‘Where you going to put them?’
‘Hmm?’ What would John say about the present? Her mother would call it too personal. Should she have it framed?
‘The paintings.’
‘Oh. The apple tree in my bedroom.’ She fiddled with the strap on her handbag. ‘And I think the other one will be a gift.’
‘Anybody I know?’
Max exhaled. ‘You are the nosiest person I know! John. He has a dreadful landscape in his living room.’
‘And you want to go out with someone with questionable art taste?’
‘It came with the flat.’ She pushed aside thoughts of the spartan space, sitting empty and dark.
They circled the exhibition space, and Max bought a small sculpture for her mother’s birthday. She arranged with the artist to collect it from Emma later. Emma still talked to some other potential buyers, so she and Victor wandered outside. Was it this sunny in Berlin? She never wanted to be this kind of woman, who wondered constantly about… whatever John was. Boyfriend? Fiancé? She hadn’t said yes. She never fretted like this about Daniel. Did he even exist to her when she wasn’t with him? ‘How did I miss that Emma was painting again?’
‘She’s been a bit self-conscious about it, to be honest. It’s been a long time, but I think she wanted to feel like she was creating again.’ His face hardened.
‘It must be difficult.’ Max touched his sleeve. ‘She told me.’ Max had been amazed at how long they’d been trying for a baby—and wanted to cry when Emma told her about her multiple miscarriages.
Victor nodded. ‘It’s tough on her.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Maybe we should have tried when we were younger, but we were broke and having fun. Anyway, this is where we are so…’
‘But, how are you?’
‘Me?’ He inhaled. ‘Super-duper.’
‘Clearly.’
‘Surely you aren’t suggesting that all three of us are emotional wrecks, are you?’ He laughed. ‘Come on. Spread your largesse to some other struggling artist. You can furnish John’s flat with more stuff.’
‘Surely there’s a line between a gift and redoing someone else’s home?’
‘See, that depends on whether he’s asked you to marry him.’ He eyed her. ‘He told me he had honourable intentions.’
‘Victor, leave it.’ Honourable intentions. Right up to the point that he fucked another woman. She gritted her teeth. Trust.
‘Hey Max,’ a voice called.
‘Watch out,’ Victor murmured. ‘It’s Firmin.’
Max turned, pinning a fake smile. ‘Hi, Will. Are you here to buy art?’
‘What?’
‘Emma is exhibiting in there,’ Victor said. ‘What are you doing in Hampstead?’
‘It’s a free country, isn’t it? How have you been, Max?’
Max nodded.
‘Enjoy Berlin?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Max had not told him where she was going.
Will shrugged. ‘I read in the paper your dad went. I figured you went with him. Fancy stuff? You in a slinky ball gown?’ He smiled. ‘Black maybe. White on top.’
Max shivered, despite the heat. ‘Something like that.’ How did he know what she’d worn?
‘We need to get back in and help Emma.’ Victor ground his cigarette under his highly polished shoe. ‘Excuse us, Firmin.’ Victor opened the door and kept his hand on Max’s back as they went through. Will didn’t follow them.
‘I liked it better when he propositioned me,’ Max said. The blast of colours from the art steadied her.
‘He’s a creep. It doesn’t matter how he’s hitting on you. Let me know if he bothers you again, okay?’
‘He’s harmless.’ Were that many evening gowns white and black? How much would Firmin know about fashion? ‘I think.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOR THE LAST three years, Max had spent every summer on a dig abroad, not lounging about in Norfolk. Why had she agreed to leave the St Bride’s dig? She let her nightgowns fall back into her drawer and walked to her study. Maybe she should stop pottering around with articles and try to turn her thesis into a monograph. The library in Norfolk had plenty of novels, historical books and endless tomes on gardening, but all the academic books dated back to Dad’s PhD. She’d need that book, and that… she stacked six books on her desk beside her notebook.
The notebook that held John’s phone numbers. When he came back, he’d ring her here, but the house would be closed up. His secretary Joyce could take a message. It wouldn’t be checking up on him, not at all.
