Lovers and Liars Trilogy (69 page)

Mary’s tone, Gini thought, would have quelled most people, but not her father, or not her father when he had been drinking anyway. He rounded on Mary belligerently.

“Look,” he said, jabbing one finger in the air. “Look, Mary. If you think I’m going to pretend this is some goddamn social call, forget it. It’s not. I’m not here to sit around making small talk. I want to get to the bottom of this. My daughter’s got some goddamn explaining to do, and the quicker we get on with it, the better. I mean, Jesus Christ! I don’t see her, I don’t damn well lay eyes on her in two years, and then what happens? This.”

He took a deep swallow of bourbon. His eyes, which were bloodshot, ranged around the room, then fixed on Gini. “Just get one thing straight, Gini, before we start. I blame that goddamn fucking Frenchman. But I also blame you. You’re not a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. Where’s your judgment here?”

Both Gini and Mary began speaking then. Mary launched on some remonstrance, Gini on a quick and angry reply. Sam Hunter attempted to shout them both down, and then John Hawthorne spoke for the first time. His voice, cold, clipped, and authoritative, silenced them all, including Sam.

“Sam, that’s enough,” he said. “Mary’s right. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by this kind of scene. Or that kind of language. Control your temper for once, will you? Sit down. Shall we all sit down? I am the reason Gini is here tonight, and since she’s had the courtesy to come, I owe her a courtesy in return. I would like to explain.”

Gini said nothing. She watched her father, and she saw how easily John Hawthorne whipped him into line. It pained her to see it, but Sam capitulated at once. He gave her one last angry glance, then a truculent sigh. Turning his back on her, he moved across to the left of the fireplace and slumped in a chair, nursing the bourbon.

Gini was shocked, and hurt, by the change in him in these last two and a half years. The continued coarsening in his appearance was now very evident. He was, as always, well dressed; he wore one of the dark suits he had tailored for him in London, and a crisp, somewhat loudly striped Paul Stuart shirt. His handmade shoes were well shined. But the thickening waistline, the ponderous bulk, the heavy jowls, the blotchy complexion of the heavy drinker—all these aspects of her father could no longer be ignored. He looked, she realized, like an aggressive, unstable, and deeply unhappy man.

Quietly, she moved across to a chair opposite John Hawthorne and sat down. Mary fussed in an uncertain way at the drinks tray for a while. She handed Gini a glass of wine, as if she would have liked to pretend this was an ordinary social occasion, then she seated herself a little behind Gini, just outside the semi-circle in front of the fire. The focal point of that half circle was Hawthorne. He remained standing, Gini noted, despite his earlier suggestion that they all sit down.

In contrast to her father, Hawthorne looked calm and in control. He was wearing a dark, elegantly tailored suit. His manner was quiet, and when he looked at her, Gini felt there was a certain regret or possibly contempt in his eyes, as if he had expected better of her, as if he had set her some test and she had failed.

“First of all,” he began, “I suggest we waste no time. I don’t intend to spend the next hour listening to denials and lies. So if we could just set out the parameters here. Can we all accept, please, that the
News
launched an investigation into me, and into my private life, some nine days ago, and that Gini was assigned to that story, together with a French photographer, Pascal Lamartine?”

He looked directly at Gini as he said this. Gini did not reply. Behind her, Mary gave a small sigh. Her father stirred in his chair.

“Look, Gini,” he said, leaning forward. “John’s right. Can we just cut the crap here? He knows you’re working on the story. I know. We
all
damn well know. So there’s no goddamn point in denying it. It just wastes time.”

“If you’re so well informed,” Gini began carefully, “then you’ll also know that I was taken
off
the story last Tuesday. By my editor. As far as I know, the story has been killed.” She hesitated. “A few rumors had been circulating, that’s all. I was asked to check them out—and for what it’s worth, I got nowhere. That’s one of the reasons the story was killed. The other reason, as I understand it, was that the owner of the
News
was pressured. To such an extent, I hear, that my editor’s job is now on the line. What I don’t quite understand”—she raised her eyes to look at Hawthorne—“is why, when you have influence of that kind, you should now try to influence me. It’s pointless. I’m not even working on this anymore.”

