Lovers and Liars Trilogy (30 page)

He felt neither love, nor compassion; he was distanced, alienated, and cold. It was, he thought sometimes, a kind of living death, and it brought only one benefit: His new cold eye, his disregard for danger, gave his pictures a distinctive edge.

His friends, not understanding that he was dying inside, that he could feel death in his brain, heart, and bloodstream, claimed he sought death out, courted it, made love to it. Pascal didn’t bother to argue with them, or correct their mistake—let them weave their myths. Why would he court death when he had already possessed it? He and death were intimates, lovers: Death was beside him while he worked; death sat down at the table when he ate and drank; death watched when he had sex; death greeted him every morning on waking and waited for him faithfully every night when he slept.

That period of his life was not something he liked to recall now. It had, in due course, become less grim. He had almost persuaded himself that it was possible to escape from that prison cell. He had married, believing this. He had tried hard to hide the darkness that clouded the edge of his vision from his wife. When she was expecting their first child, he allowed himself to hope—and he continued to cling to hope even after the miscarriage. Later, there was Marianne, and he saw her, his living child, as a great gift. Amid the tumult and wreckage of a dying marriage, Marianne was music: By her very existence, through the passionate and protective love he felt for her, she sounded a sweet, pure, and enduring note.

She gave him his heart back; in his capacity as her father, if in no other, he could know death receded and he lived. Marianne was his comfort, the one person who could give meaning to his life. Yet now he could not be with her, except by appointment, by permission, and so even this last hope was marred by grief.

It was now four in the morning, still dark outside, the deadest time of night. With a sudden desperation Pascal rose to his feet. He walked back and forth in the room. With despair he examined and reexamined these incidents, these states of mind, this plot that was his life. It seemed to him then, momentarily, that all the wrong turnings he had taken linked back to the same time, and the same place. That little room by the harbor, in a once-beautiful city. How different might things be now if he had acted differently then?

He stopped pacing, crossed the room, and stood silently by a door. Beyond that door, Gini slept. For an instant he felt a wild and heady conviction that if he opened that door now, even if he spoke to her only, and did nothing else, he could perhaps undo time, mend, amend, the course of his past life.

He actually allowed himself to touch the handle of the door, and to turn it. Then he stepped back. The conviction fell away, and he saw it for what it was: a by-product of fatigue, a delusion fed by despair and lack of sleep. He was, he thought, no longer that impetuous young man he had been in Beirut. These days he placed greater value on friendship than on love. Friendship was less combustible, but endured longer. Love affairs, for the most part, had painful, messy conclusions. He believed now that their corollary was parting, just as the corollary of marriage was disillusion, a hurt child, a broken heart, and divorce.

He returned to the sofa and lay down. He extinguished the light. For the rest of the hours remaining before dawn he forced himself to think only of work, and of the Hawthornes, that perfect couple who might or might not have achieved that rare thing, a perfect marriage. His mind dwelt in their story, their space. The hours passed; he did not sleep.

In the room beyond, Gini also lay awake. She heard Pascal’s footsteps approach her door, then turn back. She almost called out to him, then remained silent instead. Shortly afterward, the band of light beneath her door disappeared. Gini lay in the dark and tried to will herself to sleep. When sleep finally came, she dreamed vividly. She was searching a war-torn city, despairing and frantic. The object of her search was uncertain, and the details of the dream shadowy. Sometimes the city resembled London, and sometimes Beirut.

She woke exhausted. Gray light filtered through her curtains. From beyond came the sound of rain beating down on the small enclosed yard behind the house. When she went out into the living room, Pascal was standing by her desk. His back was toward her; the air was rich with the smell of coffee brewing. There was a faint hum of machinery. When Pascal turned, she could detect no signs of strain or sleeplessness. His face was concentrated and alert.
My colleague,
Gini thought. He held out to her a fax.

“The story continues,” he said. “It’s speeding up. Appleyard has just surfaced, look. He’s flying into London this morning, he says. He’s proposing a meeting—and we can fit it in, just. We can see him, then go on to your stepmother’s house. Meet the Hawthornes as planned.” He paused, half smiled. “It’s Saturday today, Gini,” he said.

