The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  And he had a nickname for her.

  ‘Of course, we knew each other years before university, didn’t we, Max?’ Tommy asked. ‘I remember you as a little girl with blonde pigtails too.’ His fingers brushed her loose hair. Max fought the urge to elbow him and instead dropped her handkerchief. She stooped to retrieve it, but John reached it first. How quickly had he shaken off Catherine’s grip? He passed it to her, but their fingers didn’t touch.

  ‘Thank you,’ Max murmured. She kept her eyes on the small white cloth, rather than risk looking at his face.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Max stood, making certain to step away from Tommy as she did. John’s voice. The inflection was different. Catherine slid her arm through John’s quickly. If he spoke again, maybe she could figure… he didn’t sound Southern. His accent, if anything, had sounded vaguely New England. How did he do that?

  ‘Our mothers are friends,’ Max explained. She linked her arm around Emma’s waist as Tommy moved towards her. ‘Now, you must excuse us, I’m afraid. We have an engagement.’

  ‘Did you accompany your father, Max?’ Catherine asked. ‘If so, I suppose we’ll see you at the ball tonight. I really thought it’d be your mother here, not you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Max’s smile remained tight. How did Catherine know Dad was here?

  ‘It was a ball the last time I saw you as well. New Year’s Eve, ’48, wasn’t it?’ Catherine tapped the knot of John’s tie and then danced her fingers down the black strip along his sternum. It was all too easy to imagine the same gesture without his clothing blocking her touch. ‘Max is a marvellous dancer, James.’

  John reached inside his coat pocket, dislodging Catherine’s hand. His cigarette case emerged. He lit a cigarette, but Catherine stopped his hand before he put the case away.

  ‘Can I have one too, darling?’ Catherine asked.

  Max tried to watch passers-by, people who probably saw a congenial group of friends chatting, but she couldn’t block out John’s fingers lighting the cigarette gripped in those scarlet lips. The lines on Catherine’s face grew sharper and deeper as she sucked on the cigarette.

  ‘Well, we have to go now. Excuse us,’ Max said. She had to get away before the pressure in her chest smothered her.

  John’s smile stayed as bland as it should for saying goodbye to a total stranger. With platitudes and nice to meet yous, finally, finally they walked down the street, away from the Dinsmores and John. James. Whatever the hell his name was.

  ‘Well, that was interesting.’ Emma held onto Max’s waist tightly.

  ‘Come on,’ Victor said. ‘We can’t talk here. Are you okay, Max?’

  ‘What do you think?’ She’d told John she loved him. She’d been the one to suggest making love, not him. And clearly, he’d also slept with Catherine Dinsmore, of all people. Her flesh crawled. Max had invited his caresses. Maybe that’d been his plan all along, to make it her idea. Plying her with bourbon.

  Max closed her eyes. She’d gone into it willingly.

  ‘Max, darling.’ Emma’s voice held pity, the last thing Max wanted to hear.

  Victor shooed them across the street. He turned away from the hotel, which Max didn’t expect.

  ‘Did you buy anything?’ Max asked.

  ‘Victor got a tie.’ Emma pointed to the bag he carried. ‘It’s as lurid as you can imagine.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating. I have spectacular taste.’ They carried on chatting around her as she gripped her handbag’s handle more and more tightly. Her fingers ached by the time they reached the Tiergarten.

  Victor walked them through the garden until they reached an unoccupied bench. No one sat near them. ‘Okay.’ He remained standing, but hovered near them as they sat.

  ‘Why here?’ Max asked.

  Victor shrugged. ‘It’s quieter.’

  ‘Than a hotel room?’

  ‘Did you know he’d be in Berlin?’ Emma asked. ‘You were very cool, I thought.’

  Max exhaled. ‘Why don’t I smoke?’

  Victor held out his cigarette case. ‘Want to start? I doubt it’d help, to be honest.’

  ‘Throttling John might.’ Max closed her eyes. ‘If his name even is John.’

  ‘You know it is,’ Victor said. ‘He’s a steady man, he wouldn’t do this without a reason.’

  ‘And what precisely is that reason?’ She knew; she’d known all along. But he’d told her four nights ago he was a journalist.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve guessed.’ Victor lit a cigarette.

