Lovers and Liars Trilogy (45 page)

“I had to do this. I had to speak to you somehow. I would have tried at Mary’s the other night, but he was watching me all the time. I didn’t dare. I tried to help, did your friend tell you? John didn’t realize what I did, but even so, he was so angry, so angry. I can’t tell you what he’s like when he’s angry. He punishes me—that’s why he sent my sons home the next day, to punish me. Please, please, you have to help me. You’re my last hope.”

She had begun to tremble. Her grip tightened on Gini’s wrist. “Have you found James yet? Have you? You must have looked for him? Where is he? Do you know?”

“No,” Gini said.

“Oh, God, oh, God.” Her face had turned chalk-white. “You must find him. Frank was on leave this weekend. I have to know James is safe. I’m so afraid he’s dead….” Her grip on Gini’s wrist had become painful. Suddenly, she released that grip and began to fumble with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Look,” she said. “Look.”

Her bared arm was painfully thin, and the bruise very large. Gini could see the imprint of fingers clearly, violet-black against her skin. Above the bruise were three round marks; Gini stared, then realized that they were burn marks, made with the tip of a cigarette.

“John did that yesterday. There are other marks. On my neck. On my back. That’s why I broke down. I can’t take it anymore. Mary doesn’t know. No one knows. Listen, please find James. Before next Sunday—you understand? Next Sunday…” Her voice died in her throat.

“I understand. Next Sunday is the third of the month.”

“Find James and go to that house. I gave your friend the address. I think he’ll use it, it’s his usual place—on Sunday, you understand? He’s always watching me. Well, now it’s his turn to be watched….”

She gave a shiver and again glanced over her shoulder. Again she gripped Gini’s wrist. “He’s so clever, Gini—you have to understand that. He makes me see all these doctors, doctor after doctor. Then they give me these pills, and he makes me take them, injections too. He wants people to think I’m having a breakdown, losing my mind. That’s why he got Mary there today, so she’d be a witness. Do you see?”

She trembled violently. “And, of course, it works. I can see what people think. They think I’m a fool, a nervous wreck, a bad mother.” Tears filled her eyes. “Sometimes I almost believe it all myself, all the lies he tells about me. I’m so desperate, Gini. You have to believe me. You have to help me. For my sake and my sons’ sake. They need me so much. You see, he doesn’t care, what it takes…” She made a choking sound, and the tears spilled over down her white cheeks.

“He hasn’t loved me, Gini, not for years—if he ever did. He’s such a cold man. He’s just like his father. He wants me out of the way, so he can carry on with that glorious future of his. I knew, if he ever discovered I’d talked to James, if he found out James had gone to the press, that would be the end. And he does know, I’m sure of it That’s why James left, and now…oh, God, oh God. Mary’s coming back—” She broke off, then pulled down her sleeve. She began to twist her wedding ring. “Listen, quickly. You mustn’t talk on your telephone. Be careful in your apartment. I’m watched. You’re watched. Never let that man Frank near you. The others are all right, they’re legitimate security men, but not Frank. Remember what I said…If you have to talk, use a park, an open space, better still, a crowded restaurant like this one, that’s the safest of all. Dear God…” She fixed Gini with her eyes. Her pupils were huge, dilated, black. She was shaking uncontrollably now, and was white to the lips. “Mary’s nearly here. I’ll try to see you again. It may not be possible. Wednesday. I’ll try then. Walk in the park, just behind my house. I used to meet James there then, on Wednesdays, about ten. You’ll come, you promise me?”

“I’ll be there,” Gini said.

“Thank you.” She grasped Gini’s hand feverishly, and pressed it between her thin, dry palms. “In God’s name, thank you. I shall never forget this. …”

Mary had finally reached their table. She looked down at Lise in consternation. Lise wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and rose to her feet. She embraced Mary warmly, then kissed Gini.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” she said. “The tears just started, and then I couldn’t stop. I miss the boys so…. I’ll go home now with Malone. Thank you both. This has helped, really it has….”

Without another word she picked up her coat and began to walk through the restaurant. Mary hurried after her, but by the time she reached the door, the car was pulling away with Lise and Malone in the back.

Mary stood watching the car disappear. When she turned back to Gini, there were tears of sympathy in her eyes. She pressed Gini’s hand.

