Lovers and Liars Trilogy (105 page)

“Fat,” said Charlotte, rosy with pleasure and relief. “Don’t try to be gallant. I look mountainous.”

“You look beautiful,” Rowland said, meaning it. “And what’s more, it’s definitely a girl this time. A daughter. A Miss Max.”

“You’re sure?” Charlotte laughed. “How can you tell?”

“Because you’re carrying the baby low. And according to my Irish grandmother, that’s always the sign of a girl.”

“What nonsense, Rowland. You don’t even remember your Irish grandmother.”

“Wait and see in two months.”

Rowland released Charlotte and looked around the room. He spied Danny, lurking shyly behind a chair. Rowland, sure the three-year-old could be relied upon to create a diversion, held out his arms to him. With a whoop of pleasure Danny hurtled forward, clamped himself to Rowland’s knees, and then whooped again as Rowland hoisted him aloft.

After that, as he had hoped, it was easy. The dogs came back to life, and barked; Charlotte began to fuss with the tea things; Max had to recall, at length, the tiresome new-age caravansary that had delayed them approaching the village, and the boys—hearing Rowland’s and their father’s voices—had to race back downstairs, their motive part affection and part avarice, for Rowland, a great favorite with them, never arrived without bringing gifts.

In the midst of this melee, Genevieve Hunter was introduced, and Rowland briefly took her cool, narrow hand. She made some English remark—afterward he remembered that—some conventional, meaningless English greeting, uttered in a low, American-accented voice.

Rowland, who knew of her English schooling, her English stepmother, was thrown by the greeting nonetheless; he had been expecting—what? Greater force, perhaps; vivacity, he told himself afterward; possibly even wit, for her writing could be witty, and her writing style, sharply individual, was crisp.

Instead, he was granted just one look from the long-lidded, cool gray eyes; one touch from that thin hand; he had the sensation that he was erased from her memory before her hand withdrew from his.

He was, though he would not have admitted it, disappointed. Also faintly perturbed—for what reason he could not have said. Max, as shortly became evident, felt no such uncertainties. He was ebullient with glee, could not wait for an excuse to get Rowland to himself. Only twenty minutes after their arrival he was racing up the stairs, followed more slowly by Rowland.

“Must wash, must change,” Max shouted back down the stairs, hauling Rowland into his dressing room. He shut the door.

“Well?” he said with triumph. “What do you think? Our little plot worked. We pulled it off, didn’t we? Women are so easy to deceive.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. A couple of tricky moments, with Lindsay, as expected—but you took care of that. A masterstroke—I’ll admit it, Rowland, I could learn from you. You really were consummately cool. Never turned a hair. Great presence of mind…”

“Thanks, Max. It comes with practice.”

“And Gini—you liked her? She came up to spec?”

“It’s difficult to like someone on the strength of one handshake and one sentence, Max.”

Rowland turned away to inspect the pictures on the walls—rows of photographs from Max’s school days: a rugby team, a cricket team; then Oxford, Max and himself alongside the Oxford motorbike—he was touched by this. Max sank into a chair with an air of disappointment.

“Well, I did warn you,” he said. “She’s reserved. Difficult. I told you—every assignment she’s been offered since Bosnia… if you decide you do want her to work on this story, you’ll have to get her interest somehow.”

“We’ve been over all that.”

“I know. But you’ve got only two days, Rowland. All right, it’s a good story—it might be a very good story. The drugs angle might interest her. On the other hand, she’s been offered a number of good stories these past two months since she’s back from Bosnia. And she’s turned them all down flat.”

“Even so.” Rowland bent to another photograph.

“I’m all for the indirect approach—I buy that. Assess her. Give her a chance to get to know you socially first—fine. Make her like you, even. But I know Lindsay, and I know what she’ll have been saying about you. If you do decide to use Gini, you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

He paused, looking at Rowland speculatively. Rowland, examining a photograph of Max in full cricket regalia, made no response.

“I mean, face facts, Rowland. Now that you’ve actually seen her, perhaps you’ll understand. You still think a two-day-charm offensive’s going to work?”

“I imagine it can’t do any harm.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I told you, it was a nightmare, hiring her. There she is—she and Lindsay—both at the
News,
both dying to leave it, because that bloody awful Nicholas Jenkins is taking it so far down-market, nothing but sex, sex, sex. Incidentally, have you
seen
his circulation figures?”

“Another fifty-two thousand? Yes, I have.”