“I did suggest we avoid wasting time.” Hawthorne’s reply was even, his expression cold. “You were asked—told—to drop the story, as we’re both well aware. Your editor may or may not lose his job as a result of his continuing involvement. That is Henry Melrose’s decision—it has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But let’s not pretend you obeyed your editor’s instructions. With or without his knowledge, you have continued to work on this, and so has Lamartine. The source for this story is a man named James McMullen. You met with him two days ago, first in Regent’s Park, and then in the British Museum. You have been in contact this week with his former tutor in Oxford, Dr. Anthony Knowles. You’ve been continuing your inquiries today. You met with a friend of McMullen’s today, in The Groucho in Soho.” He looked directly at her. “You call that dropping the story?”

Gini met his gaze briefly. The meeting with McMullen in Oxford, she noted, was not mentioned. “I don’t know where you’re getting this information.” She shrugged and looked away. “I should double-check your sources. I met no one at the British Museum, I went there to look at the exhibits, that’s all. I had spoken to Anthony Knowles earlier, and I called him back to tell him I was dropping the story. As for today, I had a drink at lunchtime with an old contact of mine. The meeting had nothing to do with this story at all.”

“You were with a former school friend of McMullen’s today. A man you’d never previously met.” Hawthorne gave her a cold glance. “And in some ways, when I learned that, I felt a certain relief. Presumably you’re at last making some attempt to check James McMullen’s credentials. It’s somewhat overdue. But check him out, by all means. And make a thorough job of it when you do. McMullen is a liar and a troublemaker. I sometimes wonder if the man’s entirely sane—”

“Entirely sane?” Gini’s father could hold back no longer. He gave a sweeping gesture of the arm, spilling bourbon. “That’s the goddamn understatement of all time. The man’s a goddamn nutcase. He’s a sicko. A weirdo. He’s obsessed with John, obsessed with me, he’s been nursing some goddamn crazy paranoid delusion for Christ knows how long—and now he comes crawling out of the woodwork yet again, and who does he home in on? My goddamn daughter! You think that’s some kind of an accident? Christ, Gini”—he swung around to face her—“how long have you worked in newspapers now? Can’t you recognize a crazy when you meet one? Or do you just swallow it all down, whatever stuff they feed you?
Check,
why don’t you? Learn to goddamn check—and if you can’t, then go back to journalism school. Better still, find some other career.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Gini began, but Mary interrupted her.

“Yes,” she said. “Wait, Sam, and think for once before you start throwing accusations around. You don’t have the least idea of Gini’s capabilities because you’ve never bothered to take any interest in Gini’s career. Gini isn’t some child, starting out. She’s had a lot of experience—”

“Experience? Give me a break. Where? On some goddamn cheap sex-scandal rag.”

“She’s had a lot of experience, Sam. If Gini has been working on this story, you can be quite sure she will have tried to investigate it thoroughly and properly, from day one.” Mary spoke firmly. “If this James McMullen had been as you describe, Gini would have seen through him. It can’t be as easy as that.”

“No. Mary’s right.” Again it was John Hawthorne’s cool tones that interjected, and silenced the others. He gave a sigh. “It isn’t as easy as that. I wish to God it were.”

He looked away as he said this, and for the first time Gini sensed the tension he was feeling. For a moment she glimpsed on his face that expression she had seen at the Savoy dinner. She thought:
Beneath that calm, he is very close to despair.
She thought that both Mary and her father sensed this too. Her father shot him a quick look, and at once altered his tone. He rose, and the belligerence lessened.

“Look, Gini,” he said in a quieter tone. “Can you just stop and consider what’s at stake here? We’re talking about John’s life, his reputation—you know what happens when this kind of thing gets out of control. People talk. Even if you don’t publish, people
talk,
and the rumors get wilder and wilder. …Well, I’m not about to let that happen. That’s why I’m here.”

He paused, glanced at Hawthorne again, and then continued. “Look, Gini—okay, I lost my temper just now. I do that. I’ve got a short fuse. But I’m not blaming you for this, not really. The way I see it, you’re just way out of your depth on this whole thing. And it’s not goddamn well helped by Lamartine’s involvement. I’m not going to rake up the past—I don’t need to. If you didn’t learn your lesson about that man twelve years ago, learn it now. Just take a close look at the work Lamartine does, Gini. That’s not journalism, and it never will be. It’s goddamn muckraking. Lamartine’s scum.”

There was a silence. Hawthorne remained staring down into the fire. Gini looked at her father, and then looked away. Behind her, Mary moved. She too rose.

