Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  Gini frowned, and made a note of these details. She said quickly, “Well, I’m sure there’s an explanation, Stevey. Maybe he was in a hurry and got some secretary to send the fax.”

  “Maybe. I guess so.”

  “Do you know where the fax was sent from, Stevey?”

  “No. There was just a whole lot of numbers along the top. When I read it, with my name wrong and all, I figured someone else sent it. Maybe someone Johnny was with, you know….”

  Gini could hear the misery in his voice clearly now. So Stevey feared he had been ditched—and that was always possible, of course. A new lover was one explanation for ten days’ absence—but it was not the only explanation. “I imagine some new story’s come up,” she said carefully. “You’ll see. Something big—some exclusive, and he had to drop everything, rush off. You know how it is.”

  “I guess so. You could be right….”

  The attempt at cheerfulness seemed to have worked. Stevey now sounded less miserable.

  “Next thing you know, he’ll be walking in the door,” Gini went on in an encouraging voice. “Meantime, Stevey, if I can’t speak to Johnny, you might be able to help. You’ve been at home all this week?”

  “I sure have.”

  “Was Johnny sent a parcel? It would have arrived Wednesday morning, by courier. Sent from England. A neat-looking package, brown paper, string, sealed with red wax?”

  “A package? Yes, he did. Wednesday—yes, Wednesday, that’s right.” He broke off. “How d’you know about that? Was it you who sent it? Why? That wasn’t a funny thing to do. No way! It was sick. I—”

  “Hold on a second, Stevey.” His voice had risen angrily. “I didn’t send that parcel and I don’t know who did. But I was sent one too, exactly the same, special delivery. And mine wasn’t amusing either.”

  “It wasn’t?” he said in an uncertain way.

  Gini hesitated; sometimes, to acquire information, you had to provide some yourself. “Stevey. They sent me a pair of handcuffs, no message. I live alone. I wasn’t laughing either when I opened it up. That’s why I’m calling Johnny now, because I’ve had a big fight with the courier company, and they said he was sent a parcel too. …” She paused, but the boy made no response. “I wanted to find out what they sent Johnny. Whether he had any idea who was playing games….” She paused again. Still silence. “Stevey,” she said, gently again. “I really want to find out who did this, and why. You said it was ‘sick,’ so you must have opened it. Please, Stevey, tell me what was inside.”

  Another long silence. “I did open it,” the boy finally replied in a hesitant way. “I guess—well, I was anxious about Johnny. And on the form with it it said ‘birthday gift.’ Johnny’s birthday isn’t in January, it’s in July. So I looked at it, and I looked at it, and Johnny still didn’t call. I left it a whole day. Then I opened it. I thought it might explain where Johnny was.”

  “Stevey…” Gini paused. This would have to be coaxed out of him, she could tell. “Was there a message with it, Stevey?”

  “No. No card. No message. I looked.”

  “Was it handcuffs, the same as mine, or something else?”

  “Something else.”

  “Something similar, Stevey? Something that might have made Johnny upset?”

  “I don’t know. It might have made Johnny mad—or he might have laughed. I—” He hesitated. “It’s kind of embarrassing, ma’am….”

  “Stevey, stop calling me ma’am. It’s Gini, all right? And I can promise you, I won’t be embarrassed. I’m a reporter. I don’t embarrass easily. Please, Stevey. I really need to know. I want to nail them—the person who did this.”

  “Okay, Gini. If you put it like that…” He lowered his voice; Gini could almost hear the blush.

  “It was underwear. Ladies’ underwear. You know—with frills, black lace. Panties, ma’am. The kind they advertise in the little ads in the back of magazines. Or you can send for them out of a catalogue….”

  It was years since Gini had encountered Midwest prudery. She was amused, and touched. That any boy exposed to Johnny Appleyard’s world could remain this naive and unsullied was remarkable.

  “It’s okay, Stevey. I’m getting the picture. Do you have sisters, Stevey?”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  “And these weren’t the kind of underwear your sisters would wear, right?”

  “My sisters?” His voice rose in indignation. “No way, ma’am. These were whorehouse stuff, fancy, slit all the way up the front, and—” He broke off. There was a ringing noise in the background, then a pause, then Stevey came back on line. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go now.”

