Lovers and Liars (73 page)

He leaned back in his chair. He gave her a long and considering k. ‘You’re young. You may not understand. Nevertheless, I’ll

11 you. This is the way it began .

478

IT WAS six-thirty when Pascal pulled away from Mary’s house. He looked back once, to see Gini and Mary standing in the doorway, and he knew that if he hesitated, he would change his mind, and storm back. Gini had made it angrily clear, that she did not want him present, so he accelerated away fast, before he had time to waver. He gunned the bike through the dark wet streets and squares of Kensington, not caring what direction he took. Then’ realizing he was riding too fast, and dangerously, he pulled into a side-street, and slammed on the brakes.

He had an hour and a half to kill. He walked up Kensington Church Street, impervious to other passers-by, or to the lighted windows of the shops, until in a side-street he saw a wine bar which advertised coffee as well as drinks. The place was halfempty. He sat down in a booth at the back, and ordered a triple espresso. Someone had left a copy of the late edition of the Standard on the seat beside him. He opened the pages, flicked them; the print seemed without meaning. He closed the paper, folded it in half, and stared into space.

He thought of Gini, and the argument they had had before leaving for Mary’s. He replayed it in his mind: its half-truths and evasions, its suppressed resentments. There had been a moment

- and they had both been aware of it - when the same unspoken

nic had been felt by them both. There had been a moment en they had realized that something they both prized was

now threatened. It had happened very swiftly, that sudden loss of confidence. One minute Pascal had remained obstinately con—

4inced that the next question, the next sentence, could bridge

e gap between them which he could sense was opening up and the next minute he had seen he was wrong. The next uestion, the next answer, made it worse: it deepened the divide. at had frightened Pascal very much.

He had been there before, in that hinterland; he had spent much f his marriage trapped in that place. He knew that Gini had been ere too, in the past: her succession of brief past affairs told him at, even if she scarcely spoke of it herself. He had, he realized

0 , been incautiously content in the days since Venice, and

o had Gini perhaps. They had allowed themselves to inhabit a onderful new region of amity and trust unsullied by arguments quarrels, and he knew that it dismayed them both, to see

how swiftly that amity could be impaired. Suddenly they were both back in the ordinary petty world, where two lovers did not ,agree, and where disagreements burgeoned with ugly speed into the shabbiness of hostility, resentment and distrust.

I will not let that happen, Pascal thought, not to us. And so he sat there in the bar for an hour, seeing nothing and no-one, Planning what he should say and do when he rejoined Gini, and ‘how - somehow - he would rescue them both. Quarrels were to be expected, he told himself; all lovers quarrelled and fought land disagreed. There could be purpose and egality in quarrels: they were nothing to fear, provided they did not undermine the fundamental commitment. This thought heartened him. He ordered more coffee, lit a cigarette, watched the hands of the clock on the wall move slowly towards seven forty-five. He would leave thenf for Mary’s house. Suddenly he was impatient to leave, could not wait to leave, to see Gini, to talk to her, to make everything between them clear again, and good.

The hands of the clock, though, seemed to move unnaturally slowly. Frustrated, impatient, he picked up the newspaper again in an effort to distract himself, and then he saw it, a tiny item on the back page, in the Stop Press. It was headed Accident outside Oxford. Pascal glanced at it, froze, read it once, then read it again.

He swore under his breath, tossed some money on the table, picked up the paper, and hurried out to the street. It had begun

to rain again, heavily. He ran back to his motor bike, mounted it, and accelerated south.

He turned into Kensington High Street. Mary’s house was a few blocks off this main road, to the west. There was heavy traffic still, although the rush hour was over. Pascal began to weave in and out of other vehicles. It was urgent now to speak to Gini. He had almost forgotten about her father, and his presence at Mary’s house: all he could think of was seeing Gini, and telling her this news.

All along the street, every set of traffic lights hit red as he approached. Pascal swore, and muttered to himself under his breath. There were further lights, up ahead, and they were still green. He checked his wing mirror, saw a large black Ford behind him, some twenty yards back. He increased his speed, and pulled out past a delivery truck on his left. He was now in the fast lane, with the Ford behind him. The lights ahead were still green, still green - and then he realized: the Ford had picked up speed and was now right on his rear wheel. The lights ahead were amber. He had a second to decide as he reached the intersection and they went red: brake or continue?

