THE RESTAURANT JOHNNY APPLEYARD had selected for their meeting was called Stiltskins. It was the last restaurant in London that Gini would ever have chosen, a place much patronized by tourists, out-of-town businessmen, and the kind of women that Mary still quaintly referred to as filles de joie.
It was located on the edge of Mayfair, in Shepherd Market. They drove there in Gini’s battered Volkswagen, parked a few blocks away, and began to walk through the rain. This had always been a red light district, and call girls still operated in the area, though they did so discreetly, by appointment and from upstairs rooms. They passed several male clients, who averted their faces.
The noise emanating from Stiltskins could be heard two streets away. When they reached the restaurant, a party of Japanese businessmen, Western girlfriends in tow, was spilling out onto the sidewalk. The interior was dark and cavernous, a sequence of hot red smoky rooms. A Tom Jones medley was playing full-blast; there were bad jokes in frames on the walls.
A reservation, it seemed, had been made by Appleyard, and the headwaiter became deferential at the mere mention of his name. He ushered them through to a rear room, and a table set for four. There was no sign of Appleyard. They sat down. Pascal ordered some wine. Gini sighed.
“I’m afraid we’re in for a wait,” she said. “Appleyard’s notoriously unpunctual.”
“Oh, great.” Pascal looked around him gloomily. “Well, I hope he turns up soon. I can’t stand this place too long.”
“He won’t. He’ll keep us waiting—twenty minutes at least. He thinks being late indicates status.”
Pascal groaned. Raucous laughter came from the table behind them, where a noisy party was ordering magnums of champagne. Pascal twisted around to survey a new group of people, just entering.
“He’s not one of those? What does he look like?”
“No, afraid not. And very recognizable—you won’t be able to miss him. Last time I ran into him he was having lunch with Jenkins. He was wearing a white suit, a mauve shirt, and a pink tie. He’s not always that flamboyant, but he’s a snappy dresser. Medium height, slight build, fair hair. Heavy on the peppermint breath spray. Been known to wear a carnation. Thinks he’s Oscar Wilde.”
“And he isn’t?” Pascal was smiling.
“His scripts let him down. Also,” Gini hesitated, “he’s not a nice person. Malicious. Always screwing around.”
“Poor Stevey in New York, you mean?”
“Yes. He sounded very unhappy, poor Stevey.” Gini looked away as she spoke. Pascal saw her eyes scanning the other tables. He frowned.
He and Gini had worked from his hotel room that day because he distrusted her phone. He had concentrated on James McMullen, Gini on Lorna Munro and the question of her clothes. At the end of the afternoon they had returned to Gini’s apartment so that Gini could change. In honor of Mary’s party later that evening, she was wearing a new dress. It had been a Christmas present from Mary, and it was the first time she had worn it, she said. It made her a little nervous, she explained, because she so rarely wore dresses of this kind, but she would wear it for Mary, who would be pleased. Pascal had said nothing. He might have liked it, he thought, had Gini said she was wearing the dress to please him, but he pushed this idea aside quickly. It struck him as petty.
It was a very beautiful dress, a narrow column of black silk crepe which left her throat and shoulders bare. It fastened on the shoulders with two slender straps as narrow as knife blades. Against the folds of the silk crepe her skin looked pale. There were two bluish shadows just above her collarbone. She looked delicate, Pascal thought, fragile, very young, and very pure.
He rested his eyes on the oval of her face. She had drawn back her pale gold hair. She was wearing only one small gold earring, his earring. Gold and ivory and a dress like shadows. He had a sudden image of that pale hair, loosened, spread out beneath him across the floor. The image burned in the recesses of his mind, and he looked quickly away. He had said nothing to Gini, but it troubled him deeply that the story they were working on centered on appointments with blond-haired women, presumably on an obsession with such women. He thought of the shoe she had been sent, and the black silk stockings, and the handcuffs and for an instant he wished, devoutly wished, that Gini had dark hair.
