Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  “No. She didn’t mention that.”

  “How typical! Well, she did. She did a very fine series on police corruption in the north. The previous editor admired her work enormously. He’d agreed to send her abroad—to Bosnia, which was the kind of story she’d always wanted to cover, of course. And she’d done a great deal of work in preparation, then—”

  “Bosnia?” He was frowning. “You mean she wanted to cover the war?”

  “Yes. She did. That’s the kind of work she’s always wanted to do. And she would have pulled it off. Gini is absolutely determined, and she’s very brave too.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” He glanced across the room once more. Gini was still in conversation with John Hawthorne; she said something inaudible, and Hawthorne laughed.

  “The thing is,” Mary rushed on. She was now on her favorite subject. “Gini would never admit this, but she’s very influenced by her father. Where he went, she’s always been determined to follow. Her mother died, you see, when Gini was terribly young—two years old. She doesn’t remember her at all. When I first knew Gini, she was only five, but she was very advanced for her age. She could read and write very well. She used to write these stories—well, all children do that, I suppose—but Gini used to lay them out in little books, like a newspaper. Then she’d show them to her father, only…well, unfortunately, he never took very much interest. But that only made her more determined. She’s very single-minded. You can’t rein her in. Do you know, when she was fifteen years old, she just walked out of school one day and went rushing off to—”

  Mary stopped. She flushed crimson. She knew that when launched on the subject of Gini, she found it difficult to stop; but to have walked into that, to have been so incredibly stupid. She would never have done it, she realized, had Lamartine not been listening with such close attention to her proud boast. She would never have done it had he not seemed so very different from that imagined man in Beirut. However, she had done it. Now she had to extricate herself.

  “Went rushing off to where?” Lamartine said in polite tones.

  “Oh, heavens.” Mary looked around her distractedly. “Could you excuse me just one second? That wretched poet friend of mine is monopolizing Lise. I must intervene….”

  She darted away. Pascal watched her thoughtfully. He liked her, he thought, and he had learned a great deal from her, things Gini would never have told him herself. He had also learned, of course, that Gini had been wrong. Her stepmother knew very well what had happened in Beirut, and that meant Sam Hunter had not kept his word. He had told Mary about those events. Who, in her turn, might Mary have told?

  He would have preferred Mary not to have heard that story from Hunter, and not to have been prejudiced against him, but there was nothing he could do about that now. It explained the way in which she had greeted him, that fierce protective inspection she had given him. Now she had obviously decided to risk no more faux pas, for she was returning, together with Lise Hawthorne.

  She made the necessary introductions, then hastened away. Pascal looked down at the ambassador’s wife. Her lovely face was tilted up to his; she radiated a tense, almost febrile animation.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she was saying in a low, breathy voice, so he had to bend slightly to catch her words. She gave him an amused glance, which was more than a little flirtatious. “I’ve seen your photographs,” she was saying. “Those ones of Stephanie of Monaco. Monsieur Lamartine…” She wagged one long beautifully manicured finger at him with a kind of arch reproof. “Monsieur Lamartine, I was shocked. You have a very bad reputation, you know….”

  “So tell me about your father,” John Hawthorne was saying to Gini. “Give me an update. It’s too long since we’ve seen him. It must be five or six years.”

  “He’s in Washington now,” Gini began.

  “Washington. Of course. But didn’t I hear some rumor—wasn’t he planning a new book? Afghanistan? No, the Middle East?”

  “Vietnam,” Gini replied.

  She was almost certain Hawthorne knew this as well as she did, but for reasons of his own—perhaps to draw her out—kept that knowledge concealed. “Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia,” she went on. “It’s almost twenty-five years since he was there. He wants to go back and write about the changes since the war. I think he feels he did his finest work there.”