He thought, for one tiny instant, of a boulevard in Paris. The Ford behind was too close to allow him to brake. He increased his speed; he had just enough time he judged, to shoot the light. Neither the delivery truck nor the Ford was braking. They were still with him, on his tail and to his side, as he started across the intersection. He felt the air move as the truck skimmed alongside him. Its driver did not signal or slow. The truck cut in on him, fast, and without warning, swerving right across his front wheel.

As the bike skidded, and he started to lose control, the Ford switched its headlights to full-beam. In that long slow second of dazzle, Pascal watched the bike tilt. He watched the wet glassy surface of the road rise up to meet him. There was a grinding of metal, a screech of rubber. His spine juddered against Tarmac; he felt himself start to slide, skid, twenty feet down the road, thirty. The velocity and the pain still had a hypnotic slowness. He was not unconscious. He could see with a timeless and brilliant clarity that this was a dual-action manceuvre. The truck, having hit the bike was now speeding away, and the black Ford was heading straight at him. He was lying in the middle of the street. The Ford had all the time in the world, and all the space in the world, to make its hit.

‘I don’t know what story exactly McMullen fed your newspaper about my personal life,’ Hawthorne was saying. ‘But I do know one thing for sure - he will have concocted the story with Lise’s help, and she will have lied to him. Even if she weren’t ill, unable to distinguish between truth and falsehood any more, Lise would still lie where our marriage is concerned. She has never accepted the truth. Every fact has to be adjusted, so she is the innocent, the injured party … ‘ He shrugged. ‘I won’t get involved in that contest. There is blame on my side, I admit that.’

11 He paused, and Gini saw his eyes move around the room. They rested on the bookshelves by the fireplace, then on the objects on the mantelpiece - some postcards, a pottery jar and, just to the side, because she had wanted to keep it, Napoleon’s collar. It was made of blue leather. It had a nameplate and a small bell attached. Gini thought Hawthorne saw none of these objects, for all he looked at them. His concentration was directed inward towards his own life.

She looked at him uncertainly. There was evil in this story, and, as Pascal had said, evil did not show in a man’s face, or his gestures, or his voice. Even so she did not sense evil here: despair, yes; exhaustion, yes; bitterness, possibly - and beyond that, a desire for exactitude and for honesty which was clearly at odds with Hawthorne’s reserve. Mary was right, she thought: this was not a man who liked, or found it easy, to speak openly about himself.

As he looked away, she glanced quickly down at her watch again. She was worried about Pascal, and this inexplicable delay, but she was unwilling to let Hawthorne see that. This opportunity might not come again and if she was honest with herself, it was more than a journalistic opportunity. It was not easy to remain distanced, she realized, or to remember that her function here was that of a reporter. But then, of course, Hawthorne was not addressing her as if she were a journalist. He was addressing her as if she were a friend. Was that simply a clever manceuvre on his part? It could have been - but when she looked at his expression, she thought not.

His gaze had returned to her face. He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘I’m not good at this. It’s something I’ve never discussed with anyone. But I think the problems were there right at the beginning. Lise and I married primarily for political reasons, for dynastic reasons if you like. A senator needs a wife. My father promoted the marriage, Lise herself sought it and I went along with it.

There was no-one else I loved. Lise seemed sweet, very young. I thought, maybe, with time . But I was wrong. The marriage was a disaster, almost from the first. Within a year, both Lise and I knew we were incompatible in every possible way. Especially sexually.’ He looked at Gini. ‘I don’t want to dwell on any of those details. But the situation deteriorated very rapidly. It became … painful and ugly for us both. Within six months of our marriage we were sleeping apart. Lise then seemed to expect me to lead a celibate life, except on the few occasions, the very few occasions, when we could overcome our mutual dislike and go to bed.’