“Bloody man. And it was a good paper once. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. Poaching Lindsay and Gini. Well, Lindsay was simplicity itself. Stated her terms—we had the entire deal sewn up over lunch. A very good lunch, actually, at Tante Claire. Best Meursault I’ve ever had in my life. Two bottles. It was
fun.
Whereas Gini…” He made a face. “She played me off against the
Times.
For months.”

“So? You’ve used precisely that technique in the past. So have I. Everyone does.”

“I know. But I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Not from a woman who looks like that. Charlotte thinks she looks like a Crivelli Madonna.”

Rowland was silent.

“—And I told her, that certainly wouldn’t be most men’s response. It wasn’t mine, and I speak as the most happily married man I know. I mean, you must have noticed—there’s something about the mouth. And her figure—put it like this: it didn’t
immediately
bring Madonnas to mind.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Max.” Rowland gave a gesture of annoyance. “She’s a journalist. An exceptionally good journalist. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

“No, I can’t,” Max replied with spirit. He eyed Rowland narrowly. “And I have to say, that’s rich, coming from you. Since when were you indifferent to women? There’s a new one every week.”

“Maybe so. That wasn’t always the case. As you very well know, Max.”

There was a brief silence. This answer brought them perilously close to an area of Rowland’s private life he would never, perhaps could never, discuss. There, Max was afraid to trespass. The last time he had dared to raise the subject of Esther had been at least four years before—and he could still remember Rowland’s biting anger when he had done so.

“I do know,” he said now. “But it was six
years
ago, Rowland. And you’ve broken a lot of hearts since.”

“Not my intention.” Rowland turned his back.

“You use these women, Rowland,” Max persisted. “You may not see it that way, but it’s what you do. I know you loved Esther, but can’t you exorcise her some other way?”

“What would you recommend?” Rowland swung around, white-faced. “Drink? Work? I’ve tried those remedies. Mind your own business, Max.”

“You can’t grieve forever, Rowland. Not even you can do that.” Max spoke quietly. Rowland began on some angry reply, then bit the words back. He averted his face, and Max, having dared this much, said no more. He lit a cigarette and watched his friend thoughtfully. He considered certain comments his wife had made on the subject of Rowland; he considered her matchmaking plans for this weekend. Had he been right to curtail them? Charlotte had accused him of getting cold feet, and Max had agreed. “Yes, I am,” he had replied. “Rowland’s love life is a mine field. I should never have let you even consider this. Lindsay? I must have been mad. We should leave well enough alone.”

Charlotte, an apostle for married bliss, had marshaled her counterarguments with skill. Rowland, in her view, needed rescuing from himself: he was a handsome, kind, intelligent, good man who would one day make an exemplary husband and father; the course of his life, unfortunately, had taken a wrong turn since the events in Washington, D.C. of six years before.

“He’s eaten up with guilt and grief and remorse,” Charlotte had cried. “And women throw themselves at him. All those stupid girls, rushing about, ironing his shirts, cooking dinner for him, ministering unto him. Rowland’s so
blind.
He doesn’t even realize they’re in love with him—and when he does, he runs a mile. What Rowland needs is a
wife,
Max. Someone kindhearted. Someone mature. Someone with a sense of humor…”

“The love of a good woman?” Max put in, and groaned.

“Precisely,”
Charlotte replied with force. “And since Rowland’s far too obstinate ever to admit that himself, he needs guidance. A helping hand. If he could just get to know Lindsay a little better—”

“No,” Max had interrupted. “No, Charlotte. It’s playing with fire—and it’s Lindsay who would end up in the burn unit. Forget it.”

Charlotte, after further resistance, had finally backed down. Now, looking at his friend, Max wavered; Charlotte’s instincts could be surprisingly sharp: what if his wife had been right all along?

“Tell me, Rowland,” he began cautiously. “Don’t you ever think about marrying, settling down?”

“No,” Rowland replied.

“I don’t see how you can be so certain.” Max persevered. “I might have said that before I met Charlotte. Then I changed my mind. Rapidly, if you remember…”

“I do remember.” Rowland glanced back at him and gave a smile. “I was standing next to you when you were introduced, if you recall. She silenced you. I knew you were in trouble right away.”

“I was deciding to marry her,” Max said with dignity. “I admit my repartee wasn’t too startling, but I was making silent plans. Of course”—he eyed Rowland in a speculative way—“it doesn’t always happen that way. It might be a more gradual process. A woman might be just a friend, a colleague, and then the relationship—well, it might develop in an unexpected way…”

He looked at Rowland hopefully, but Rowland had already lost interest. He had returned to his inspection of the photographs on the wall. He had unbent a little though, Max thought. Encouraged, he leaned forward.