  Wouldn’t anybody say the word aloud? A spy. Was that the right word? An agent? ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Besides the fact that his name isn’t James Carter?’ Emma asked.

  Victor exhaled a thin stream of smoke. ‘I’d met John before, years ago, on a dive op during the war. The men who came with us—they didn’t go back to being just newspaper managers. John Knox is definitely his real name.’

  ‘What was the op for?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I haven’t a clue. And I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking.’

  ‘You never acted like—you did. In Bar Italia.’ Just after she introduced them, Victor and John had had a quick conversation, one that looked more serious than Max thought it should be.

  Victor nodded.

  ‘I wish I’d never come.’ She hadn’t cried four years ago about Catherine Dinsmore, and she bloody well wasn’t going to start now.

  ‘I suspect John was pretty shocked too.’

  But was he? Catherine clearly knew Dad had come—although it wasn’t as if the Home Secretary’s movements were secret. But Max hadn’t told John where she’d be going. Why not? What had kept her from saying it to him?

  ‘I don’t think Catherine realised you knew each other,’ Emma said. ‘She really doesn’t like you though.’

  ‘It’s mutual.’

  ‘Yes, that was quite apparent. Why?’

  ‘It’s a long, boring story.’ Not that long, but one that Max didn’t care to repeat. ‘Look, can we go back to the hotel now? I have a headache.’ She’d have a permanent headache if she kept grinding her teeth this way.

  ‘Fraulein Doktor,’ the desk clerk said. ‘A message for you.’ He handed her an envelope along with her room key. The envelope bore only her name—Dr Maxine Falkland, none of that silly Rt Hon. stuff. She held it tightly as they mounted the stairs.

  ‘Come to our room,’ Victor said. He unlocked the door. ‘A drink?’

  Emma pushed Max towards the only chair, and she sat down. The envelope held a sheet of paper. I’m sorry. No signature. No return address. It couldn’t be John’s handwriting. It must have been a telephone message. She held it up.

  ‘What does it say?’ Emma asked. ‘I can’t read German.’

  ‘Simply I’m sorry,’ Max said. She crumpled the note. Sorry? Sorry he ignored her? Sorry he didn’t tell her he’d be in Berlin? Sorry he’d screwed another woman mere days after vowing his love to her?

  She threw the wad of paper across the room. It bounced off their headboard and onto the bed. ‘Sorry.’ This wasn’t her room.

  ‘You’re being pretty restrained, I think. What are you going to do?’ Emma asked.

  Max shrugged. ‘What can I do? If I leave, Dad will want to know why. And I’m supposed to go… damn.’ She sat down. ‘Dad’s already met him as John Knox. I mean, conceivably he won’t remember him, but it was only two months ago.’ What would happen when they were back in London? Maybe her anger didn’t burn as hot as she thought. Tears pushed at her eyes for the first time.

  ‘Look, we should dress for the ball anyway.’ Emma patted her shoulder. ‘And at least it happened on a street corner, not in front of your father. It lets you prepare.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll figure it out.’ Victor drummed his fingers on the chest of drawers. ‘You could get ill.’

  ‘And what does that say? That what my duty to my family matters less than a fling?’ She forced the word out.

&nb
sp; ‘Kiddo, we’ve known you for four years,’ Victor said. ‘You don’t have flings.’

  ‘Well, maybe this time I did.’ Just sex. Dad wouldn’t see him again as John Knox, because it was over. Max stood up. ‘I’ll go change.’

  ‘Max, give him a break,’ Victor said. ‘I’m sure he’ll explain when you’re back in London.’

  Max exhaled. ‘It won’t matter.’ And yet when Emma handed her the crumpled paper, she shoved it in her handbag.

  Out in the hallway, Mr Rawls blocked the path of a hotel employee carrying an arrangement of roses.

  ‘Dr Falkland is not expecting flowers,’ Mr Rawls said. ‘Nor should she get them.’

  ‘Mr Rawls, I’m sure it’s fine.’ The hotel employee smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Max reached out for them, but Mr Rawls’s hand stopped her. He’d touched her. Her shoulder at least.

  ‘I’ll take them.’ He snatched the vase from the worker.

  ‘Mr Rawls, I don’t think this falls under your job description. May I have my flowers, please?’ Had John sent them?

  ‘I’m here to protect your father, and by extension you. I’ll need to check them. Open your door, please.’

  She’d be lucky if she had any molars at all by the end of the day. The lock yielded, but Mr Rawls walked in ahead of her. He glanced around the room. The bed had been neatly made, but her pink nightgown lay folded against the coverlet, with the thin shoulder straps on top. Max shuddered. ‘Please leave.’

  He shifted the stems roughly, and then he lifted them free of the vase, scattering water across the chest of drawers. A note fell, but he grabbed it before she could.

  ‘Who’s Tommy?’ he asked.

  ‘None of your business. I insist you leave, now.’

  He slowly placed the note in her palm.

  She closed the door and locked it. She drew the chain across it. Why couldn’t she just curl up in bed and sleep the rest of the Berlin trip away? She opened the note.

  Dear Max, so lovely to run into you. Looking forward to seeing you at the ball tonight—save me a dance. Love, Tommy.

  She tossed Tommy’s note in the bin, but she smoothed out John’s. And stuck it in her notebook. Then she washed her face and started getting ready. Another bloody ball. She had hung her evening dresses carefully in the wardrobe. She’d packed the Balenciaga she’d worn for her birthday, but she didn’t want a white dress in front of Catherine. Nor did she want a voluminous skirt. The new Jacques Fath—the figure-hugging black column suited her mood, and the flutter of the gauzy shawl gave it a dramatic flair she wanted. She wouldn’t allow the pale halterneck top to remind her of John undressing her on his sofa. Not at all.

  The tall-ceilinged room glistened with light as music swirled. The primary difference from every other ball Max attended should be the language—she heard far more German than English, of course. But tension simmered through the heat of the room, under the full evening dress suits of the men and whipped through the skirts of the evening gowns of the women. It couldn’t be only her own unease about the Dinsmores.

  Victor and Emma stayed close to Max. Max danced with a few people, but mostly she chatted and circled through various ministers. As she suspected, all were ancient. Her mother would be disappointed.

  They’d been at the ball for nearly an hour before Catherine and Thomas Dinsmore were announced. Then nothing. Had John gotten out of attending?

  But then the voice inexorably recited ‘James Carter’. Max refused to turn to the door. Catherine would no doubt come to needle her eventually. Emma squeezed her arm, but Max started a new conversation with another of the officials her father had pointed her towards. And nothing happened.

  Max turned as someone offered her another glass of champagne, and despite her best efforts, she saw Catherine wearing a red dress. With John. They moved to the dance floor together. Catherine nestled tightly in John’s arms, and Max knew Catherine’s mother well enough to recognise that Catherine would get a telling off for behaviour their mothers would probably call flagrant. Max glanced around, but didn’t see Mrs Dinsmore anywhere.

  A voice asked Max to dance, and she agreed without looking at the man’s face properly. It stayed a blur as they moved smoothly across the dance floor. Max refused to check if John or Catherine noticed.

  When the song ended, she murmured her thanks and returned to her father’s side. He gripped her arm for a moment.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Of course.’ Had he seen John and Catherine?

  Tommy approached, his dark hair slicked to his head. ‘Hello, Lord Bartlemas. Max, how about that dance?’

  Catherine hadn’t approached with him, so Max put her hand in his palm. A faint dampness came through her gloves, although she worried more about the moisture staining her dress. Still, they moved well together. They’d danced many times at various university parties.

  ‘Did you like the flowers?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yes. I mean thank you.’ She should have already thanked him. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Looking forward to seeing you.’ He tried to pull her closer, but Max held her arms rigid. He stopped tugging at her, but he looked disappointed. ‘Are you seeing someone?’

  Why did she have to be seeing someone to not want to press herself to him in front of her father’s work colleagues? Besides, she’d always vaguely assumed Tommy would be sweaty everywhere. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’d like to see more of you, that’s all.’

  They spun through the dance, and she spied Catherine and John—James—talking to her father, Victor and Emma. Max bit her lip.