She lifted the receiver in the hallway before she could talk herself out of it and dialled his office number.
‘John Knox’s office, may I help you?’ John’s secretary’s voice came crisply down the line.
‘Hello, this is Max Falkland. Could I…’
‘Just a moment, Dr Falkland.’
The line trilled once. Did she have someone with her? Twice. Max tapped her fingers on the hall table, then stepped closer to the wall as a footman carried one of her mother’s hatboxes past. They smiled. Three rings.
‘Max.’ John’s voice. Alive. In London. ‘I was just about to call you.’
Relief trickled across her body. ‘You’re back,’ she said.
‘For a total of…’ His lighter clicked. ‘Ninety-three minutes. I’ve just come out of an eighty-seven minute meeting.’ His exhale was long. ‘Are you all right?’
How on earth did she answer that?
‘I wondered if you might want to have dinner tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, but I…’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ John interrupted.
‘It’s tricky. We’re driving up to our country house in the morning, and my mother gets flustered.’ She remembered the white clapboard house and rushed on. ‘I thought I’d give Joyce the number, in case you, well, wanted to ring.’
‘I’ll take it.’ He repeated it back. ‘Would you like me to call you?’
The line popped, and Max heard Mother speaking to someone, probably Harris.
‘Mother, I’m on the phone,’ she said loudly.
‘Darling, your father isn’t home yet, and he said he would be. Vivian will understand, won’t you? How’s the baby?’
‘Hello, Lady Bartlemas. It’s John Knox, actually.’
Why couldn’t he just shut up and play along? She listened to their chit chat and gritted her teeth.
‘Max said you’ve been away for work. Such a pity you’re back just as we’re headed to the country. Has Max asked you to come and stay yet?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Oh, Max. Please do come up, whenever you can. We have a lot of Americans friends around; I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Her face flushed at each ma’am. Why did he have to have such a voice?
‘I’ll go now, darling, and let you talk, but I do need to ring… oh, here he is. Goodbye, Mr Knox.’ She hung up the phone.
‘Quite a whirlwind, my mother,’ said Max. She twisted the phone cord. ‘My father is staying in town for work.’
‘I wish you were. I’d like a chance to properly talk, Max.’
‘You could come visit,’ Max said, slowly. ‘Vivian’s coming down, with her new baby. And Bobby, my godson.’
‘Vivian?’ he asked.
‘My best friend.’ She forced herself to release the cord. ‘You might know her—her husband works for the US Embassy. Brian Gould. Anyway, Victor and Emma are coming for the Fourth of July. We always have a big party. There’s lots of room.’
‘That would be nice,’ John said.
Why did they have to sound so stilted? Why had she seen him kiss Catherine? Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. His fingers drummed, presumably against his desk. ‘What’s your office like?’
‘White walls, brown desk, lots of papers.’ John half laughed. ‘And, as you can guess, no photographs.’ A buzzer sounded. ‘Ignore that.’
‘I’ll let you go.’
‘It can wa
it. I’d really like us to talk. Could you get a…’
The phone line popped again. ‘Mr Knox, why don’t you come to dinner tonight?’
Why did her mother do this?
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’d love to.’ A knock sounded. Was it downstairs or at John’s office?
‘Lovely,’ Mother said. ‘Seven then.’ She hung up.
‘Dad will be here for dinner,’ Max said slowly.
The knock came again, and Max heard a door open.
‘John, I’m sorry but they want you upstairs,’ Joyce said.
‘Great.’ He sighed. ‘Can I call you later?’
‘I’ll see you tonight. Dad hasn’t asked me anything else about you, by the way. We’ll see what he says tonight.’ His job, his problem. Except it wasn’t. She’d have to face Dad, and God help her, Mother when she found out.
‘Okay. I still…’
‘John, it really means now.’ Joyce still sounded kind.
‘Bye, honey.’ The phone clicked, and she slowly replaced it.
Max went into her room. She added another two work books to the pile. What would her life be like as John’s wife? Waiting to see if he’d come back alive, never knowing what he’d done or with whom? A rap sounded at her open door.
‘Hello, Mother,’ she said without turning. What would Dad say?
‘I hope that’s all right. We haven’t had a chance to meet him properly or to…’
‘Inspect him?’
‘You do seem to like him.’ Max stayed silent. ‘You do, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to face her mother. ‘But please remember it’s early days.’
‘Certainly, dear. I wasn’t expecting matrimony.’ She smiled. ‘Not yet anyway.’
Max forced a smile. What her mother would say about John’s naked proposal?
‘Oh, darling, I forgot to say, let’s not dress for dinner tonight. I’m already tired, and there’s so much to do still.’
Max nodded. It wasn’t as if she had to cook the food.
Her mother crossed to her and patted her cheek. ‘You look pale, darling. You haven’t been yourself since Berlin.’
‘Maybe it’s a bit of a cold.’
‘Well, the country air will do you good. Shall I ring Mr Knox, or shall you?’
Max looked at her blankly.
‘About dinner. You don’t want the poor man turning up in a dinner jacket.’
Max flushed. She’d pushed his evening jacket off his shoulders and… ‘I’ll do it. He’s in a meeting anyway; I’ll tell his secretary.’
‘What do you know about her?’
‘She has great nieces.’
‘Excellent.’ Mother walked to the door.
‘Mother, not even two weeks ago you didn’t like him being from North Carolina. Why do you want this to work so badly?’
‘Before you went to Berlin, it was the happiest I’d seen you in years. He seems like a nice man. And you are twenty-seven.’
Max followed Mother out her door and lifted the hall extension.
‘Do you know the number by heart?’
Max took a sheet of paper from her trouser pocket, waiting for the inevitable criticism. Her mother hated trousers and oversized men’s shirts, standard daytime dress when Max studied at Vassar.
‘Max, must you wear those dreadful Vassar clothes?’ Mother went downstairs without waiting for an answer.
Max waited for the line to connect.
‘John Knox’s office, may I help you?’
‘Joyce, it’s Max again.’
‘I’m afraid he’s still in a meeting, Dr Falkland.’
‘I assumed he would be. Could you please tell him not to dress for dinner tonight? It’s just the family.’
‘Of course, Dr Falkland.’
‘Please call me Max.’ It sounded like she expected to ring a lot, or be a permanent part of John’s secretary’s life. ‘I mean, it feels very formal. I don’t even know your surname.’
‘Andrews, Dr Falkland.’ Before Max could feel chastised, Joyce spoke again. ‘Mr Knox was very happy you called earlier, I know.’
‘How often does he travel?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘I thought so. Thank you, Miss—Mrs? Andrews.’
Joyce laughed. ‘Miss. Enjoy your evening, Dr Falkland.’
Someone knocked hard on her door as the crepe skirt of Max’s dress settled around her. She tugged the side zipper up. ‘Come in,’ Max said. The door opened before she even finished speaking.
‘Your father,’ Mother said. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘What’s Dad done?’ Had he told her about John?
‘He’s invited Marcus for dinner. I told him how busy I was, I told him Mr Knox was coming over, and still he invites someone else.’
‘Uncle Marcus is nearly family.’ He’d been George’s godfather. Max loved talking to Uncle Marcus. He’d always asked for her opinion as seriously as he did Dad’s, even when she was tiny. Maybe he could distract Mother from her inspection of John.
‘But he comes with his secretary and those two other men—okay, so they won’t be at the table but they’re always there. That’s more work for the staff, and they are even busier than I am.’
Max hid a smile. At least Mother acknowledged it.
‘There’s no time to change the menu—I was only doing three courses and…’
‘Mother, calm down.’ Max pushed her onto the bed. ‘It’ll be fine.’ She walked to her study and came back with a glass of whiskey. ‘Here. We aren’t dressing, are we? I doubt I could reach John now.’
‘No. I impressed that on your father that at least.’ Mother sipped the whiskey and made a face. ‘It’s better with ice.’
‘You American, you.’
Mother laughed. ‘I just wish he’d listen to me more. I wanted meeting your Mr Knox to be as easy as possible.’
‘You just mean you don’t think you can interrogate him as freely in front of someone else.’
Mother shook her head. ‘As if I would.’ She inspected Max. ‘I like that dress on you. I couldn’t wear such a pale champagne, but it works with your hair being that shade or two darker than mine. Are you leaving it down?’
Max glanced back to the mirror at the carefully arranged waves. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s nice. I still think you should consider cutting it.’
‘You do realise I like my hair long, right?’ Max could only view Mother’s wave of her hand as dismissive. But Max would carry on with her decision, just as she had with the PhD.
‘Lipstick?’
‘I haven’t finished yet!’
‘I’ll go.’ She gripped Max’s hands. ‘It’ll be fine tonight.’
Max stood at the top of the stairs. She took a deep breath. Five to seven.
‘You look like you’re going to be sick,’ Charlie said, bumping her shoulder. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Wait till you bring somebody over. It’ll be worse for you—at least I don’t have to give them an heir.’ She only had to explain two names.
‘Do you like him that much?’
Max shrugged. Yes, which made everything so much worse.
‘At least he’ll distract Aunt Nancy from the RAF. I’m going to get a drink.’
Max watched his uneven walk down the stairs. Charlie had only had his cast off for a day. She followed more slowly. The doorbell rang before she reached the bottom. Harris smoothly moved to answer it, and she stepped into the entry way as Harris took John’s hat.
‘I’ll take Mr Knox to the drawing room, Harris. Thank you,’ Max said. Harris nodded and left the hall, perhaps a fraction quicker than he would normally. Max didn’t know what to say. John’s smile was tentative, and before she could rethink it, she stepped close and hugged him. ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ she murmured into the shoulder of his blue suit. John stroked her back, the thin pleated crepe no barrier at all to the warmth of his hand.
‘I promised I’d be careful.’
‘I ha
ve a feeling that doesn’t always count for that much.’ Smoke, toothpaste, aftershave. Could she do this? For life? She stepped back. ‘You look tired.’ Above freshly shaved cheeks, redness marked his eyes.
‘I haven’t been to my apartment yet. Fortunately, I keep clean shirts at work.’
‘You didn’t have to come tonight.’
‘And miss my inspection?’ He offered her his arm, and she slid her cold fingers onto his sleeve. ‘I realise things—we—aren’t where we were before Berlin, but…’
‘Max, darling, are you going to keep Mr Knox out here all night?’ Her mother stood silhouetted in the drawing room door.
Max took a deep breath, and laughed when John did the same. He smiled down at her.
‘Mr Knox, lovely to see you again,’ Mother said as they approached the drawing room’s door. ‘I believe you remember our cousin Charlie Falkland?’
‘Nice to see you,’ John said. Max dropped her arm so John could shake hands with Mother. He handed her a box of chocolates, and Max went to collect glasses of champagne as he and her mother exchanged pleasantries.
Charlie sidled close to Max. ‘Was he that big last time I saw him?’
‘He’s a bit old to be growing taller, don’t you think?’ She closed her mouth firmly. None of this was Charlie’s fault.
‘Maybe it’s because I’m standing up this time. Anything I can do to help?’
Max smiled. ‘Distract Mother from questions, if possible.’
Mother steered John towards a photo of Max and George on the mantelpiece. Max walked over quickly and handed John a glass.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Max asked.
‘Late, apparently. Max, I think you must have been fourteen here?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You have a lot of photographs.’ John touched the silver frame around Max’s Vassar graduation photo.
Max had begged Mother to swap that photo out for one of her in her PhD graduation gown, but her request had been refused. Now, staring at George’s face in his own Cambridge graduation photo, Max wondered which would be worse—remembering the end of her engagement or George’s death? Why couldn’t one of her graduations have been peaceful?
The one photo Mother had removed had been of George in his RAF uniform. The latest photo of George that appeared here Charlie had snapped—George and Max laughing together in on their last trip to Norfolk together. Before he’d told her to give up her PhD and just fucking get married. Before he shipped out. Max’s eyes swept closed.
The Running Lie Page 10