He pushed that thought away and glanced around the room. Time was passing and there was still no sign of Appleyard. Gini had taken her notebook from her bag, and was turning its pages, head bent, unconscious of his gaze. He looked at the smooth coil of her hair. It was twisted, then fastened in some invisible and ingenious way. Pascal would have liked to reach across the table, remove that fastening, and watch that hair uncoil. It struck him suddenly that here was the scene he had envisaged four days before. They were in a restaurant, and even if it was one he would never have chosen, it had candles, it had wine. He, also in honor of Mary’s party, was wearing that jacket he had bought at the hotel, that white shirt, that damn tie. Here, more or less precisely, was the scene he had imagined, and what was Gini doing? She was reading a notebook. She was working. Did she ever stop working? Pascal gave a sigh. Gini looked up, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Pascal. He’ll turn up soon. Any minute now. I just thought—while we’re waiting…” She tapped the notebook. “Would you mind if I went over some of these details? I think I’m reading them correctly, but I might have missed something.”
Pascal lit a cigarette. He said, “Now? Why not? Sure.” His reply was terse. Gini looked at him uncertainly.
“Would you rather talk about McMullen?” she asked.
“No, no. We can go over that tomorrow on the plane to Venice. We’re seeing the Hawthornes soon. Let’s concentrate on them—or on Lise anyway.” He refilled her wineglass.
“I’ll come to Lise in a minute. I found out something very interesting there….” Gini flicked back through the pages of the notebook. “First, this Lorna Munro—”
“She still hasn’t called back?”
“No. She hasn’t. And she’s moved on, from Milan to Rome. She’s doing a tryout for Italian Vogue, apparently. I have her new hotel number. I’ve left more messages there.” She paused, frowning. “The more I think about this, Pascal, the more certain I feel Lorna Munro isn’t closely involved. I think she was just hired by someone. Come to London, wear these clothes, deliver these parcels—like a modeling job, an unusual modeling job.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. Presumably we’ll find out when we finally speak to her. Go on….”
“Well, having drawn a blank there, I moved back to the clothes.” Gini sighed. “Someone once said to me that the secret of journalism was detail—check and then cross-check again.” She paused. “So, I tried. I went back to all the people Lindsay spoke to yesterday. I tried a more indirect approach—not that it got me that far. You want a summary?”
“Sure. Why not?” Pascal glanced over his shoulder. Still no sign of that damn Appleyard. He was over half an hour late now.
“I tried every major furrier in London. There are so few now, I’m glad to say. I despise furs. No luck. Not one would discuss client purchases, not with Lindsay yesterday, not with me today. The same with Bulgari. But they implied that the pearl necklace featured in Vogue had been sold.”
Pascal shrugged. “Was Lorna Munro even wearing that particular necklace? One string of pearls looks much like another, doesn’t it? Real, fake, cultured—they all look the same.”
Gini smiled. “To a man, perhaps. Those Bulgari pearls were real, perfectly matched, and they had a very distinctive clasp. Gold, with a cabochon ruby, designed to be worn at the front of the throat. Susannah at ICD was adamant that it was the necklace Lorna Munro was wearing.” She turned a page of the notebook. “I gave up on Bulgari. Then I tried Cartier—you remember, Susannah said the woman was wearing one of their tank watches, with a green crocodile strap? Hopeless! I tried, but the Bond Street shop alone sold fifteen like that in the week before Christmas. That’s just one outlet. Hundreds of other jewelers up and down the country sell Cartier tank watches. So, nothing there either.”
She looked up from her notebook. An expression came onto her face that Pascal was beginning to recognize. Its eagerness touched him, and he smiled.
“I can guess,” he said. “You drew a blank, but then you made a breakthrough?”
“Not a breakthrough exactly. But I did find out several interesting things. First of all—that Chanel suit. Something about that story puzzled me. I wasn’t surprised that Lise was in the habit of having clothes sent on approval—lots of famous women, rich women, prefer not to try on clothes in public. But French clothes, Pascal? Lise is the American ambassador’s wife. I checked back through the magazine profiles, and I was right. Lise is careful. On public occasions she flies the flag—American clothes, American designers: Oscar de la Renta, Calvin Klein, Donna Karan…”
Pascal was beginning to look bored. He lit a cigarette. “Clothes?” he said. “Is this important?”