“Gini,” she said in a quiet voice. “Think about what Sam says. I don’t want to make a judgment on Pascal Lamartine as a person. As I told you, I quite liked him as a man. But Sam is right. You can’t ignore the kind of work Pascal Lamartine does now. It’s cruel and intrusive and unacceptable. You can’t believe it’s ethical, that work, any more than we do.” She glanced at Hawthorne, then continued. “Gini, I think you should ask yourself, how much have you allowed your feelings for Pascal Lamartine to influence your judgment here? Would you have gone on with this the way you have if you hadn’t been working with him? He’s been a corrupting influence, Gini. I’m sorry, but I do believe that.”

“Mary, stop. I’m not going to discuss this. And what you’ve just said isn’t true.”

“In that case”—Mary sighed—“we go back to what I said before. You’ve been very foolish, Gini. Both you and Pascal Lamartine have been misinformed. Cleverly misinformed. If you won’t listen to us, then I just hope you’ll come to realize that. Very soon.”

Her voice had sharpened, and she now made no attempt to disguise her reproof. She began to turn away, and as she did so, John Hawthorne looked up and spoke.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said. “But I’m not prepared to wait for Gini to see the light. I will not take that risk. Lise is involved. I will not stand by and see my family damaged by all this. I have to think of my children. God knows, they’ve suffered enough.”

He turned away with a gesture of quiet anger and disgust. Gini stared at him. She could now see that he was deeply moved, almost unable to speak; she felt doubts begin again at the edge of her mind. There was another silence, then her father cleared his throat. He glanced at Hawthorne again, as if seeking permission.

“John?”

Hawthorne nodded.

“Very well.” Her father turned back to her, his face serious now. “I’ll say this just once, Gini. I’ll keep it brief. There’s no point in all this fencing around. What I have to say is between us. In confidence. It doesn’t go beyond this room, you understand?”

Gini nodded.

“Very well. The truth is, for around four years now, ever since John’s younger boy was so ill, Lise has been a sick woman. She’s been diagnosed as manic-depressive by specialists in Washington, London, and New York. She’s on constant medication. She’s had electroshock therapy five times. She’s tried to kill herself on two occasions, once back in Washington, just before John resigned from the Senate, and a second time a month after they arrived here. She can’t be left alone, unsupervised, except for very short periods. As a result, her feelings of paranoia and persecution have increased. John’s done everything in his power to help her—and don’t imagine it’s been easy. He gave up politics for her because she claimed she needed him there with her and the boys. He agreed to take the post here because she was wild for him to do it, and said she wanted a bigger role. John thought it could help—a new city, a change of scene, new friends. But it hasn’t helped. Her condition has deteriorated. It’s been made a whole lot worse by her involvement with McMullen and the way he influences her. According to her doctors here, Lise needs urgent hospitalization and they’ve been saying that, Gini, since last summer. John has been fighting that. Unwisely, in my view. Lise is a lovely woman, Gini, but she’s a very sick woman too. She can’t distinguish fact from fiction.” His voice hardened. “And there are a few other problems too. It’s not my place to discuss those. But I’m here to bear witness to the fact that she’s very ill, well-nigh schizophrenic. Mary can vouch for that as well, can’t you, Mary? Yes or no?”

Gini turned to look at Mary, whose face met hers with an expression of unhappy concern.

“Yes, I can,” she said quietly. “Gini, I told you before about the scene I witnessed. It was terribly distressing for me, and quite appalling for John. You have to understand, John is in an impossible position. He has his public duties to perform. He’s been trying to keep up appearances, trying to protect Lise from herself. He has to think of their sons. And he’s borne all this on his own. He couldn’t even discuss it, except with the doctors. Gini, just try to imagine for a moment what he’s been through—”

“I’m partly to blame.” John Hawthorne spoke suddenly. He had turned back to face Gini. The pain in his eyes was now unmistakable. He passed his hand tiredly across his face. “I have to recognize that fact. I have to live with it day and night. I should have acted sooner. I should never have allowed my sons to witness what they have witnessed. I should probably never have accepted this position—and I should certainly have taken the doctors’ advice months ago. But you see…” His voice trailed off. After a moment he composed himself and continued. “It’s such a cruel disease. There are periods when Lise is almost her old self, when I start to hope again. And then there is always a relapse…and she turns into a person I hardly know. She’ll suddenly have one of these terrible rages. Or she’ll seem perfectly normal—and then she’ll tell some extraordinary lie, when there’s no apparent reason to lie at all.”