  “Fine. One last thing, Stevey. I still need to talk to Johnny urgently. When you next see him or speak to him, will you ask him to contact me? This is my home phone number, and my fax….”

  It took a painfully long time for these numbers to be taken down. Gini could hear a doorbell continuing to peal in the distance.

  “I’ll be right there,” Stevey shouted. He read the numbers back.

  “That’s great,” Gini said. “Thank you, Stevey, for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome, ma—Gini,” he said, and hung up.

  Gini sat for a while, considering this information. A ten-day silence from Appleyard; whorehouse panties. What, if anything, could she deduce from that?

  Her next call was the fashion department. Someone there could surely help with an aspect of this story that had been bothering her ever since the interview with Susannah. Why had the mysterious woman delivering the parcels been so memorably dressed?

  On her way to the fashion department she passed the picture editor’s office. Its door was open, and the room beyond was crowded with men. Half the art department was in there, together with a large and raucous contingent of editors and rewrite men. Men spilled over into the corridor, blocking her path. Something was being passed from hand to hand. There were whistles, catcalls, and whoops.

  Gini stopped. One of the men, slightly sheepishly, handed her some photographs.

  “Lamartine.” He grinned. “We’re finalizing the layout. Jenkins has just given the okay. We’re running them tomorrow. What d’you think?”

  “Come on, Gini,” someone shouted from beyond. “Give us the woman’s viewpoint. Hot or not?”

  There was more laughter. Gini looked down at the pictures. Sonia Swan was instantly recognizable, and so was the well-known French cabinet minister in her embrace. The movie star’s platinum hair was tousled. Her lips, newly injected with silicone, according to the latest gossip column reports, were parted. Her throat was arched back. She was naked to the waist. The cabinet minister was cupping her right breast to his mouth; his tongue lapped her nipple.

  “This one we can’t run on the front,” said the picture editor, emerging from his office and peering at the picture over Gini’s shoulder, an assessing look on his face. “Alas. Inside, maybe. Jenkins can’t decide. He thinks it’s a bit hot. We’re running them over six pages. Dynamite, yes?”

  “Pascal Lamartine took these?” Gini said, feeling sick.

  “Who else? The whole place was guarded. Guards, fucking Dobermans, would you believe? God knows how he got in there, but he did.”

  “Well, the frog can kiss good-bye the presidency after this.” The picture editor grinned. “Serves him right, arrogant little shit. Hey, hey, there might be a headline there….” He turned to his companions. “Sonia Swan—and the minister is a writeoff. Swan Song, how about that?”

  Groans greeted this attempt. The crowd of men ebbed back into the picture editor’s office. Gini handed the pictures back. She offered no comment, but made her way down the corridor to the elevator.

  When its doors opened, she found herself face-to-face with Nicholas Jenkins. Jenkins radiated importance: His senior minion, a Glaswegian by the name of Daiches, stood next to him, adoring and taking notes.

  “It’s okay,” Gini said. “I’m waiting to
go down.”

  “No, you’re not.” Jenkins beckoned. “Up. In my office. Five minutes. Daiches, tell them I need that quote from the Elysée in the next fifteen minutes. Is the minister’s position secure, yes or no? They’ve had all fucking day. If they can’t get a statement, then fucking well invent one. Just say ‘spokesman’ but make it convincing. Who does frogspeak?”

  “Holmes can do the Elysée style. Or Mitchell.”

  Daiches, widely known in the offices as Jenkins’s representative on earth, was mild of manner. This was deceptive. He was Jenkins’s eyes and ears. When Jenkins decided to dispense with a journalist’s services, a not-uncommon occurrence, it was Daiches who did the firing. His pale eyes fixed on Gini as she entered the elevator. He had never liked her, and she detested him. He acknowledged her presence with a slight inclination of the head.

  “Mitchell,” Jenkins said. “Put Mitchell on to it.”

  Daiches nodded, and made a note. They had reached the fifteenth floor. Jenkins strode across the Wilton. Through the outer office, through the inner office, where a number of waiting hacks leapt to their feet.

