THE DINNER HAD GONE well. The pheasants were excellent, the pears and the chocolate mousse delicious. It was now ten-fifteen, Gini would be here soon and Mary was in the process of weeding out the bores, a process at which she was skilled. Two were now departing; two more remained in the drawing room, but she could see that John Hawthorne, as adept as she was in this respect, was maneuvering them toward the hall, where a dour Bulgarian first secretary and his wife were being helped into their coats by the American security man stationed there. The new thug, Mary thought to herself, Malone—yes, that was his name—was proving highly useful. The Bulgarian shook her hand.
“Lady Pemberton,” he said, “such a very excellent evening.” His English was good; his wife’s less so.
“The pheasant birds,” she said. “These I will have enjoyed.”
“A most interesting conversation with Ambassador Hawthorne,” the Bulgarian went on. “He was fully cognizant of our latest export figures. A most well-informed man.”
“Isn’t he?” Mary said, with animation, edging him toward the door. The Bulgarian was one of the guests invited at John’s behest. During the requisite ten minutes she had spent in conversation with him, he had explained, at length, Bulgaria’s iron ore industries. Mary opened the door.
“Such a pity you can’t stay. So very nice to have met your wife. Of course. Of course. Absolutely! Good-bye…” Mary closed the door and raised her eyes heavenward. Beyond her, this new man, Malone, gave a smile.
“Two more to weed out, ma’am?” He nodded toward the drawing room.
Mary gave this new thug an appraising glance. Thug, she decided, was in this case most definitely not the appropriate word. Though Malone was six feet five, crew cut, and huge, he appeared to have a sense of humor. This was unprecedented. She looked at the broad shoulders, at the regulation dark suit. She wondered in passing if these men of John’s were actually armed. What did the bulge of a shoulder holster really look like? Could you detect it? Or, if they carried weapons, did they conceal them elsewhere? In their trouser waistbands, perhaps, she thought vaguely. Too ridiculous, she decided, and smiled.
“I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Malone, for bringing in all those lovely flowers for me.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
“You’re new, aren’t you? I know I haven’t seen you before.”
“I am, ma’am. I flew in from Washington two days ago.”
Mary looked at him in astonishment. In her experience, these men never volunteered any information whatsoever. They spoke in two-word sentences. They said “No, ma’am” and “Yes, ma’am.”
“Usually, when John comes here, Frank is with him…”
Mary looked at the man hopefully. Since he actually spoke fully formed sentences, a fishing expedition was justified. She would have liked to know just how serious this current security alert was, and whether Frank’s absence and Malone’s arrival signified anything. John Hawthorne would certainly never tell her. And something was going on, she could sense it. All evening its effects upon Lise had been only too obvious. She glanced into the drawing room; Lise was standing by the fire, alone. Lise never drank alcohol. Now she was holding an empty glass that had contained Perrier. She was staring into space, turning the glass around and around in her hands.
Malone, Mary realized, had not replied. She turned back to him. One more try. “Still, even you have to take a break sometimes. I expect Frank was due some leave?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s not on duty this weekend.”
“How nice for him…”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I always think it must be so exhausting for you,” Mary continued with a vague and incoherent gesture of the hand. “Always on the alert. Ever watchful…”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Rather like Cerberus, you know…” She broke off. This was not the most tactful comparison, the dog Cerberus, eternally standing guard over the gates of hell. She attempted to cover her confusion, told herself that Malone was unlikely to be well versed in Greek mythology, had probably never even heard of Cerberus…and then realized that he had. She saw amusement way back in his eyes, then the bland, blank look they all assumed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You wouldn’t like a drink or anything, Mr. Malone? Some Perrier, perhaps?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
He had moved away a few steps. He was doing another thing they all did, something at which they were all skilled. He was making himself invisible. He was fading into the wall.
“Well, yes, of course, indeed,” Mary said, feeling flustered, feeling she had just made an idiot of herself. She glanced down at her watch. Ten-thirty: Gini and that Lamartine man would be here any minute. She felt suddenly very anxious, but her instincts as a hostess came to the fore. Going back into her large drawing room, she edged past her other guests, around the backs of the two remaining bores, and crossed to the fireplace. Lise was still standing there alone.