“What happened to that last girl of yours,” he ventured in a casual way. “The French one? Is she still around?”

“Sylvie? No. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“It’s over, then?” Max looked thoughtful.
“Decisively
over? You mean—she doesn’t write, or phone?”

“Decisively over.” Rowland’s voice was dry. “Which didn’t prevent her calling me thirty-two times last week. Or was it thirty-three?” He paused, half smiling, looking back at Max, then he frowned. “Extraordinary. She seemed so independent. I don’t understand women, Max. I don’t understand them at all.”

“Who does?” Max replied with delicacy, and waited. The expression on Rowland’s face became one of gloom.

“I mean—I try, Max. I make the situation perfectly clear. No commitments, either side. They always agree. They tell me they don’t want involvements either. They’re modern women…” He sighed. “For some reason they always stress that, just how modern they are. And then…”

“Yes?”

“They’re never very modern the next morning, however modern they claimed to be the night before.”

This statement, made with an air of profound bewilderment, both amused and touched Max. “For that,” he said tartly, “you have only yourself to blame. Presumably you do something to them in the interim to effect this remarkable change. It doesn’t take a
great
deal of imagination, Rowland, to work out what that might be.
My
advice—”

“I don’t want to hear your advice.” Rowland, as Max could have predicted, moved sharply to the door. “I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’m going to have a bath.”

“Sure. Sure. Change the subject.” Max made an irritated waving gesture of the hand. “You always do. It’s a pity you won’t listen to a man of my wisdom and experience, especially now.”

Rowland paused. “Especially now? Why especially now?”

“Well, there is this weekend to consider. There’s Lindsay. There’s Gini. I’m sure you’ll handle them both perfectly. You’re the expert when it comes to female psychology, as you’ve just been explaining. So I’m sure it will be clear sailing.”

Rowland hesitated, his hand on the door. Then, with a sigh, he turned around.

“I might have known it.” He looked at Max closely. “You brought me up here for a reason, didn’t you? There’s something you haven’t told me—something I need to know?”

“I was biding my time.” Max gave a small smile. “I wanted you to meet Gini first. Now that you’ve met her, I’d better explain.” There was a brief silence. Without comment, Rowland pulled out a chair and sat astride it. He waited.

“I didn’t want to say this before,” Max began somewhat evasively, “because I know how prejudiced you can be. You will jump to conclusions. You can be censorious, Rowland, and—”

“Get to the point, Max.”

“Genevieve Hunter. Her trip to Bosnia. You want to know why I was so reluctant to send her? It wasn’t just because she’s a woman.”

“Then what was the reason?”

“She lives with Pascal Lamartine.”

This admission was met with silence, then a frown. Max shifted in his seat.

“You didn’t know?”

“You know perfectly well I didn’t know. And you were very careful not to tell me. Why?”

“Because I knew you’d disapprove. I guessed you couldn’t have heard the gossip when you said you wanted to use her.”

“I never listen to gossip. And you’re right—I would have disapproved.”

“Yes, well, not everyone shares your desire to separate their personal and their working lives,” Max said waspishly. “She—”

“I make that distinction now,” Rowland said quietly. “I try to make it. And I know just how hard it can be. I learned that six years ago. Come on, Max—I’m in no position to be censorious. You know that perfectly well…”

“Maybe so. Point taken.” Max, embarrassed by the gentle reproof in his tone, shifted his gaze. “But it was more complicated than that, Rowland. You see, I’d virtually decided not to send Gini to Bosnia. I had my doubts about sending a woman to cover that war, whatever her experience. Her relationship with Lamartine counted against her—that kind of involvement, in a war zone? I thought it could be counterproductive, unwise. On the other hand, I did want Lamartine’s photographs—very badly indeed. Everyone was after him. If you remember, it was over three years since he’d last covered a war. He’d had that period out, being—well, a paparazzo is really the only term. Now, God knows why he did that—I’ve certainly never dared ask. Massive divorce bills, or so I’ve heard. Massive demands from the not-too-pleasant ex-wife. Whatever the reason, the moment word got out that he was returning to war coverage, going to Bosnia, every single one of our rivals was chasing him. And I was determined to clinch the deal.” He paused, and looked back at Rowland, who was listening intently: