Lovers and Liars (41 page)

talked, and made love, for much of the night. Waking in arms the next morning, he felt an absolute quietude, then bewilderment of intense joy. He felt he had been deafened blinded during the night, but that he now heard, saw and ed with a new more intuitive precision. Much though he

ed to remain this way, to let the hours slip past, he knew t now was not the moment to operate in such a state.

he roused himself deliberately. He did all the routine things h, usually, would make him alert. He showered, dressed, k coffee, drank more coffee, rang the desk, paced the room, red a taxi launch. He was determined, absolutely determined,

t they would not miss the first flight out of this place. They for the airport much earlier than they needed, the launch

1paving between the black piles that marked their channel through Ven water, the morning light still thin and grey, the mainland

0yond obscured by greenish mist.

ilt was Monday morning, and they reached Venice’s small airport Ofore eight. A few guards lolled about, holding guns. The girl

1h the checkin desk was yawning. Both flights, she said, were Oghtly delayed. They would have at least an hour’s wait.

It was only when she said ‘both flights’ that Pascal remembered heir plans, and the bookings he had made: for Gini, a direct flight

back to London; for himself a flight via Paris, with the onward journey to London booked for the five o’clock Paris-London flight. It was his visiting afternoon. Marianne was still on holiday, and he was due to see her for three hours, at noon. How could he forget that? He began to swear, furious with himself, then he looked down at Gini, and he knew precisely why he’d forgotten.

‘This is your fault,’ he said, fighting down the happiness which would creep into his voice. ‘Your fault, Gini. I don’t know where I am, or what in hell I’m doing. I can’t think… ‘

It seemed to him then that only one sensible course of action was open to him. He must cancel the visit to Marianne. ‘You’re not going back to London alone/ he said. ‘I won’t have you alone in that apartment.’

It was Gini who took him through into the airport caf6, plied him with more coffee, and dissuaded him.

‘You can’t do that/ she said. ‘You need to talk t ‘Our ife, Pascal. Marianne will be expecting to see you, 1.0 kZ Yorwawrd to o

seeing you. It’s three hours - that’s all. You’ll be back London by early evening. I’ll be perfectly all right.’

But Pascal could still see the room at the Palazzo Ossrio, and what they had found there. Gini could see that he was adamant, and that nothing would change his mind. No, no, no - he would not have her alone in that Islington flat.

It was Gini who came up with a compromise. Very well then, instead of going to Islington from the airport, she would go straight to Mary’s, and remain with Mary until Pascal returned to London later that night.

‘You can even pick me up,’ she said, ‘from Mary’s. I’ll wait for you there. I’ll call her now, just to make sure she’ll be in. You’ll see - it will be perfectly all right.’ She paused. ‘And useful, too. There’s a number of things I want to ask Mary about.’ She looked round the empty departure lounge, the empty caf6. ‘Well, you know what I might want to ask her, I think.’

Pascal groaned. He started arguing again. Gini cut those arguments off. She knew, from what he had told her the previous night, that this meeting was of importance to him. She found a call-box, and telephoned Mary. She got through easily. Mary, who always rose early, answered the phone on its second ring. She sounded pleased to hear from Gini, as always; she also, Gini thought, sounded slightly constrained, slightly anxious. Slightly odd?

‘About midday?’ she said. ‘Well, Gini, I’d love to see you, darling, you know that. But I’m not sure if that will be possible.

N’s a little difficult. What, darling? I can’t hear you very well, this Oan awful line … Well, if you really need to talk to me, darling, if course. It’s just that I may have to go out later, I’m not sure. Wybe if I called you back in an hour or so … ‘

Gini had not said from where she was calling. She said quickly, , Mary, don’t do that. You won’t be able to reach me. I’m hing out now. I’m out and about all morning. What if I made a little later, twelve-thirty, say, or one - or do you have to be ewhere for lunchT

a I .,N ‘No, no … It’s not lunch. I can’t explain now. I’ll explain when

you, darling. It’s just - something rather horrid has come up, . . ‘ Her voice faded, then returned. ‘I know, darling, there’s ry simple solution. You remember, we did it once before. I’ll Ve

v, ve my key with my next-door neighbour, you know, at number Ld

-six. Then, if I do have to go out, you can let yourself in. I ‘t want you standing around on my doorstep in this filthy ireather. Yes, that’s the solution. I may well be here anyway,

t if I’m not, darling, let yourself in, be nice to poor old Dog. leave vou some sandwiches.’