“Yes, Pascal, it is. Try and understand.” Gini gave him a patient look. “Clothes may not interest you, but they’re important to Lise. They’re a fundamental part of her image, her identity even—”
“More fool her.”
“Listen, Pascal. Why is Lise Hawthorne so famous? Three reasons. One, she’s beautiful. Two, she astonishingly chic. Three, she’s auditioning to be a saint.”
“You’ve left one out. Four. She’s John Hawthorne’s wife.” Pascal gave her a sharp look. “If it wasn’t for her husband, she wouldn’t be famous at all.”
Gini hesitated, then shrugged. “Yes. You’re right. She’d certainly be a very great deal less famous. I wonder if she minds that? I would.”
“You would?” Pascal was watching her closely.
“Of course,” Gini replied. “What woman wants her identity to depend on her husband? What woman wants to be seen as…as a kind of appendage to her husband? An accessory, like his car?”
“Plenty of women,” he said somewhat sharply. “I’m not agreeing with that attitude, Gini, or disagreeing with it. But it exists, it’s commonplace.”
“I know. I know.” Gini looked away. There was a moment of tension she could sense in the air. More raucous laughter came from the table behind them. Pascal glanced down at his watch, then swore.
“Damn Appleyard. This is getting ridiculous. We’ve been here an hour. What do you think, shall we order? We may as well eat here.”
Gini agreed. They consulted the menu, which was discouraging.
“Steaks?” Pascal caught her eye, and smiled. “Presumably they can’t go too wrong with steaks and salads. Even here.”
“Fine.”
Pascal called the waiter over and ordered. When he turned back to Gini, his manner was slightly awkward, slightly sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, and rested his hand briefly over hers. “I’m not being very receptive. It’s not your fault. I’m thinking about meeting the Hawthornes. This place is getting on my nerves.” He hesitated. “Take no notice. I’m tired too, I think. I didn’t sleep too well.”
“I did warn you about that sofa,” Gini began, then stopped. She looked more closely at the expression in his eyes. “It wasn’t just that?” she asked more quietly. “It was more than that? Pascal, I wish you’d tell me. I wish you’d talk to me.”
He looked away. She saw reticence mask his features. He gave a dismissive gesture of the hand. “Yes, well. It’s not your concern. There are certain problems at the moment—residues of my divorce. I had to talk to my lawyers here yesterday. Anyway, I often sleep badly….” He shrugged. “I dream of war.”
There was a brief silence. Gini wondered if he ever let anyone past these defenses of his. She hoped, for his sake, that he did. She leaned forward.
“Why are you using lawyers in England?” she asked gently.
“My wife has sold her house in Paris. She wants to return to live in England, with Marianne. I would prefer it if she did not do that….” He left the rest of the explanation unfinished, and Gini, who could finish it in any case, and who could now read quite clearly the pain at the back of his eyes, did not prompt him further.
“I see,” she said just as the waiter arrived, bearing their food.
It was ill cooked. Pascal looked down at their plates with a very French expression of mingled outrage and despair. “Shall I send it back?”
“No, leave it. It’s not worth it.”
“You’re right. The hell with it. We’ll eat it and go. …” He glanced down at his watch. “Over an hour. You think Appleyard intends to keep this appointment?”
“It’s still possible,” she replied in a placatory tone. “With Appleyard, you never know.”
They ate for a while in silence, then by silent mutual consent pushed their plates to one side. Pascal ordered coffee and lit a cigarette. The period of silence seemed to have restored his temper. He gave her a wry glance.
“All right. Now I’ll listen. All my attention. You were telling me about Lise and her clothes. Go on.”
“Very well.” Gini opened her notebook again. “The question of Lise’s clothes bothered me—why Chanel? So I called an old acquaintance of mine who works for The Washington Post, on the style section. What she told me was interesting. Very interesting. I wish I’d spoken to her earlier.” Gini leaned forward. “First, the minor things. The clothes. Apparently, Lise Hawthorne always used to wear French couture….”
“The wedding dress?”
