Lovers and Liars Trilogy (36 page)

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?
Nicholas 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 checked 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….”

“On the contrary. It reminds you just how alone you are.” He spoke, suddenly, with genuine feeling, in a very different tone. The next second his manner was as before: forceful, neutral, urbane.

“In any case, you get used to it. It comes with the territory.” They had reached Pascal and Lise at last. Pascal rose. Mary reappeared. Lise Hawthorne also rose; she greeted Gini warmly. She pressed her hand tightly, and gazed at her in a way Gini found disconcerting, even strange.

“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you properly at last,” she said in her soft, breathy voice. “I’ve heard so much about you from Mary, of course. And from John.”

Hawthorne smiled. “Good Lord, Gini won’t even remember that,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. But we did meet once, Gini, in Kent, at Mary’s house. One Easter. You were just going back to school.”

“I remember,” Gini said.

Lise let go of her hand. Just to the side of them, Mary was attempting to introduce John Hawthorne to Pascal. When she finally succeeded in gaining the ambassador’s attention, he gave Pascal a hard look and a cursory handshake.

“Lamartine?” He frowned. “Don’t I know the name? Ah, yes. Sure. From this morning’s newspapers. Excuse me, will you?”

He was already turning away. Mary’s face bore an odd, almost guilty expression. Lise was clutching her tiny evening purse, her knuckles white with strain.

“Lise,” her husband said over his shoulder. “Five minutes only, I’m afraid, and then we must go. I’ll just speak to Malone.”

And with this, with an abruptness that was knowingly rude, he turned on his heel.

Exactly five minutes later the Hawthornes moved out to the hall. For Mary’s sake, Gini might have stayed longer, but Pascal shook his head. He took her arm.

“No. Now,” he said in a low voice. “I want to leave at the same time they do.”

There was a crush of guests in the hallway. Mary was there, the Hawthornes were there, the two actors were also leaving; by the door was a huge crew-cut security man. From outside came the crackle of radio static.

“Malone?” Hawthorne said.

The man nodded. He opened the door, said something inaudible, and closed it again.

Hawthorne was helping his wife into her coat. Gini froze, and almost exclaimed, but Pascal tightened his warning grip on her arm. Lise stroked the coat and turned back to Mary with a smile.

“Isn’t it heavenly? It was John’s birthday present. And the necklace too.” She reached up and gave her husband an affectionate kiss. “I’m so spoiled.”

“Nonsense, darling.” He smiled down at her, then put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s no more than you deserve.”

The Hawthornes said their thanks and good-byes to Mary. They shook hands with the two actors. There was a flurry of movement, then Malone opened the door and moved out fast. On the steps beyond, two shadows moved. There was another crackle of static. Gini and Pascal waited and watched the Hawthornes, flanked by two of those shadows, descend the portico steps and enter their long black limousine. Malone remained at the top of the steps, his eyes scanning the street. As the car pulled away, Malone lifted his wrist and spoke inaudibly into his wrist mike. The limousine disappeared. A second car followed it, the regulation twenty yards back. Malone ran down the steps with surprising agility for a man of his size. A third car had already moved forward. Malone jumped into it, and it, too, pulled away, fast