  “He’s wrong.” Hawthorne spoke abruptly. “Obviously, the pieces he filed from Vietnam were outstanding—that Pulitzer was well deserved. But he’s still in a class of his own. I followed everything he wrote during the Gulf War. I’m afraid I even poached some of his material for speeches.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. Flattered, I’d say.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. Sam never had much time for politicians.” He smiled. “The point was, he could always uncover something new, something the military might have liked to conceal. They couldn’t buy him, and they couldn’t gag him. He should do his book on Vietnam. It needs writing. And if Sam did it, it’d sell—” He paused. “Here, your glass is empty. Let me get you a drink. White wine?”

  He crossed to the drinks table, paused to speak to a group there. New guests were still arriving. The room was becoming crowded now. Gini, glancing around her, saw her stepmother leading Pascal across to Lise Hawthorne. They were introduced: Lise Hawthorne held out her hand.

  Gini turned back to look at Hawthorne. The remarks about her father had pleased her, particularly the fact that in Hawthorne’s opinion her father was still writing well. Had the comments been made for that reason, to please, to ingratiate?

  Gini felt unsure. Hawthorne had no need, surely, to ingratiate himself with her. Why bother? His manner, certainly, had suggested nothing of the kind. On the contrary, it had been easy and direct; when he first mentioned her father—and he had done so almost immediately—he had spoken with an amused affection. “Didn’t you know?” he’d said. “Your father kept me sane in Vietnam. He was an observer on two missions with my platoon. Sam and I once spent three days and nights in a foxhole together, under fire. He ate my rations, and I drank the contents of his brandy flask. I was twenty-one years old and scared shitless. Your father never turned a hair. He taught me a lesson I’ve never forgotten. I’m not sure if it’s called courage or blind stupidity. Either way, Sam and I go back a long way.”

  A disarming story, Gini thought. Flattering to her father, self-deprecatory, even the mild obscenity introduced as if to signal that Hawthorne was no prude, no stuffed shirt. …Yes, it might have been calculated to win her over. Still, it had been recounted naturally, and with warmth.

  Gini frowned: She was not a novice when it came to interviewing celebrated, powerful men; she had interviewed numerous politicians. Hawthorne resembled none of them. He did not monopolize the conversation, but turned it away from himself. He did not patronize. He did not glance away to check whether someone more important than Gini had just entered the room.

  He gave her his full attention. He listened and responded to her words. She could sense him assessing her as she spoke, even testing her. She had the impression that he was making a series of quick, decisive judgments. She also had the impression that whatever silent test was being set, she’d passed it. Had he judged her a fool, she was sure he would have wasted no more time, but turned on his heel.

  This, too, was flattering, of course—and perhaps the source of Hawthorne’s much-touted charisma and charm. That useful ability to make his interlocutor believe himself the only person of interest in a room: Was it to that ability she was succumbing? For succumbing she was, and Gini knew it. She liked Hawthorne, and had liked him almost from the first.

  He was returning to her now, two drinks balanced in his hands. Gini regarded him carefully. Could this man be the husband Lise Hawthorne had described? Could this man be the subject of McMullen’s revelations? She did not believe it for an instant, she decided.

  “So tell me,” he began, handing Gini her drink, “why are you working for the News? Nichol
as Jenkins may be increasing circulation, but he’s dragging the paper down-market. He’ll lose his middle-class readership if he’s not careful.”

  “Oh, Jenkins knows that. It’s a balancing act. Jenkins believes he can stay on the tightrope.”

  “Jenkins believes he can walk on water.” He smiled. “I’m not too sure of his ability to do either. We’ll see. He can’t be too popular at Buckingham Palace at the moment, that’s certain. Or with the Elysée, to judge from this morning’s paper. I see that French minister has resigned, incidentally—though that’s no great loss to the world. Tell me, what are you working on right now?”

  He sprang the question expertly. Gini knew she took a second too long to reply.

  “What am I working on? Well, it’s a typical Jenkins story. Telephone sex lines. You know, sex by phone.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve heard.” He seemed amused. “Are you enjoying the research?”

  “No. Not at all.” Gini paused. This line of conversation, she saw, might be useful. She looked him directly in the eye. “So far I’ve just been sampling the recordings. It’s early days.”

  “And you find them entertaining?”

  “No. Anodyne. The girls sound very bored. They describe their bodies, and their underwear….”

  “Do they now?”

  “Occasionally they whirr a vibrator. I have the feeling I could write a better script myself.”

  “Really? What makes you think so?”

  “Well, of course, I might be wrong. I’m a woman, and these calls are aimed at men. Perhaps I wouldn’t understand what turns a man on.”

  “Sure you would. You’re not stupid.” His tone, which had veered on the bantering, became sharp.

  For a moment Gini expected him to curtail the conversation right there. He looked away from her, across the room to where his wife was now seated with Pascal; then, to her surprise, he turned back to her and continued, his manner serious now.

  “Any man who uses one of those phone lines is alone. I imagine he calls with a specific end in view, don’t you? In order to achieve that—well, there have been numerous surveys of the male response to pornography, as I’m sure you know. Unlike women, who respond to words, men respond to pictures, to images. The job of the phone lines, therefore, is to make the man see. He must see what the woman describes. It doesn’t need to be very original. Pornography is never original, that’s its point. Beyond that,” he continued, frowning, “I’d imagine the male callers experience two distinct types of arousal. In the first place, obviously, they are silent eavesdroppers—and that’s akin to being a voyeur. In the second…” He shrugged. “I imagine calling gives them an illusion of power. Of domination. They have chosen the number, and thus the girl. At any moment of their choosing they can end the conversation, terminate the call. Satisfaction without repercussions or involvement. Sex on the man’s terms. Sex with a total stranger…”

  He gave an impatient and dismissive gesture. “Many men would find that highly desirable. I guess these phone lines will flourish here, the same way they do back home. They surely won’t fail.”

  Gini lowered her eyes. An interesting speech, made in an impersonal way, as if he were addressing some seminar. The words accompanied by a hard, direct stare, and visible impatience toward the end—possibly with the subject, possibly with her.

  “It’s not the level of story you should be working on anyway.” He spoke abruptly, making her jump. “Mary’s said that often enough to me, and she’s right. If that’s the kind of feature Jenkins sends your way, then you’d do better elsewhere.”

  “That has crossed my mind.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Do you know Henry Melrose? You should talk to him about it. Make your preferences clear.”

  Gini gave him a look of disbelief. Henry Melrose—Lord Melrose—was the proprietor of the News.

  “No. I’ve never met Lord Melrose,” she replied in a dry way. “Not too many reporters do. When he’s actually in the building, which isn’t that often, he stays up there on Olympus—the fifteenth floor.”

  Hawthorne returned her smile. “So, meet the man elsewhere. It’s easily arranged. You’d like him. Henry Melrose is a very smart man. He’s intelligent—which is more than you can say for most newspaper proprietors these days—and he actually takes an interest in what people write in his newspapers. He’s not blind to ability, even if Jenkins is. And he happens to own more than one paper. Here and back home. In fact, if you’re dissatisfied, why work in London at all? Why not go back to Washington, New York?”

  “I’ve never worked there,” Gini replied. “Except as a free lance. I’ve worked in England ever since I left school.”

  “So make a change. Strike out. Sam could help, surely? He must have contacts to spare.”

  “That’s exactly the reason I don’t want to work there. I don’t want to hitch a ride on my father’s reputation. That doesn’t apply here.”

  “I apologize.”

  She had spoken with some sharpness, and she could feel him assessing her again. She sensed that having fallen in his regard a few minutes before—perhaps simply because she did not know Melrose, perhaps for timidity—she was now being restored to grace. Certainly his manner warmed.

  “I can understand that,” he began. “Sam can be goddamn impossible—we all know that. Maybe all fathers can. My own, for instance—” He paused. “I had a pretty difficult time with him when I was younger, and still do, from time to time. Too much ambition on my behalf.” He broke off. “However, I was fortunate. I learned how to deal with him. And there was Lise, of course.” He smiled and took her arm. As he did so, and Gini felt the touch of his hand just above her elbow, against her bare arm, she saw him give the dress she was wearing a quick assessing glance.

  “That’s a beautiful dress, incidentally,” he said. “Was that the famous Christmas present from Mary? She mentioned it to me.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “She chose very well. It sets off your hair. Now, you must come meet Lise. I know she’s longing to talk to you. Has Mary told you that story of hers—how she persuaded me to propose?” He made a rueful face. “Nonsense, of course. My father claims the same thing. Actually, I made up my own mind, but I never tell Mary that. It’s more fun to indulge her.” He smiled. “I’m very fond of your stepmother. Did you know that when I first met her, I was ten years old? She’s been teasing me unmercifully ever since. That makes it nearly forty years. …”

  He began steering her gently in his wife’s direction, his hand on her arm. His face was now turned away from her as he looked across the room toward his wife. Lise was still seated on the sofa, talking with great animation to Pascal. Gini glanced at Hawthorne, who, like most of the men present, was wearing a dinner jacket and black tie. He looked blond, tanned, handsome, and unreadable—exactly as he had looked when she entered the room, or when she had met him all those years before, as a child. She thought: I have made no progress; I’ve discovered nothing at all.

  Then she realized Hawthorne was frowning, and followed his gaze. Seated next to one another, Lise and Pascal were deep in conversation. Pascal looked relaxed and at ease, more so than Gini had seen him look in days. His eyes were fixed on Lise’s face, and his expression was unmistakably attentive.

  “No,” Gini heard him say in response to some breathy remark from Lise. “No. C’est impossible. Women like to make these claims. And maybe some of them believe them. But not you…”

  Lise laughed. She leaned forward and began speaking again. Hawthorne had come to a halt. He stood for a moment, watching his wife, then turned back to Gini.

  “Maybe now is not the moment to interrupt. Lise is well launched on one of her favorite subjects, by the look of it.”

  “And that is?”

  “Oh, astrology. Tarot cards. Destiny. Fate…” He gave her an amused glance. “All that mumbo-jumbo. If your friend isn’t careful—and he doesn’t look as if he’s being too careful—then in about, let’s see”—he ch
ecked his watch—“in about three minutes’ time Lise will offer to read his palm.”

  “She often does that?”

  Gini looked at him uncertainly. Hawthorne seemed neither embarrassed nor annoyed. He had released her arm and was now looking at her in a different, more intent way. She saw his eyes move to the neckline of her dress, then to her hair, then her mouth, her eyes. He gave her a dazzling smile, and it was as if he had decided to throw some switch, suddenly releasing upon her the full power of that legendary charisma and charm. So that is his technique, Gini thought: When his wife flirts, he flirts as well.

  “Oh, sure, very often,” he replied. “Lise genuinely believes it all, I’m afraid. She and I share birthdates in January. When I first met her, she told me it was a sign…. We were both children at the time. And speaking of birthdays—it’s mine in a couple of weeks. We’re having a party at our place in Oxfordshire. Mary’s coming. Henry Melrose will be there. You must come, Gini. Now that I’ve met you properly at last, we should make up for lost time. Ah, you see? Three minutes exactly…”

  He gestured across the room. Lise was now holding Pascal’s palm in her hand. She held it between them in a delicate and formal way and began to indicate lines. Pascal appeared to be taking this seriously. Gini averted her eyes.

  “My father’s coming over for it,” Hawthorne was continuing. “And my brother, Prescott, my sisters. A great gathering of the clan. So you must come. I’ll mention it to Lise. It would do her good, you know, to have some younger friends in London.” He touched her arm again and began to steer her forward. “All this official partying and hobnobbing isn’t really her style. Or mine. Unfortunately, I have to put up with it, and I don’t have too much free time. Too many meetings, too many damn speeches. At the moment, of course, with all this Middle East business…”

  “Don’t you find that a strain?” Gini put in quickly. “The security? You must feel you can never be alone….”