“Precisely. Then, two years into their marriage, Lise had a change of heart. According to Washington gossip, John Hawthorne read her the riot act. He said French couture was just fine for the Ivana Trumps of this world but not for a senator’s wife—or a future Democratic candidate’s wife, for that matter. From then onward Lise Hawthorne toed the line. On public occasions, that is. In private, at home, she continued to wear the clothes she preferred. French, Italian, whatever. Couture was too public, so she made do with ready-to-wear. For the last three or four years, her pet designer’s been Karl Lagerfeld—his collections for Chanel.” Gini paused. “It’s a very minor deception, not important at all—except there are other ways in which Lise Hawthorne may not be quite the woman she seems. There has been gossip about the Hawthornes, Pascal. So far, it’s been confined to Washington dinner parties, and a lot of it is pure supposition.”
“Gossip about Hawthorne himself, you mean?” Pascal said quickly. “Not the monthly appointments surely? Damn, damn…”
“No. Relax. Nothing like that. According to my friend—and she’s not the most reliable source in the world—people have been saying Lise is ill. Apparently it started some time back. After the younger child, Adam, had meningitis. Around the same time, the word is Lise had a miscarriage—” She stopped and looked at him curiously. “Pascal, is something wrong?”
“No. No.” He passed his hand across his face. “Nothing. It’s very noisy in here. Go on.”
“Well, after the miscarriage, Lise came close to a nervous breakdown. This was around four years ago.”
“Four years?” Pascal’s expression was now intent. “Exactly when those Sunday appointments began—according to Jenkins, that is.”
“Exactly.” Gini tapped the notebook. “So, you can imagine. I started listening very closely indeed. I prompted—discreetly. It wasn’t difficult. My friend’s a great gossip. She said it was the talk of Georgetown for a while. Then it quieted down. But apparently Lise refused to sleep with Hawthorne after the miscarriage. Totally refused, and went on refusing. Separate bedrooms. One of the maids told another maid. You know how it is.”
“I do.” Pascal grinned.
“But—and this is interesting—Hawthorne accepted it. Or so people say. Apparently, once the word got out, there were plenty of women hell-bent on consoling him. Well, you’d expect that. He’s powerful, influential—and he’s an exceptionally handsome man.”
“So you’ve said. Several times.”
“Well, he is, Pascal! You can’t ignore that. It’s a factor. …Anyway. The women were disappointed, according to my friend. They made their offers and Hawthorne turned them down.”
Pascal gave an impatient gesture. “You mean he’s supposed to have been celibate? For four years? Come on, Gini.”
“Well, it may be gossip, but I suppose it is just possible,” she replied. “Male celibacy isn’t exactly unknown. There are monks, priests, for instance….”
Pascal smiled. Reaching across the table, he touched her hair. One strand had become loosened. He smoothed it back into place. “Gini, Gini,” he said in a kind tone. “Think a little. Priests take a vow. That’s rather different, you know. Most men—four years is a long time. Four months would be quite a long time.”
Gini crimsoned. She looked away. In a flat voice she said, “I suppose so. I do know that. It’s just…”
“Gini.” Pascal took her hand. “I’m not making fun of you. But we look at this from two different perspectives, you and I. That’s inevitable. I’m a man, you’re a woman. To me”—he hesitated—“to me that’s an interesting story, but it’s absurd. I don’t believe it for a second. If that’s what Lise Hawthorne did, then sooner or later Hawthorne would have gone to another woman. Not for love necessarily. Just for sex. Men find it easy to make that distinction. Believe me. I know.”
Gini pulled her hand away. “I know it too,” she began quickly. “And you’re wrong. Women can do precisely the same. They can make that—distinction, as you call it.”
“They can?” Pascal continued to watch her closely. “I’m not sure I agree with you, but there’s no point in arguing about it. And this story you heard…” He frowned. “It’s rumor, but it’s a very suggestive rumor from our point of view. Maybe these Sunday meetings were Hawthorne’s solution. It could be.”
He turned away to scan the room, then checked his watch. “It’s nearly ten,” he said. “Let’s get out of here, give up on Appleyard.”
Gini looked back down at her notebook. She felt safer when she looked at the notebook. Words and phrases she had written down jumped out at her. Miscarriage; separate bedrooms, then a direct quote from her friend: Darling, the word is—no sex for four years.