“I fear for her,” she said. “I’m afraid for her, Gini. Two such marvelous people—and now this. All that good work she does, all that love she’s poured into her marriage—and now this. Life is cruel, Gini, don’t you think?”

“People are,” Gini replied.

P
ASCAL STARED INTO THE
silence for a while, then turned to Helen. She was sitting where he had left her, at the table, her head slumped in her hands.

“I’ll stay, Helen,” he said at last. “It’s all right, I won’t leave you alone. I’ll stay tonight and maybe tomorrow—until we’re both sure she’s better.”

Helen gave him a blank look. Her face was tear-stained. When Pascal sat down opposite her, he could still detect the faint lunchtime smell of wine on her breath. A clock was ticking. The room was as white, as hygienic, as an operating theater. Upstairs, Marianne was now sleeping peacefully, her English nanny keeping watch. It was half past eight, and it felt like a week since he’d arrived at the house.

“Scarlet fever,” Helen said in a dull voice. “I don’t understand. No one gets that. Not anymore.”

“It’s unusual, but it responds to penicillin. Helen, don’t cry anymore. The crisis is over. She’ll be all right now, the doctor said.”

“I wasn’t here.” Helen looked away. “I wasn’t here—and I can’t forgive myself for that.”

“Helen, you can’t be here all the time.
I
was here. And I wasn’t a great deal of use either….” He gave a helpless shrug.

“I wouldn’t say that” She raised her eyes to look at him. “You did your best It’s never happened before. I wouldn’t have known what to do either. Sponge her down, give more aspirin sooner…I wouldn’t have known that.” She hesitated. “Would you make me some tea, Pascal? It might stop me feeling sick.”

Pascal made the tea. All the time he was doing so, he could feel her watching him.

Eventually, in a stiff way, she said, “I haven’t always been fair to you, Pascal. I do realize that. In my better moments.” She gave a shrug.

“I realize too.” Pascal passed her the tea. He produced a tired smile. “In
my
better moments, I do see where I went wrong. What I did.”

“Do you?” She sipped the tea, gave him a long, considering look. “Well, it’s in the past now, Pascal, anyway. It’s just…” She hesitated. He watched her fight back the tears. Helen hated to show weakness.

When she had succeeded in controlling the tears, she said, “I’m not good at showing affection anymore. Even with Marianne. I’ve lost the knack.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, you’re wrong. It is.” She paused, her color deepening, then began speaking again, rushing past the words, as if she had to admit this but hated to do so. “It’s because I’m afraid. That’s why. I always think, if I show any love, sooner or later it will get thrown back in my face. No, don’t say anything. It’s not your fault. I was always like that. Long before I married you.”

Pascal looked at her wordlessly. After a moment he reached across and took her hand. “Helen,” he began. “Why did you never tell me that? If we’d talked more, been more open with each other…”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference. We were never right for each other. I know that. You know that. There it is.”

Pascal removed his hand. They looked at each other. Helen gave a sad smile.

“You see? We both know it’s true. That’s a kind of progress, at least. You see”—she looked away—“I was hoping, Pascal, I have been hoping, that I could change. Learn actually to trust someone, perhaps. There’s another reason why I want to go back to England.”

There was silence. Pascal counted the seconds. He said, “I see. You’ve met someone else?”

“Yes, I have. He’s a good man. Very English, very reliable, very steady. Not as exciting as you were—but I don’t want excitement anymore. Not now. I want peace.”

“I can understand that.”

“You can?” She looked surprised. “The thing is, I wouldn’t rush into anything, I promise you. I’d be very sure this time before I committed myself.”

“He wants to marry you?”

“He says he does. I met him today, it’s him I was meeting. We talked about it then. I told him he’d have to be patient. And he will be…” A tiny flurry of emotion passed across her face. “He’s a kind man, Pascal. I think you’d like him. He’d be good to Marianne. He has children too, he’s a widower. He wouldn’t try to replace you—nothing like that. He’s sensitive and kind and a little bit dull, and it would ease the money situation for you, and…Pascal. I’m only thirty-one. I have to have a life.”

“I know that.” Pascal stared down at the white table in front of him. He tried to tell himself that he had known this was inevitable.

“Do you mean that?”

Pascal looked up. He frowned. “Yes, I do, oddly enough.” He hesitated. “Since I last saw you I’ve had time to think. So much bitterness—I never wanted it to be like that. It shouldn’t be like that, for Marianne’s sake.”