  “Not now. Not now. No time. Daiches, deal with this.” Jenkins brushed them aside. He strode ahead into the sanctum, Gini at his heels. One of his telephones was ringing. Jenkins snatched it up. With exquisite politeness, he said, “No fucking calls for the next fucking five minutes, all right, Charlotte?” and slammed the receiver back in place.

  He sat. Gini stood at the other side of the desk. Jenkins acted power energetically for another minute or two, consulting papers on his desk. Then he looked up.

  “Progress?” he said.

  “Yes. Quite a bit.”

  “You’ve found McMullen?”

  “Maybe. We have another address. I—”

  “No time. Never mind the details. Check back with me Monday when all hell isn’t breaking loose.” He moved a piece of paper half an inch. “What about telephone sex?”

  Gini hesitated. “I’ve put that to one side for the moment. I thought you wanted me to concentrate on the Hawthorne story. You said—”

  “Jesus. You can walk and chew gum at the same time, can’t you?”

  “Sure, Nicholas.”

  “Then do it. Work on them both.” He looked down at his desk in an irritable way. “Anything else?”

  It was characteristic of Jenkins when in this mood to summon employees, then behave as if they had sought him. Gini, who knew this, ignored his tone.

  “There is one thing,” she said. “Who else here knew about the Hawthorne story, Nicholas? Anyone?”

  “I told you. You, me, Pascal. That’s it.”

  “Daiches doesn’t know, for instance?”

  “How many times do I have to say it? No, he does not. This was my lead and it’s my story. I’ve nursed it along, and I’ve kept it under wraps. …What are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing, Nicholas. I just thought it might be my story too. And Pascal’s, of course.”

  “So it is. So it is. So just don’t fucking well cock up on it, that’s all I ask.” He paused. “And tell Pascal to watch his fucking expenses, this is a newspaper, not the Royal Mint.”

  “Sure. I’ll tell him that, Nicholas.” She began to move toward the door. Jenkins gave her a sharp look.

  “You and Pascal? You’re getting along all right? Good chemistry?”

  “Fine so far. Yes.”

  “Well, just keep it that way. I need teamwork on this. You could learn a lot from Pascal.”

  “I’m sure I could.”

  “You’ve seen the Sonia Swan pictures?” He gave her a sudden smile of entirely fake benevolence.

  “I saw them just now.”

  “Great, aren’t they?” He rose to his feet, crossed the carpet, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Give Pascal a message from me, will you? Tell him I’m increasing the print run tomorrow by another hundred thousand. That Sonia Swan—we’ve got her going down on that minister, you know, right in front of his bodyguard. Can you believe that? Pascal got the whole thing. We can’t run those pictures, obviously, but we can hint.” He patted Gini’s shoulder. “Meantime, word’s out. The Mail and the Express are pissing gallstones. Tell Pascal. Another hundred thousand on the print run. Tomorrow we wipe those assholes off the streets.”

  The fashion department was in chaos, as usual. They were arranging a big shoot.

  “Ball gowns in Siberia?” Gini said.

  “Not quite.” Her friend Lindsay, the fashion editor, smiled. “Bondage clothing. Couture bondage. In Martinique.”

  “Lindsay, listen. I need a favor. Would you call Chanel for me? They know you. They’ll talk to you. Chanel, and a couple of other places. There’s some details I need to check on a sable coat. …”

  “A sable coat? Bloody hell.” Lindsay grinned. “You do know there’s virtually no furriers left in London, don’t you? Not even Harrods sells fur coats now.”

  “There must be some, Lindsay.”

  “Yes. One or two. What else?”

  “Nothing difficult. Chanel accessories. A Chanel suit. This Chanel suit, and these accessories.”

  Gini produced the relevant page from the December Vogue. Lindsay looked at it.

  “Oh, I remember that. It’s lovely. Classic stuff.”

  “Yes. Well, I want to know who bought it. Ditto the coat. And I can give you a pretty exact date.” Gini explained the details. When she had finished, Lindsay gave her a speculative look.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Never mind why, Lindsay. Just help me out. Please. If I try, they’ll clam up. If you try, it’ll take you ten minutes. Less.”