“No Dog?” she asked as Mary bent and put another log on the fire. Lise held out her hands to the flames. Mary saw that Lise was shivering, although she was three feet from the fire and the room was warm.
“No. He’s been banished upstairs.” Mary smiled. “He will beg for tidbits. Besides, I have to face facts. I may adore him, but he’s old and he smells.”
“He’s sweet,” Lise said, without great conviction. Lise had never liked dogs. “Terribly sweet. So…” She stopped. Apparently she could think of no appropriate compliment. Her eyes met Mary’s in mute distress, then Lise looked away.
Mary took her arm. “Lise,” she said firmly. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, of course not. I’m having a perfectly lovely time.”
Mary regarded Lise carefully. She looked very beautiful tonight in a white dress, which, like all Lise’s clothes, was austere in design. It was long-sleeved, high-necked, plain. As the right frame sets off a painting, so this dress by its simplicity, by its exquisite cut, emphasized Lise’s loveliness. She wore the necklace that had been her birthday present from John, and very little other jewelry; her black hair, worn loose, framed her face. That face, with its large dark blue eyes, now wore an anxious expression, like that of an apprehensive child. Today was Lise’s thirty-eighth birthday. She was approaching forty, had admitted to Mary on numerous occasions that this watershed filled her with dread, and she looked, Mary thought, no more than twenty-five.
Except…she was looking strained. She was becoming painfully thin, and her long, beautiful hands, adorned only by her wedding ring, were still clasping that glass tightly. Her knuckles were white. As Mary looked at her, she shivered again.
“Come on, Lise. Don’t pretend, not to me.” Mary patted her arm. “You’ve been on edge all evening. I know there’s something wrong.”
Lise bit her lip like a little girl, lowered her eyes, then gave Mary a shy sidelong glance. “Oh, Mary. All right, I’ll admit it. I know it’s very stupid, but I worry so about John. All this horrible Middle East business. I just know they’re on a high-security alert, though, of course, John will never admit that. There was a bomb, you know, outside our embassy in Paris. They defused it tonight.”
“I hadn’t heard that. It wasn’t on the news.”
“It will be tomorrow. John told me this evening, when we were getting dressed to come here. There’s a news blackout, I think. But, you see, if the Paris embassy, why not here?”
“You mustn’t think like that, you know, Lise. I’m sure John’s perfectly safe.” Mary gave her an encouraging smile. “Look at his security! Men everywhere—that nice Mr. Malone outside in the hall…”
“Is he nice?” Lise gave her an odd look. “I don’t think he’s nice, not at all. They’re all so grim and silent. I hate them. Especially Frank. He’s the worst of all.”
“I thought you liked Frank?” Mary looked at her in surprise. “Don’t you remember, Lise, when we had lunch before Christmas? You said then how much you liked him. You said he was very efficient and polite.”
“Did I say that? I don’t remember.” Lise shivered again. “Well, if I did, I’ve changed my mind. He’s too efficient. It’s like some horrible shadow, always following me around.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about him anyway,” Mary said in a comfortable way. “It’s his weekend off, I gather, so—”
“It is?” Lise swung around to look at her. “Who told you that? John? Where’s Frank gone?”
“Lise, how would I know?” Mary stared at her in surprise. “That Malone man mentioned it just now. I don’t know where they take off to—I can’t imagine. Maybe they get drunk for two days. Chase girls. Ring up their aged mothers in Omaha. God knows.” Mary smiled. “What do ex-marines do with their free time? Parachuting? Target practice? Fifty-mile runs?”
“Ex-marines? Frank isn’t an ex-marine. What made you think that?”
The question was sharply put, but Mary was distracted. Across the room there were some new arrivals, she saw—the more entertaining guests, who always started to arrive around this hour. She made out the features of a well-known poet; there was someone else with him. Really, she must get some glasses. …But no, it was not Gini, or that Lamartine man. A couple of actor friends, and—yes—that amusing little journalist man, editor of one of London’s more scurrilous magazines. She must remember to keep him well away from John.
“I’m sorry.” She turned back to Lise. “I was just looking for Gini. What did you say, Lise?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, what was it?”
“Oh, just Frank. He isn’t a marine. He was never a marine.”
“Oh. I thought they all were….” Mary looked back across the room. The two remaining bores were now by the hall. Time to detach them…
“Frank used to work for John’s father. Didn’t you know that?” Lise was now staring at her in a fixed, almost suspicious way, as if she thought Mary was hiding something from her.
“No. No, I didn’t,” Mary said, frowning.
“Oh.” Lise shivered again. “Well, he did. John’s father wasn’t satisfied with the security arrangements when John took this post. You know how he is.”
“I do indeed.”
“He insisted the official security people be supplemented. Frank was one of the ones who came over.” She stopped, and looked directly into Mary’s eyes. “John never mentioned that to you?”
“No, Lise. He didn’t.”
Lise gave a tremulous sigh. Her gaze fell. “Oh. I just wondered. It’s just…you and John are such good friends. You see each other all the time.”
Mary stared at her in astonishment. For a moment she had sounded almost jealous. “Lise,” she said firmly. “I’ve known John since he was ten years old. I’m a fat, frumpy old widow, and John’s been very kind to me since Richard died. When he comes to see me, he does it to cheer me up. Which he’s very good at, incidentally. We don’t sit here talking about his security people. Why on earth should we?”
Lise sensed the reproach at once. She gave Mary a shy smile, and took her arm. “Oh, Mary, Mary, I’m being such an idiot tonight I didn’t mean—I’m so glad you are John’s friend. He gets very tense, and he needs someone to talk to.”
“He has you to talk to, Lise.”
Lise did not reply. Her dark eyes met Mary’s, and for one appalling moment Mary thought she was about to cry. Mary watched her fight back the tears, then Lise moved away with an odd, defensive gesture of the hand. She was carrying a small evening purse under her arm. She opened it, and began to fumble inside.
“Actually,” she said. “Actually, I think I have one of my headaches coming on. Those hideous migraine things…”
“Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like to go home? Let me have a word with John—”
“No! No. Don’t do that.” For a second Lise looked terrified; she almost dropped the purse. “No. He’d be so cross. I know he’s looking forward to meeting Gini properly. And, of course, so am I. I have these wonderful little pills. My miracle pills…Ah, here they are. Truly, Mary. One of these and a glass of water, and I’ll be just fine.”
Her manner had grown hectic, and her hands were shaking. Quietly, feeling troubled, Mary fetched her some water. She glanced back toward the hall, checked the room as she did so. The last bores, thank heaven, had left—and without saying good-bye. Bores and bad-mannered, she thought. John was talking to the two actors; she heard the words Academy Awards. Everyone was occupied, had a drink; someone else was just arriving now.
She handed Lise the glass of Malvern water. Lise appeared calmer now. She swallowed the small white pill and gave Mary a grateful glance. She too looked across the room.
“Is that Gini?” she said. “Oh, yes, it must be—how pretty she is, Mary. What a lovely dress. And who’s that man with her?”
Mary sighed. “He’s a photographer, I gather,” she said. “He’s French. His name’s Pascal Lamartine.”
“How nice. I love France. I must talk to him later.” Lise was now moving off in the direction of the editor of the scurrilous magazine. Mary took her firmly by the arm and redirected her toward the poet.
“You remember,” she said. “You’ve met before, Lise. Stephen. He has a new collection of poems just out….”
“He has? What’s it called?” Lise said, and Mary smiled. Lise was already recovering, her instincts reasserting themselves.
“Reflections.”
“Thanks.” Lise gave her a sudden amused glance, a sidelong smile. She approached the poet and held out her hand.
“Stephen,” Mary heard. “How lovely. I was hoping you’d be here. Reflections is wonderful. John and I both love it. No, really, we were reading it together, this evening. Yes, before we came here…”
“So, tell me, Monsieur Lamartine, are you staying in London long?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a few more days only. Maybe a few weeks …”
Pascal looked down at Mary, this stepmother of Gini’s. She was not, somehow, what he had expected. For no very good reason, he had imagined that any woman previously married to Sam Hunter would be tall, elegant, and forceful. This woman was none of these things. She was short, no more than five feet four, and she was far from elegant. She was plump, and badly dressed in a very English way, in that she was wearing an unflattering dress of some pale material that needed ironing. She had white hair that stood up around her face in a fierce tufty halo. She had a superb English complexion, was wearing no makeup, and she was smiling at him. The smile, as yet, did not reach her eyes, which were a clear blue and had been fixed upon him since he’d entered the room not two minutes before. Pascal’s immediate impression had been of vagueness and slight eccentricity. That impression was now being revised. She had greeted Gini and himself with warm affection and a blizzard of words. There had been a flurry of hand gestures. Nevertheless, he noted, Gini had somehow been detached from him with speedy efficiency, and was now talking to John Hawthorne. He himself, he realized, had also been detached, and was now backed into a corner by the fireplace. To his right was the fire, to his left was a huge, ancient, sagging chintz-covered armchair, and in front of him, cutting off all possible means of escape, was this fierce, plump little woman. Pascal looked down at her, puzzled. Then he began to understand. She reminded him, suddenly, of his mother, and he had seen just that expression on his mother’s face in times past. It was how she had looked—exactly how she had looked—whenever as a young man he’d brought girls home. Pascal smiled.
Mary looked up at him. It was, she thought, a disarming smile, but she had no intention of being disarmed. True, this Frenchman was not what she had envisioned—not at all. For a start, he didn’t look right Mary had a vivid imagination, and she had had twelve years in which to summon up this man in her mind’s eye. She had not examined the material John Hawthorne had given her at all closely, and so the image of Lamartine conjured up at the time of Beirut was unimpaired. A French womanizer, Mary had decided twelve years before; she knew the type only too well. Good-looking, smarmy, with ghastly come-to-bed eyes. Mary had never actually met a Frenchman like that, but she was perfectly certain that’s how they were. Apart from the fact that he was good-looking, very good-looking—though he could have done with a haircut and a much closer shave—this Lamartine was none of these things. His manner was, if anything, slightly cool and distanced. His behavior to Gini as they entered had been charming and correct. He had entered at her side, one hand at her elbow, to help steer her past the crush of other guests. On being introduced to Mary he had shaken her hand, bent his head slightly in that rather delightful way some Frenchmen had, and said politely, Madame.
Not smarmy, Mary decided. She blinked. And not in his forties either, which he would have been had Sam given her his correct age. He was considerably younger, in his mid-thirties, she judged. Damn Sam, she thought, and damn my wretched eyesight. She peered up at Lamartine. He did not look in the least like some cheap womanizer. He did not have ghastly come-to-bed eyes. In fact, now that she looked more closely, he had rather good eyes, of a smoky gray color. Their expression was ironic, quizzical, as if something were amusing him. …With a start, Mary realized that she was inspecting him in a quite unforgivable way. She took a step backward. Lamartine smiled. He had, she thought, a really rather wonderful smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, speaking with great rapidity and waving her hands. “It’s just…you’re not what I expected at all….”
“And you are not what I expected,” he replied.
“You see,” Mary continued, rushing on, and trying to avoid the conversational pits and traps that suddenly seemed to surround her on all sides. “You see, that is, Gini told me you were a paparazzo—” This did not please him. The smile disappeared. “Oh? That was what she said?”
He glanced across the room to where Gini was now deep in conversation with John Hawthorne. Mary swallowed and thought fast.
“Maybe I’ve got that wrong. I expect so. I’m such a scatter-brain. I muddle up things all the time, and—”
“No. She was perfectly correct. That’s exactly what I am.”
This was said seriously, but with a detectable edge. Mary took a large swallow of her wine.
“Well, there you are,” she went on idiotically. “I’m sure it’s most exciting. Rushing around the world, that kind of thing …” She pulled herself together. “So tell me, have you known Gini long?”
Pascal hesitated. “No,” he said carefully. “We’ve met a few times.”
Mary paused. Here was her perfect opportunity. Now was the moment to draw herself up, give him a withering stare and say, Come, come, Monsieur Lamartine. You once knew Gini very well, I think. In Beirut. Twelve years ago. Mary looked up at this man and found the words would not come. She could not possibly say them. In the first place, he was quite formidable, and she simply didn’t dare; in the second, she could see they would be an unpardonable intrusion, rude, wrong, and possibly unfair. I know nothing about what happened, she realized, nothing at all. All I know is what Sam told me.
She met Lamartine’s eyes again. Every instinct she possessed told her that some aspects of Sam’s story must be wrong. On the other hand, she was not always a good judge of character; people could take her in. …John was right, totally right, she thought. I shouldn’t trespass. I should say and do nothing at all. This decision brought with it an enormous relief. Suddenly she relaxed.
“And meanwhile, you’re working for the News too, I think Gini said?”
“Just briefly. Yes, I am.”
“Well, you’d be doing me a great favor,” she continued more warmly, “if you could make Gini see she should leave. It’s a perfectly horrible newspaper now, an absolute rag—well, I suppose not entirely, but I don’t like its tone. And that ghastly new editor gives Gini the most pathetic stories. Before he came, she was doing so well. Did she tell you, a couple of years ago, she won two awards….”
“No. She didn’t mention that.”
“How typical! Well, she did. She did a very fine series on police corruption in the north. The previous editor admired her work enormously. He’d agreed to send her abroad—to Bosnia, which was the kind of story she’d always wanted to cover, of course. And she’d done a great deal of work in preparation, then—”
“Bosnia?” He was frowning. “You mean she wanted to cover the war?”
“Yes. She did. That’s the kind of work she’s always wanted to do. And she would have pulled it off. Gini is absolutely determined, and she’s very brave too.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He glanced across the room once more. Gini was still in conversation with John Hawthorne; she said something inaudible, and Hawthorne laughed.
“The thing is,” Mary rushed on. She was now on her favorite subject. “Gini would never admit this, but she’s very influenced by her father. Where he went, she’s always been determined to follow. Her mother died, you see, when Gini was terribly young—two years old. She doesn’t remember her at all. When I first knew Gini, she was only five, but she was very advanced for her age. She could read and write very well. She used to write these stories—well, all children do that, I suppose—but Gini used to lay them out in little books, like a newspaper. Then she’d show them to her father, only…well, unfortunately, he never took very much interest. But that only made her more determined. She’s very single-minded. You can’t rein her in. Do you know, when she was fifteen years old, she just walked out of school one day and went rushing off to—”
Mary stopped. She flushed crimson. She knew that when launched on the subject of Gini, she found it difficult to stop; but to have walked into that, to have been so incredibly stupid. She would never have done it, she realized, had Lamartine not been listening with such close attention to her proud boast. She would never have done it had he not seemed so very different from that imagined man in Beirut. However, she had done it. Now she had to extricate herself.
“Went rushing off to where?” Lamartine said in polite tones.
“Oh, heavens.” Mary looked around her distractedly. “Could you excuse me just one second? That wretched poet friend of mine is monopolizing Lise. I must intervene….”
She darted away. Pascal watched her thoughtfully. He liked her, he thought, and he had learned a great deal from her, things Gini would never have told him herself. He had also learned, of course, that Gini had been wrong. Her stepmother knew very well what had happened in Beirut, and that meant Sam Hunter had not kept his word. He had told Mary about those events. Who, in her turn, might Mary have told?
He would have preferred Mary not to have heard that story from Hunter, and not to have been prejudiced against him, but there was nothing he could do about that now. It explained the way in which she had greeted him, that fierce protective inspection she had given him. Now she had obviously decided to risk no more faux pas, for she was returning, together with Lise Hawthorne.
She made the necessary introductions, then hastened away. Pascal looked down at the ambassador’s wife. Her lovely face was tilted up to his; she radiated a tense, almost febrile animation.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” she was saying in a low, breathy voice, so he had to bend slightly to catch her words. She gave him an amused glance, which was more than a little flirtatious. “I’ve seen your photographs,” she was saying. “Those ones of Stephanie of Monaco. Monsieur Lamartine…” She wagged one long beautifully manicured finger at him with a kind of arch reproof. “Monsieur Lamartine, I was shocked. You have a very bad reputation, you know….”
“So tell me about your father,” John Hawthorne was saying to Gini. “Give me an update. It’s too long since we’ve seen him. It must be five or six years.”
“He’s in Washington now,” Gini began.
“Washington. Of course. But didn’t I hear some rumor—wasn’t he planning a new book? Afghanistan? No, the Middle East?”
“Vietnam,” Gini replied.
She was almost certain Hawthorne knew this as well as she did, but for reasons of his own—perhaps to draw her out—kept that knowledge concealed. “Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia,” she went on. “It’s almost twenty-five years since he was there. He wants to go back and write about the changes since the war. I think he feels he did his finest work there.”
“He’s wrong.” Hawthorne spoke abruptly. “Obviously, the pieces he filed from Vietnam were outstanding—that Pulitzer was well deserved. But he’s still in a class of his own. I followed everything he wrote during the Gulf War. I’m afraid I even poached some of his material for speeches.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. Flattered, I’d say.”
“Maybe. Maybe. Sam never had much time for politicians.” He smiled. “The point was, he could always uncover something new, something the military might have liked to conceal. They couldn’t buy him, and they couldn’t gag him. He should do his book on Vietnam. It needs writing. And if Sam did it, it’d sell—” He paused. “Here, your glass is empty. Let me get you a drink. White wine?”
He crossed to the drinks table, paused to speak to a group there. New guests were still arriving. The room was becoming crowded now. Gini, glancing around her, saw her stepmother leading Pascal across to Lise Hawthorne. They were introduced: Lise Hawthorne held out her hand.
Gini turned back to look at Hawthorne. The remarks about her father had pleased her, particularly the fact that in Hawthorne’s opinion her father was still writing well. Had the comments been made for that reason, to please, to ingratiate?
Gini felt unsure. Hawthorne had no need, surely, to ingratiate himself with her. Why bother? His manner, certainly, had suggested nothing of the kind. On the contrary, it had been easy and direct; when he first mentioned her father—and he had done so almost immediately—he had spoken with an amused affection. “Didn’t you know?” he’d said. “Your father kept me sane in Vietnam. He was an observer on two missions with my platoon. Sam and I once spent three days and nights in a foxhole together, under fire. He ate my rations, and I drank the contents of his brandy flask. I was twenty-one years old and scared shitless. Your father never turned a hair. He taught me a lesson I’ve never forgotten. I’m not sure if it’s called courage or blind stupidity. Either way, Sam and I go back a long way.”
A disarming story, Gini thought. Flattering to her father, self-deprecatory, even the mild obscenity introduced as if to signal that Hawthorne was no prude, no stuffed shirt. …Yes, it might have been calculated to win her over. Still, it had been recounted naturally, and with warmth.
Gini frowned: She was not a novice when it came to interviewing celebrated, powerful men; she had interviewed numerous politicians. Hawthorne resembled none of them. He did not monopolize the conversation, but turned it away from himself. He did not patronize. He did not glance away to check whether someone more important than Gini had just entered the room.
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
“Don’t say anything.” Pascal bent closely to her ear. “Nothing, Gini. Wait until we’re outside.”
They said their good-byes and thanks to Mary, then left. Pascal took her arm. They walked at a fast pace in the opposite direction from the street where Gini had parked her car. When Pascal was certain there was no one following them, he drew her into a deserted cul-de-sac. There he stopped. He turned to Gini, his face alert and pale in the lamplight.
“Gini, you saw?”
“The coat? Of course I saw the coat. You can’t exactly miss full-length sable.”
“And the necklace? You saw the pearls?”
“No.”
“It’s because she was wearing the clasp at the back. You could see it only from behind. I noticed it earlier. The clasp was gold, with a cabochon ruby. Both the pearls and the coat were a birthday present from her husband. It’s her birthday today, Gini.”
“I know. Mary mentioned it.”
“Well, now.” Pascal took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned back against a garden wall and looked at her. “Isn’t her husband, the ambassador, a generous man? A pearl necklace. A sable coat. I wonder if he mentioned who had worn them before?”
“Pascal, wait. You’re sure about the pearls?”
“Of course. And what’s more, we were right when we listened to that phone tape. She’s afraid, and she’s under strain. Even your stepmother noticed it. She came over twice to ask her if she still felt unwell.”
“She didn’t look unwell to me.” Gini gave him a sharp glance. “She looked perfectly fine when she was reading your palm.”
“How could you tell?” His comeback was equally sharp. “You were so wrapped up in Hawthorne, you wouldn’t have noticed a damn thing.”
“Well, at least I wasn’t flirting with Hawthorne. Which can’t be said of you and Lise….”
“Oh, really? You weren’t? You were listening to him pretty damn closely, hanging on his every word. I saw the way he looked at you. I saw the way he took your arm—”
“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! Of course I was listening to him. That’s why I was there. To get some kind of impression of the man.”
“Fine. Excellent. And so what was that impression?”
“I liked him, if you must know. On the whole. He’s autocratic, but you’d expect that. If you’d tried to talk to him yourself instead of sitting there, having your palm read, for God’s sake, you might have liked him too.”
“Tried to talk to him? Jesus Christ, are you totally blind?” Pascal gave a gesture of exasperation. “You saw what happened the second Mary introduced me. As soon as he heard my name, he was off, gone. And calling his wife to heel.”
“I’m amazed he didn’t do that earlier,” Gini replied. “I’ve never seen anything so pathetic. Sitting on a sofa, whispering to you…”
“She was not whispering. She just has a low voice, that’s all.”
“Whispering. Taking your palm in front of a whole room of people. Well, I could see you were flattered, Pascal, and I hate to disillusion you, but apparently she does that all the time—”
“Is that so?” Pascal’s voice, angry a moment before, became suddenly and dangerously cool.
“Yes, she damn well does,” Gini continued. “Hawthorne told me. He heard what she was saying—all that tripe about horoscopes and astrology or whatever it was. And he told me that in three minutes she’d be reading your palm. He was right to the second, what’s more.”
“Was he? How very clever of her.”
“Clever of her?” Gini stared at him. “Why?”
“Because she did something he expected her to do—and because of that, he stopped paying attention. Instead, he turned his attention to you.”
“Will you stop this? He did no such thing. It was just a normal, ordinary conversation. We talked about work. About my father. He knew my father in Vietnam. …”
Pascal gave her an impatient glare.
“But of course. He set out to charm you—that was obvious from the second we walked in. So he talked about your father. He was flattering you, Gini. Can’t you see that?”
“No, I can’t. I’m telling you, I liked him. He seemed honest. Straight. Sharp. I liked him. End of story. That’s it.”
“You’re biased in his favor now, is that it? But you can’t explain those pearls, or that coat—”
“No. I can’t. And neither can you. In themselves they prove nothing. …”
“They suggest quite a lot.”
“Look.” Gini sighed. “All I’m doing is giving him the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty. Unlike you. You took one of your instant dislikes. It was just the same as when you met my father—”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this!” Pascal turned away and began to pace up and down. “Fine. Right.” He turned back to her. “Let me just make sure I’ve got this right. You associate Hawthorne with your father now, is that it?”
“No, I damn well don’t.” Gini rounded on him angrily. “Did I say that? No. I said you made one of your instant decisions—”
“I do not make instant decisions.”
“Yes, you do. How about Lise? You took one look and instantly capitulated. Suddenly Lise is this poor, frightened creature in need of protection. We don’t know that, Pascal. Lise could have made up this whole thing. So could McMullen, for that matter. It could be one long lie from beginning to end.”
“You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I was talking to the stupid woman for so long? Why was I listening to her so carefully? You think I actually enjoyed it—hours of horoscope nonsense, little lectures on Fate? Dear God, don’t you know me at all?”
“You didn’t look bored, Pascal.”
“Will you stop this and listen?” He moved suddenly and took hold of her arm.
“No. I will not. I saw you, Pascal. I’ve never seen you behave that way in my life. I—” She broke off. Pascal was now very close to her. He was looking down into her face.
“There’s more you want to say, perhaps, Gini? Other things you want to add? Or are you going to be quiet and listen?”
“No. I’m not. And I have plenty more to say.”
Pascal gave a sigh. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Then we’ll do it this way. I’ll make you be quiet.”
Then he kissed her. He moved so quickly that he took her by surprise. He caught her roughly against him and kissed her mouth hard.
“Now,” he said, stepping back from her. “You will listen to what I have to say, and you won’t interrupt until I’ve finished. First, Lise Hawthorne was under strain, she was jumpy, odd, maybe even on pills of some kind. Second, there must be a major security alert, because that house was crawling with security men. There were three cars outside, and two men on foot. Inside, there was that Malone man in the hall, and another man positioned at the far side of the drawing room by the other door. That’s very unusual, in fact, it’s something I’ve never seen at a private party. Third, Lise Hawthorne was worried by the man in the room and the man in the hall. She kept glancing at them, and then at her husband. It was as if she felt watched. Fourth, she was watched, certainly by Hawthorne. Most of the time you were talking to him, you had your back to us. But he kept his eye on her the entire time. All of which, Gini, all of which makes it all the more remarkable what she did when she read my palm and that damn husband of hers finally turned away. She gave me this, Gini. Look.”
He held out to her in the lamplight a tiny piece of paper, no more than an inch square.
“Now,” he said, “do you understand why this apparently stupid woman reads my palm? It was very well done, Gini. I noticed nothing until I felt the paper in my hand. It was done in a second. So. Shall we see why?”
Pascal drew her closer to the streetlight. He unfolded the tiny scrap of paper and smoothed it flat. On it, typed, was the word Sunday, and beneath it an address.
There was a small silence. Gini shivered.
“McMullen failed to provide next Sunday’s assignation address,” Pascal said. “So she did. At some risk.”
Gini was looking closely at the address. “One thing you should know,” Gini said. “This address is five minutes from Regent’s Park. Five minutes from the U.S. ambassador’s official residence, Pascal, from John Hawthorne’s house. We can take a look at it on the way home.”
They drove north, skirted Regent’s Park, and turned into Avenue Road. Large houses lined the street on either side of them.
“Some neighborhood,” Pascal said without enthusiasm. It reminded him of Helen’s house, of her neighborhood.
“A rich neighborhood,” Gini corrected him. “A nouveau riche neighborhood. Especially this part here.”
They passed some large white-stucco Victorian villas, interspersed with oversize brick palaces of more recent date. Most had security lighting; almost all had ground-floor windows that were barred.
“People buy them for investment, I think,” Gini said. “Half of them are empty except for staff. That’s a well-known private abortion clinic—I interviewed its director once. I think it’s the next turn on the right….” She slowed. “Damn. It’s a cul-de-sac.”
“Never mind. Turn in, drive to the end, circle, and go out again.”
There were six houses on the street, three on each side. The one to which Lise had directed them was at the far end, and was the only period house. They glimpsed white stucco, a curious gothic porch set to the side. The rest of the building was hidden behind high laurel hedges. It was unlit, as were the rest of the houses. Apart from one streetlamp, the cul-de-sac was dark.
Gini pulled back out into the main road. They drove north back to Islington, saying little. In her apartment, Pascal made up the sofa in silence, and in silence began to pack his bag. Gini watched him.
“Venice tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes. The flight leaves at nine. We’ll have to leave here around seven. You’d better get some sleep.”
“Perhaps we’ll find McMullen,” she said. “Perhaps he’ll explain. …”
“Maybe.” Pascal straightened. He looked around the room, and then back at her. “Not here,” he said.
Gini looked around her living room, which might or might not be safe. She wanted to ask Pascal why he had kissed her, and whether he had felt as she had felt when he did, but she did not want to ask that question in a room with listening walls.
She thought she could see the answer in his face, and in the resolute way he continued his packing, but she could not be sure. At the door of her bedroom she hesitated. Pascal stopped packing, straightened, and looked at her.
“Was it just to silence me?” she said finally.
“No.” He smiled. “I’d been considering it for some time. Depuis mercredi, tu sais. Depuis douze ans….”
He returned to his packing. She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
Those two phrases sang in the air. She liked the grammar, the French construction; they made the words echo and reecho. Since Wednesday, she thought. A translation. Since twelve years.