Gini said nothing. Her dream was still with her. She was not certain of the year, she felt, let alone the day of the week.

She took the fax from Pascal. It was brief, typed, but otherwise characteristic of Appleyard. Assuming availability, he was proposing they meet for dinner at a Mayfair restaurant, at eight o’clock that night.

T
HAT SATURDAY MORNING MARY
rose early. There were twenty people coming to dinner. She could no longer afford staff, and twenty people to feed meant hours of work. Mary did not mind this; from her childhood, it had always given her pleasure to cook. Sometimes, it was true, she would look back with a certain wry nostalgia to her embassy days. She would think of her father and mother’s perfectionism, and then of her husband’s and her own: such a retinue of cooks and secretaries and butlers and helpers. All she had had to do was fuss about placements and precedence and how she would dress. All those years spent carefully entertaining a succession of strangers—she looked back and found she did not regret them one jot.

Meanwhile, she had to resolve the menu for tonight. She was half decided, almost decided, but there was a certain anxiety at the back of her mind, an anxiety that had nothing to do with food or the dinner itself, and that anxiety was distracting her. It made her flurried and indecisive. She opened her larder, examined the contents of her refrigerator. When distracted, she cooked badly. Concentrate, she told herself, stick to your original menu and don’t vacillate; vacillation made things worse.

They would begin with the smoked salmon as planned, she decided, then move on to a dish that was always a success, pheasants cooked with apples and Calvados. Finally, the dessert. Mary had a great weakness for dessert, and even if that weakness was not shared by guests such as Lise, she intended to provide a choice: pears baked in red wine and cinnamon would look beautiful, the color of rubies, and then—even more wicked, even more calorie-laden, her chocolate mousse.

She tied on her apron, and, humming to herself, began her preparation, already feeling less anxious. The dinner, she told herself, would be a success. It had the virtue of simplicity—and for her, the menu brought back happy memories of Richard. Odd how tastes could remind you of contentment and of love. And then, apart from this menu, she had chosen her guests well. Some were undeniably boring, it was true, but they would be useful to John Hawthorne—indeed, had been invited at John’s request.

“You devious man,” she had said to him, laughing, when he mentioned their names.

“But of course,” he replied. “I’m a diplomat now, and deviousness comes with the territory, Mary. You know that.”

“You were born devious,” she countered stoutly. “One of nature’s Machiavellis—Richard always said that.”

“It takes one to know one,” he replied in his dry way. “Besides, in my position”—he gave a shrug—“you learn early to watch your back.”

Indeed,
Mary thought now, a well-developed sense of self-protection was necessary for any man or woman in public life. Her father might have made the same comment; so might her husband. A little streak of ruthlessness was indispensable. Feeling pleased with herself, she began to grate the chocolate for the mousse, absentmindedly nibbling at tiny chunks. She found the cream and eggs; a little zest of orange, she thought contentedly, that always gave the mousse a lift. She separated the eggs, began to whip the whites, and let her mind drift back to happier days.

This recipe had been given her by one of Richard’s aunts, an eccentric woman who had lived for forty years as an expatriate, in Provence. She had had the most wonderful house, halfway up the side of a hill, the approach road flanked by huge bushes of rosemary and lavender. Richard had picked a sprig of lavender for her, crushed it slightly, then held it out to her. She had inhaled deeply; a hot, dry, aromatic scent. Richard said:
To me, that’s the smell of France, the South of France….

Mary stopped. She put down the whisk. The anxiety had returned sharply and abruptly. This very evening, just a few hours from now, this Pascal Lamartine would be here, in her house.

The prospect filled her with alarm. There was no point in ignoring it any longer, she thought; she would have to confront it, deal with it, decide what to do. Should she or should she not make it clear to this Frenchman that she knew about his past conduct? Should she tell him she knew exactly who, and what, he was?

Unnerved, Mary made herself some coffee and broke an inviolable rule—she lit a morning cigarette. She sat at her kitchen table and stared unseeingly into the middle distance, unhappy and perplexed.

