he reacted, it would be over, she was certain of that. So she had said nothing, not one word. The heat in the shadowy room intensified. She sat there, flushed and n-tiserable, in an agony of deceit. Later, back in his bare white room, Pascal clipped the little gold ear-ring into place. He kissed her earlobe, then looked at her anxiously. ‘You like it? You’re sure you like it? It looks so tiny … ‘