  “Oh, very well. Since it’s you—” She paused. “Hey, I hear you’re working with Pascal Lamartine, is that true?”

  “Who said that?”

  “I can’t remember. Someone. I thought—Gini gets all the luck. Tall, dark, handsome, smoldering. Deeply sexy.”

  “Cut it out, Lindsay. He’s not my type.”

  “I’d load his film for him anytime.” Lindsay laughed. “D’you think I could persuade him to do a fashion shoot?”

  “No, Lindsay. I don’t.”

  “Pity. It could be interesting. Seriously. It’s erotic. Snatched photographs, the paparazzi approach. Have you seen his Sonia Swan stuff? Unbelievable. Can you imagine, lying in the undergrowth, shooting that? D’you think he gets turned on by it?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Defensive, defensive…okay, okay. I’ll say no more. I know when to back off. I thought you said he wasn’t your type?”

  Lindsay gave Gini a close look, then made a gesture of mock surrender. “Not another word. I swear. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Lindsay, just call those stores for me, would you?”

  “Right, right. I’m doing it now. Don’t bite my head off.”

  Lindsay began to work the phones. While she did so, Gini leafed through the directories of fashion models. Susannah at ICD was a good witness, she thought, an exceptionally good witness, and what had been her first reaction when the woman delivering the parcels walked into reception? That she might have been a model. Gini frowned: The woman wasn’t Mrs. J. A. Hamilton. Susannah’s instincts might have been correct.

  The pile of directories was thick: Models One, Storm, Elite. Face after beautiful face. She stared down at the pictures. The ease with which these women could transform themselves was unnerving; here was Evangelista as a blonde, a redhead, a brunette. …

  After a half-hour Lindsay completed her calls. She crossed to Gini and handed her a sheaf of notes. She was looking pleased with herself.

  Gini read down the notes with astonishment and with mounting excitement. She made no comment. When she had finished, she said: “You’re totally certain about this?”

  Lindsay nodded. “One hundred percent. I know the manager at Chanel well. I spoke to him personally. There’s no mistake.”

  “Would they often make an arrangement like that?”


  “For a famous customer? A good customer? Sure, what do you think?” She looked at Gini closely. “You look excited, Gini—and I know that look. Is this important? Something big?”

  “No, not really,” Gini said hastily. “Just background. Thank you, Lindsay. Oh, and don’t mention to anyone that I was asking, all right?”

  “Not a word, I promise.”

  Lindsay began to turn back to work, then glanced at Gini, who was now gathering up her various belongings. She frowned: She could see that there really was something wrong, for Gini’s features wore a tight, closed, angry expression, as if she were concentrating on her work, yes, but also fighting something else. It was unusual for Gini to be irritable, she thought. They were good friends; in fact, Gini was her closest friend at the News, and she could rarely remember seeing Gini this tense.

  As Gini reached out for her coat, Lindsay stopped her. “Hey, slow down,” she said. “Gini, are you okay?”

  “No. Not really. No. I’m not.” Gini gave her a quick look, then shrugged. “You know how it is. This damn place…”

  “Coffee?” Lindsay looked at her closely. She and Gini were used to speaking in a kind of female shorthand in which the offer of coffee was also the offer to talk.

  Gini hesitated. “I shouldn’t…maybe ten minutes…”

  “I could use a break myself. Come into my office. It’s less like bedlam in there.”

  “All right. Thanks, Lindsay. I forgot about lunch. Coffee would be good. But ten minutes only, then I must rush.”

  Lindsay smiled. “You rush too much,” she said. “One of your problems, Gini. What are you afraid of? Actually having some time to think?”

  As soon as they were in Lindsay’s office, and the door was closed, Gini began to pace. She had just put on her overcoat. Now she took it off again, and threw it down on a chair. It was followed by the scarf she had been wearing, by the overflowing bag she always carried, by a pair of scarlet gloves. Lindsay watched this divesting take place, and put the kettle on to boil. In the cruel fluorescent lighting, Gini’s fair hair took on a silver tinge; the light sharpened the planes of her face.