She was certain that when, out of the blue, Gini had mentioned Lamartine’s name, her own reaction had been quick. She was sure she had covered up well, and disguised from Gini the confusion and shock she immediately felt. Mary felt quite proud of herself for this. She knew that she was not the world’s most accomplished actress, and that Gini was astute. Even so, Mary had been both a diplomat’s daughter and a diplomat’s wife. In emergencies she could summon up a repertoire of social deceit. She might not like to do so, for it was not in her nature to lie, especially to Gini, whom she loved. Nevertheless, she had been schooled to conceal boredom and dislike, and she could disguise anxiety just as well. She had learned the techniques of the white lie, the polite evasion, the digression, from her childhood. She had employed them in the past at a hundred embassy receptions. Last Wednesday, when Gini dropped the bombshell of Lamartine’s name, those techniques had come to her aid. No, Gini had suspected nothing—she was certain of that. Her comments about paparazzi had been idiotic, she knew, and in the circumstances, her matchmaking tone had been ill advised. But they had achieved their objective, and they had bought her time. Now, unfortunately, time was running out. She had to decide what to do when she finally met Lamartine tonight.

After Gini had left her last Wednesday, Mary had not slept. She tossed and turned half the night. On the Thursday evening she was at a party at the French embassy, and John Hawthorne, who was there without his wife, gave her a lift home. He came in with her, accepted a drink, had seen that she was worried, questioned her gently. …She resisted for a while, then the whole story poured out

Well, she did not regret that, she thought now. John had never betrayed a confidence in his life. She had never discussed this with anyone, for Gini’s sake, yet when she began her story, she felt the greatest relief. One of the worst and most painful aspects of widowhood, she decided, was the loneliness of decision making. She missed acutely Richard’s capacity for listening, his support, his quiet and almost infallibly wise advice.

That gap in her life was increasingly filled by John Hawthorne, and she was grateful to him for that. A harder man than her husband had ever been—though Richard could be tough—John Hawthorne shared many of her husband’s qualities nonetheless. His capacity for listening was famous, of course; those who liked him said it was the source of his charm, and those who disliked him said it accounted for his success. Beyond that, as she had discovered this past year, John Hawthorne was kind, generous, and acute. He did not mince his words; he did not flatter or falsely console. He gave straight advice, in a straight manner, even when that advice was not what Mary always wanted to hear, and she would see, later, that the advice he gave was subtle. A reserved man, she thought now; a clever man; a man who, this past year, had gradually revealed to her hidden depths. How fortunate to have such a man as a friend; how fortunate to know she could rely on his protection and his trust.

“You mean Gini knew this man before?” he had said, frowning.

“More than that. Much worse. Oh, God, John, what am I going to do? If Sam finds out, he’ll be furious.”

John, who had known her ex-husband in the past, gave a dry smile. “And Sam in one of his rages is quite a sight. To be avoided at all costs, I’d say. Go on.”

“Oh, John. I don’t know where to begin. Gini has no idea I know what happened. It was all so ghastly. Sam and this Lamartine man had a fight—really, a physical fight. Sam had a cut eye and a cracked rib. Gini, poor Gini, she was in such a state of
misery
for months and months. I was absolutely terrified she was pregnant—but, of course, she wasn’t, thank God. I kept telling myself she’d confide in me, and then she never did, never—not to this day, that’s how deep it went. And now this bloody man has turned up again, and I just
know
she still feels something for him, John, I could see it in her face. What am I to do? Should I say nothing, or intervene? Should I tell Sam this Lamartine’s reemerged—I always promised him I would, but that was twelve years ago. It seems foolish now; after all, Gini’s grown up. There’s nothing either of us could do except advise her. Well, I did think, perhaps if I said something to Lamartine on Saturday, he might back off. That is, if he’s still interested in Gini, and he’s probably not.”

She stopped, out of breath, and turned to him. “You see, my one concern is Gini. She’s much more vulnerable than she looks. I can’t bear to see her hurt again. He hurt her so badly before, John, and it was obvious he couldn’t have cared less. Why are some men like that, why?”