‘Mary-‘ “No, let’s decide on that. If I do have to leave here, it won’t be long. And if I’m delayed, well at least I know where to reach .1 She paused. ‘Gini, is something wrong, darling? It isn’t u

you aren’t … ? You haven’t had any problems with … ? isn’t a man, I hope, darling?’

*ni smiled to herself. ‘Sort of/ she said. ‘In a way, yes.’

Oh, Gini … Not your Pascal, I hope? And I thought he seemed ther nice … No? What, darling? Fine, all right, that’s our plan. se you soon. Lots of love .

Gini replaced the receiver thoughtfully. The details of this arhngement, she thought, were better not mentioned to Pascal. She Downed, still slightly puzzled, and returned to the caf6.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘It’s all fixed. I’ll go to Mary’s, and then She kopped, suddenly, unable to continue. All this, the words, the

6r;ngements, the hows. and whens, seemed very unimportant,

6ce she looked at Pascal. He rose now, and with a sudden urgent hovement, took her in his arms. He kissed her hair, her upturned ke.

‘You know I don’t want to be away from you one hour, one ninute?’ he said. ‘You do know thatT

i? He drew her to one side, into a quiet alcove, away from the bnpassive gaze of the carabinieri. There they stayed, in a muddle

of words and embraces. Pascal felt unease and anxiety as well as great happiness; he nearly changed his plans twice, saying he must come with her after all. He could never quite decide, even long afterwards, whether it would have turned out better, or worse, if he had.

It was only when her flight was finally called that he remembered, suddenly, the one thing he had not told her the previous night.

‘Beirut/ he said. ‘Damn, Gini, it’s important you know this. You remember, when they broke into your apartment, what they did

- and I told you, it must be someone who knew how to hurt us, someone who knew about Beirut-‘

‘No-one knows. Only my father. I told you-!

‘Darling, you’re wrong. Mary knows. She made that very obvious at her party the other night. No. never mind how, there isn’t time. just trust me. I’m right. She knows what happened, Gini, and I think she told someone else.’

‘She wouldn’t do that. Never. Not Mary.’

He saw the mask of obstinacy start to settle on her f ce, and f cc

he caught her to him. ‘Darling, listen. Think. Not in a ossipy a ( way - no, of course not. But if she was anxious - she mig t well

igh confide in someone then. Ask their advice. Who’s been her closest friend, Gini, apart from you, ever since her husband died? Who’s been there, helping her through her widowhood, turning up with books, presents … ? Who does she depend on, GiniT

‘John Hawthorne.’

‘Exactly.’ He drew back from her, and looked down into her face, his eyes dark with concern. ‘If I’m right, Gini, he sent someone to your apartment with the specific intention of doing the one thing he knew would cause you pain.’

He frowned. ‘Darling, promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t want him to hurt you.’

Gini reached up and kissed him. ‘I won’t let him do that. I won’t let anyone do that.’ She started for the departure gate, then turned impulsively back to him.

‘He doesn’t know what happened in Beirut anyway,’ she said. ‘He may think he does, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t know, no-one can know. Except us.’

ROOM was warm and hushed. In the distance a clock ticked. street outside Mary’s house was quiet, with just the occasional

of tyres. Through the window, Gini could see that rain given way to sleet. She had arrived here later than she estimated. Now, it was almost two. The light was already and yellowish. She leaned back in the armchair. She could

sleep creeping up on her, but then she had scarcely slept the previous night. She fought to stay awake, to think, somnolence crept through her veins. It made her limbs feel

, and her mind imprecise. What she would do, she decided, y

wait for Mary, and then ask her more about the Hawthornes. herself had just met them properly for the first time, after such questions need not seem odd or out of place. She would Mary why she thought Lise had seemed so tense. She n-tight n risk the mention of McMullen’s name. Mary might possibly W

how and when his friendship with Lise began. She would Mary back down the winding paths of memory, of anecdote, if there was a deception on her own part there, it was one rh could be excused, she felt.

‘Dog, who had settled himself on the hearthrug, began to snore tly and to dream. He scrabbled with his paws and woofed. Gini d the clock outside strike the half-hour, then chime three. Her

eyelids felt heavy. The fire was warm. She thought of Pascal, and of how each passing hour brought his return closer. By now he would be with Marianne, perhaps playing with her, or reading to her, or taking her out for a walk. Then he would be on his way to the airport, on the plane, and then … She sighed, tried to waken herself, failed, and drifted into sleep.

She woke, startled, from deep sleep. The room was dark. There was a horrible banging and ringing. For a moment, deceived by travel, and tiredness, and darkness, she could not think where she was. Then she remembered. She was at Mary’s, of course, and that noise came from the front door, where someone was knocking, and ringing the bell. She stumbled to her feet, almost falling over Dog. Then she saw the fire had burned low, was almost out. How long had she slept? Where was Mary? She felt her way to the nearest table, and switched on a lamp. Dogwas now alert, his head raised, his hackles up. A low growl came from his throat. It was dark outside. She looked at her watch, s w it was almost five, and felt a dart of alarm. Where was Mary, nd why had she not called as she’d promised she would? I

The knocking at the door had stopped. She crossed into the hallway, and listened. Had the person outside left, or was he still there? She felt a sudden fear. She was alone in this house; it was dark outside. For an instant she saw that room in Venice, two dead bodies. She saw Stevey’s blank blue-eyed stare, that small wound at the back of his neck, all it took to enda life. And she heard Pascal’s warning voice: It can be subtler than that - a road accident, a fall from an underground train, a little contretemps with a lift-shaft …

Fighting down the fear, and despising herself, she opened the door, gave a cry of alarm, and stepped back. There was a rustling, some electricity in the air, then that familiar crackle of radio static. A strange man, dressed in dark clothes, blocked the doorway. He was very tall, and powerfully built. He was wearing a dark overcoat, and black gloves.

Gini hesitated, began to say something, changed her mind, and made to close the door.

A large foot, in a black Oxford shoe, was inserted in the gap. ‘Ms Hunter? One moment, please/ said an American voice, and the door was pushed back.

Pascal arrived at his ex-wife’s home at twelve-fifteen. Helen opened the door herself.

ti,_,.You’re late.’

,, Fifteen minutes, Helen. The flight was slightly delayed. I had J4

pick up my car.’

It’s not very convenient, never knowing what time you’ll turn .‘She gave him a pinched look. ‘I’m going out, it’s the nanny’s off. You’ve delayed me. Well, as you’re here, you’d bet—

come in, I suppose. I can’t think what you propose doing. PW weather’s foul, and Marianne’s being difficult today - it psettles her, these visits of yours.’

scal answered none of this. Helen had led him into what called the television room. It contained numerous expensive e

rstuffed chairs and too much chintz. Marianne was sitting on floor, in front of the television set. She was watching an erican cartoon, a series of brightly coloured animals engaged a noisy and violent fight.

She greeted Pascal, but did not go to him, or stand up. Pascal ked at her, and his heart ached. These afternoons were often ined. Three hours was not long enough to build bridges with daughter. It was hard, week after week, to think of new editions they could make.

rip, In the summer months, when he could take her for swimming ons, or to parks, it was easier - but in the winter? He looked

t of the window. It was cold outside, and windy, but not raining yet.

‘I thought you might like to go to the playground, Marianne/

* began, thinking of the small park near by. ‘You like the swings ihere, and the roundabouts … ‘

kMarianne rose obediently to her feet. ‘Yes, Papa/ she said, k.vithout enthusiasm. ‘That would be nice. I’ll get my coat.’

.1 She left the room, with a hesitant glance at her mother as Phe passed. Helen shrugged.

‘What you imagine you’re going to do in the park all afternoon, I can’t think. It’s freezing cold … ‘

‘We’ll go there, then I’ll take her somewhere for tea–- Pascal began. Helen cut him off.

‘Well, if vou want. It’s your choice. I’d better give you the key. I’ll by and be’back by three, but if I’m delayed you can let yourselves Fh.’

‘Delaved?’ ‘For heaven’s sake, Pascal, I am entitled to go out occasionally. As a matter of fact, I’m seeing friends for lunch. I’ll try to get back by three, obviously.’ Her eyes slid away from his face.