Suddenly she felt disgusted with herself, with her own questions. Was this the journalism she had foreseen for herself, this prying into someone’s marriage, this spying on another person’s most private emotions, actions, and thoughts? Quickly she turned the page, then looked up at Pascal. “No,” she said. “Let’s wait. Give Appleyard ten more minutes. We have time. There’s just one last thing I found out today. This isn’t rumor or gossip. It’s fact.” She paused. “You know those faxes that came through to my apartment this evening?”
“Yes?”
“They were from another friend. He works out of Oxford now, for The Oxford Mail. The Hawthornes’ country house is less than fifteen miles from Oxford….”
“So?”
“So, look at the timing on this. That suit was requested from Chanel, by telephone, on the morning of Friday, December thirty-first. Right?”
“Yes. According to the manager.”
“And the manager was convinced it was Lise herself calling. He’s met her, knows her voice. All right, she has a very distinctive voice. But as Katherine McMullen said to you, voices can be changed, accents can be changed. Now, maybe it was Lise calling. On the other hand, maybe it was someone imitating her, and doing it very well. Think, Pascal—the manager at Chanel said that Lise told him she needed that suit because if she liked it, she was going to wear it the following day—New Year’s Day. She intended to wear it to a very special luncheon. At Chequers. The prime minister’s country home.”
“I begin to see…” Pascal leaned forward. “Naturally, the manager was delighted….”
“Over the moon. But, Pascal, it was a lie, and a very stupid lie too.” She tapped her notebook. “There’s one advantage to working on a story about well-known people. It’s easy to check their movements. So I did. I checked where Lise and John Hawthorne were for that four-day period. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and the Bank Holiday Monday—”
“They weren’t invited to luncheon at Chequers?”
“Well, if they were ever invited, they didn’t go. Lise was in Oxfordshire at their country house. Don’t you remember, she mentions on McMullen’s tape that she’s going there the following week? She did. She went down there two days before Christmas, and she stayed there until the Wednesday after New Year. She had tea in London with Mary that afternoon when she returned. Mary mentioned it to me.”
She paused. “Pascal. Take a look at the faxes when we get home. Lise’s movements were extensively documented in the local press the entire New Year weekend. On Friday evening she and Hawthorne went to a local New Year’s Eve ball given by their Oxfordshire M.P. On Saturday Lise went hunting—she rides with the Vale of the White Horse hunt. On Sunday she and Hawthorne attended a special mass at their local church—they donated the funds for its new roof. On Monday she held a massive party at their home, and on Tuesday—”
“The day Lorna Munro delivered those parcels—”
“Precisely. On that day Lise was still in Oxfordshire. She visited a children’s home in the morning, and a hospice for cancer victims that afternoon.” Gini paused. “Pascal, she wasn’t in London at all. She wasn’t at Chequers. And I don’t think that was Lise on the telephone either. Someone else called Chanel.”
Pascal frowned. “It’s not conclusive,” he began.
“I know it’s not conclusive! But there’s just one more interesting fact. Lise may have been in Oxfordshire throughout those four days. But her husband wasn’t.”
“He was in London some of the time?”
“You bet he was in London. It’s an hour’s drive from Oxfordshire, that’s all. He was here, and at highly significant times. He was in London on Friday, because he spoke at some industry lunch. And he was back in London on Tuesday, when those parcels were delivered. Another luncheon appointment. With the prime minister. At Number Ten.”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain. It was a large luncheon for a visiting head of state. The guest list was reprinted in full in The Times.”
Pascal gave her a sharp glance. “Were wives included?”
“Yes, they were.”
“And yet Lise Hawthorne chose not to attend? How very interesting…” He frowned. “I don’t understand, Gini—I don’t understand any of this. Let’s rule Lise out—just as a working hypothesis. Let’s say she knew nothing about those parcels—” He paused. “But then why should John Hawthorne have anything to do with them either? Don’t you see, it makes no sense. Why do something designed to lend credence to that story about the blondes? It’s the last thing he’d do.”
“I agree. But he was in London at the key times.”
Pascal gave a sigh, and rose. “Never mind,” he said. “You’ve done well. Everything helps, Gini. Every tiny bit of information we can find. We’re still not close enough. We’re still too much in the dark.” He drew back her chair for her, and Gini rose.
“So, we’re giving up on Appleyard?” she asked.
“Yes. We can’t waste any more time.” He took her arm. “Let’s go and see the Hawthornes for ourselves.”
He steered her past the crowded tables. Just beyond the alcove where they had been seated was a particularly boisterous group of Americans: four dark-suited men and a bevy of redheads and blondes. As they passed, one of the men lurched to his feet, almost knocking Gini over.
“Where’s the john?” He was demanding loudly. “Just direct me to the goddamn john. …”
Pascal gave him a look of distaste and moved between them to allow Gini through. They found their waiter finally, paid the bill, and began to make their way through the maze of little rooms to the exit There, the headwaiter stopped them.
“Mr. Lamartine? Mr. Appleyard sends his apologies. He’s been unavoidably delayed.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t inform us of that earlier,” Pascal began, then he stopped. Gini felt him tense. “My name was mentioned?” He turned back to the headwaiter. “The meeting was arranged with Ms. Hunter here. …”
“Lamartine was the name I was given, sir. Mr. Appleyard’s assistant only just phoned. …Oh, and he said you’d be needing this, sir. He sent it round by cab for you. It just came.”
He handed Pascal a small package. Pascal drew Gini outside. He walked a little way along the street, and then opened it. Inside was an audiocassette tape. Pascal held it up to the light from a streetlamp. Across the road, a man entered a doorway, hesitated, then rang one of its bells. In an upstairs room above him, a light came on. A buzzer sounded; the man entered, and the door closed.
Pascal said, “This isn’t an ordinary tape, Gini. Look. It’s too short. …Damn. Damn.”
“We’ve been set up, haven’t we?” Gini began slowly. “I don’t think Appleyard sent that fax.”
“Neither do I. And I don’t think he sent this either.” He glanced down at her. “We’ve just done something very stupid. We’ve sat in a restaurant of someone else’s choosing for over two hours. We’ve spent two hours going over this story. What we do know, what we don’t know…How could I have been so stupid? Damn, damn!” With a furious gesture he began to walk rapidly away. Gini hurried after him.
“Slow down,” she said. “Pascal, slow down. You’re tired, I’m tired—all right, we made a mistake. But think—it was very noisy back there. It would have been hard to pick up our conversation, surely.”
“Maybe, maybe. It’s too late now anyway.” They had reached her car. Pascal waited impatiently while she unlocked it. Before she got into her seat he had inserted the cassette in the tape deck.
“Get in,” he said. “Hurry up. Close the door.”
As soon as she had done so, Pascal pressed Play. They sat there in silence. The tape hissed. There was silence on it for several seconds, then the breathing began. First heavy breathing, then pants, then groans. Gini’s skin went cold. Beside her, Pascal gave a low exclamation, glanced at her, and reached for the tape deck.
“No.” Gini stopped him. “We’ve been sent a message. Let’s hear what it is.”
“I can already hear what it is,” he began angrily.
“So can I, Pascal.”
“Is he alone?”
“If he isn’t, he has a silent partner.”
“They are silent,” Pascal said in a grim voice. “That’s the rule. As we know.”
The tape lasted seven minutes. The man achieved climax, without words, after five. There was then a silence. At six and a half minutes, just before the tape ended, a woman screamed.
Pascal reached forward, removed the tape. He glanced at Gini.
“You’re all right?”
Gini was not all right, but she had no intention of saying so. She let in the brake and pulled away.
“I told you before,” she said when they were several streets away. “Someone’s trying to frighten us off. The hell with that. We’ll carry on the way we planned. We’ll go to this party. You concentrate on Lise, I’ll talk to Hawthorne. We’ll switch over if there’s time.”
She could feel his tension and unease. It was a while before he replied.
“Just be careful,” he said finally. “Be very careful what you say.” He glanced toward her.
“That break-in, the parcels, this missed appointment, this tape. Someone is two steps ahead of us all the time.”
“Hawthorne?” She glanced across; Pascal’s face was turned to the window. He was staring out into the wet darkness beyond.
“Maybe,” he replied eventually. “Maybe. Whoever they are, we know one thing about them. They enjoy playing games. Nasty games.”