  ‘Would that be something you’d like too?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Um, yes.’ What had he asked her? Tommy squeezed her tightly.

  ‘Wonderful. Can I call tomorrow?’

  ‘What? Yes. If you like.’ Max ripped her gaze from the sharp points of Catherine’s bodice. ‘Tommy, we’ve been friends for ages. Of course, it will be lovely to catch up on old times.’

  Tommy frowned. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, there is someone else.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Like the fact that Tommy’s sister had her arm hooked through John’s.

  Tommy twirled her again, and smiled. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’

  Max exhaled. This easy friendliness seemed far more like the Tommy she remembered. The song ended, and Tommy walked Max back towards her father. And John and Catherine.

  ‘Hello, Max,’ Catherine said. ‘Nice dance with Tommy?’

  Max smiled. ‘Yes. Would you excuse me, please?’ She headed towards the WC, exhaling in relief when Emma caught up with her. ‘Thanks. What did Dad say?’

  ‘He went along with it. I’m not even sure he recognised John.’

  ‘Maybe.’ In the WC, Max washed away the dampness from Tommy’s grip and reapplied lipstick.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Emma said. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  But when they returned, Dad spoke to Victor and a few other government officials. Max refused to look around for Catherine and John.

  A waiter paused by them with a tray of champagne glasses. Her father reached out, but Mr Rawls quickly lifted two glasses. He gave each the briefest of sniffs before handing them to Max and her father. Max had doubted that Mr Rawls would be capable of such delicacy after his treatment of her flowers earlier.

  They kept speaking to the people around them. Max couldn’t bear to drink her champagne. She would not look… Dad’s arm jostled hers, and then his coupe wavered. Wavered, and then it tipped, the champagne cascading to the floor.

  ‘Dad?’

  Mr Rawls knocked the glass from Dad’s hand. Splinters of glass crashed around guests’ toes, and most jumped back. Max reached for Dad, but Mr Rawls held him tightly and steered him to the door.

  Victor grabbed Max’s arm. ‘Wait.’

  ‘What? Dad’s…’ Sick? Panic pushed bile into her throat.

  Victor took her glass o
f champagne and placed it on the tray of passing waiter.

  Had Dad had been poisoned?

  ‘Think about how it will look if you run out after him.’

  ‘Like I care that my father is unwell?’ All the same, Max smiled at the people around her as they murmured. Another waiter knelt to sweep up the glass.

  ‘Max, darling, I hope your father is all right,’ Catherine said, sweeping too close to Max. Her perfume sickened Max even more. Tommy and John followed her.

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Max said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to go after him,’ John said. ‘I could find you a taxi?’

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’ She would not cry in front of Catherine Dinsmore, even if John’s face remained perfectly bland as he offered the concern of a complete stranger. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check on Dad. Victor, Emma, I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

  ‘Nonsense, we’ll come with you,’ Emma said.

  ‘Give me half a sec,’ Victor said. He moved quickly away.

  ‘Excuse me, please. I hope your father feels better soon, Dr Falkland.’ John stepped neatly away from Catherine’s grasp and walked towards the WCs.

  What on earth did Victor need to do?

  Catherine stared at Max. Max recognised her dress—she’d worn it at Vassar. Catherine had never worn dresses more than once. ‘Are you a doctor?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Max scanned the room for their host. Should she go to the hotel or the hospital—and which hospital? Damn, damn, damn.

  Tommy spoke but she ignored him.

  ‘Max?’ Tommy repeated. ‘Earlier this year, wasn’t it?’

  What was he talking about? ‘Oh. My doctorate. Yes.’ Should John have called her Dr Falkland?

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be tending to your father?’ Catherine smiled.

  Anger swelled, but Max compressed her lips. ‘I’m not a medical doctor,’ she said. ‘I really must go.’

  Max walked rapidly towards their host, and made apologies for both her father and herself. Emma trailed after her. When she reached the exit, Victor was waiting.

  ‘Let’s get a taxi,’ Victor said.

  ‘Do you think they’ll have gone to the hotel? A hospital?’ Away from the lights of the ball, fear squeezed out all other space in her body.