He hesitated, then gave another small shrug. ‘Well, that proved unworkable. I’m no different from other men. From time to time, I need sex.’

He looked at Gini intently as he said this. When she did not speak, he leaned back in his chair, and continued, still in the same even voice. ‘A year and a half into our marriage, I finally did what Lise had already been accusing me of doing for months. I was away at a conference. I met a woman there who made it plain what she wanted, so I took her to bed. She was about your age. She was blond haired. She was pretty, kind, generous and inventive. We spent three nights in my hotel room, and I’ve never seen or heard from her since. I remain deeply grateful to her. She reminded me of what sex can be between two adults. Something purely pleasurable, not part of an endless appalling bargaining process, not a power game, not a contest - and it was all of those things with my wife.’ He glanced sharply at Gini. ‘You disapproveT

‘I don’t approve or disapprove. Adultery happens. It’s not for me to judge.’

‘I expect you do, one way or the other. Never mind. It doesn’t matter … f

His gaze moved away from her face, and he looked across the room. When he continued speaking, she had the feeling that this confession was aimed particularly at her, but also beyond her, to those listening walls, perhaps, or to himself.

‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘For a man in my position, there’s only one question that counts. Has he or has he not screwed around? If so, when, and with whom? No-one ever cares or concerns themselves with the why - just, did he do it, and who withT He paused. ‘Tell me something. You’ve met Lise. What did you think of herT

Gini hesitated.

‘Tell me the truth, Gini.’

‘I thought she was afraid of you. I thought she was confused, forgetful. She kept contradicting herself. She stressed her devotion to you some of the time. She quoted you constantly .

‘Oh, I’m sure.’ He smiled. ‘And you found it convincing, did u, all that devotionT

‘I found it overstated, if you like. Sugary, perhaps.’

The term seemed to please him. ‘Sugary? Honeyed? I’d agree. se overplays the devotion sometimes, the same way she overs the charm. She’s always done that, long before this illness. fact is that our dislike for one another is shared. Lise detests

e-but Lise is a very good actress, an exceptional actress. It s one of the reasons my father advised me to marry her. e believed - and still believes - that acting ability is essential a future president’s wife.’

He sighed, and drained his whisky. ‘My father’s a cynic, of rse. He now views Lise as a liability. He’s advising I engineer annulment and marry again in due course.’

‘Could that’be engineered?’

‘Of course.’ He made the statement blandly, as if it surprised m she should even ask it. ‘If you have contacts at high levels the Catholic Church, it can always be arranged. It would be

cult without Lise’s co-operation, and while she remains this it’s an impossibility. But in the future, perhaps. If Lise could er be persuaded that she had an identity of her own, that er fame and pre-eminence, all the things she enjoys, did not epend on her status as my wife.’

‘Do you think she ever would feel thatT

‘No. Probably not.’ The answer was given in an offhand, almost Jazy way. His gaze returned to her face. ‘Of course, if I ever were free to remarry, I’d have to educate my father a little. He’d have to understand that I now require rather different qualities in a Wife.’

‘Such asT

I ‘Stamina. Discretion. Unselfishness. An ability to love. Intelligence … Intelligence especially. That would help.’

Gini looked away. The intensity of his gaze was now making her self-conscious. ‘Lise didn’t strike me as exactly stupid,’ she began. ‘Oh, come on.’ Hawthorne rose to his feet impatiently. He

Imoved across to the table and refilled his glass. ‘Come on, Gini, you’re better than that. Lise is a vain, vapid, self-obsessed woman. She’s prodigiously stupid. She lives in a permanent state of anguished vanity and discontent. She has this need, this appalling

inexhaustible need to be the centre of attention. Lise is the greatest egoist I ever met in my life. If cuddling sick babies in front of photographers gets her that attention, then that’s what she’ll do. If slashing her wrists gets her attention, she’ll do that as well. Dear God, I’ve been married to the woman for ten years. She’s the mother of my children. You think I don’t know my own wifeT

There was a silence. Gini was shocked by the sudden and impassioned vehemence with which he spoke, and Hawthorne, as if realizing that, gave a sigh and a hopeless gesture of the hand.