“Ours too.” She looked at him closely. “And we did like each other once. Almost loved each other. For a time. You were good to me after the miscarriage. Under all the pain and the bitterness I felt, I did know that. And tonight, when I came back, when I saw your face…” She broke off. “I do know how much you love Marianne, Pascal. And I hope you know I love her too.” She bent her head and began to cry a little. Then she wiped her eyes, and straightened. “I could talk to the lawyers,” she said in a stiff way. “I’d be prepared to do that. When I’m in England we could alter the custody arrangement to make it easier for you….”

Pascal hesitated. He looked at the table. He moved his teacup forward, then back. “If I were living in England,” he began slowly. “If I made England my base, would you object to that?”

“England?” She looked astonished, then frowned. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t object. I don’t want you next door, or in the next village, obviously.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, I know.” She paused. “Well, I suppose it might work out. Marianne would be pleased. You never know….” She gave him a dry look. “We might even end up friends, Pascal. Stranger things have happened. I must say I’m surprised though. England? You? Whatever draws you to England?”

“Oh, the past. The future,” Pascal hesitated, his face suddenly anxious. “May I use your phone?” he asked.

Gini returned to her apartment at ten. There was a pile of mail on her mat. She stood in the center of her living room, holding it. Outside, footsteps passed, then a car. She tried to tell herself that this was her home. But it did not feel like her home; it did not feel safe.

When Pascal telephoned to explain he could not return, he had tried to persuade her to stay at Mary’s that night. She had refused, and when she did so, had felt a rebellious anger in herself. She would not be driven out of her own space by a break-in, by the fear of what she had seen in Venice the previous night. Let them send their sick parcels, and their sick audiotapes. Pascal had phoned back twice at Mary’s to try to dissuade her, but she refused to back down. “I will not be made a fugitive,” she had said. And that was fine when Mary was nearby, just through in the kitchen, clattering plates. It was less fine now that she was alone, and it was night.

She locked and bolted both front and back doors. She checked that all the windows were securely fastened. She drew the curtains and the blinds, moving swiftly from room to room, still in her overcoat She lit the fire, switched on every lamp, tossed the pile of letters onto her desk, removed her overcoat, looked around her, and at once felt better. It might be foolish, but with the curtains drawn, she felt more secure; at least she knew she could not be watched.

Napoleon was sitting on the sofa, observing these activities. When she crossed to him, he turned away his topaz eyes and flicked his tail. Cats could speak, Gini thought, in their way, and every line of Napoleon’s body indicated reproach.

He did not like to be left; with her neighbor Mrs. Henshaw absent too, he clearly felt doubly abandoned. Gini stroked him and kissed his marmalade ears, but Napoleon refused to be mollified. He gave her a cold feline stare. Then, as if other priorities had just occurred to him, he leapt to the floor and made his way to the kitchen at a dignified pace.

He had ignored the food she had left for him, but Gini, who had anticipated this, had brought an offering from Mary’s. A little poached salmon, Napoleon’s favorite dish. The instant he smelled it, he licked his lips. By the time he had eaten it, exited through the cat flap to the yard beyond, explored the dank and malodorous trash cans in the lane beyond that, and returned, his humor was restored. He followed Gini back into the living room and leaped up onto her lap.

Gini yawned and stretched. She would just go through her mail, she decided—it was sure to be bills—and then go to sleep early. In the morning she intended to go to the
News
offices first thing: There was work to do, leads to follow, and there were certain questions she was eager—very eager—to ask Nicholas Jenkins. Such as who else knew they were assigned to this story, because, quite obviously, he had lied and someone did.

She began to leaf through the letters. Circulars. Bills. There were a couple of invitations, a couple of postcards; the first, from that unmemorable man friend now in Australia she read quickly, then tossed to one side. The second…she stared at the second. Who had sent her this?

On the front of it was a reproduction of a painting in London’s National Gallery, by Uccello. It showed, quaintly and with charm, a mounted St. George slaying a dragon. Close by stood the maiden he was saving. She stood at the mouth of a cave, waiting calmly for the dragon’s death. Fifteenth century, Florentine school. It was a famous painting, and one Gini knew well. The perspective and proportions were naive: St. George and the dragon were large, the lady small. Gini turned the postcard over; the message was brief and neatly written: