Lovers and Liars (24 page)

Oh God, oh God.’ Gini suddenly banged her hands down hard the desk. ‘Sometimes I’d like to blow it all up, this entire

.:,What brought this on? Come on, Gini, if you’re so keen to ak your mind, do it for once.’

‘What brought it on? Jenkins brought it on. I loathe and detest despise him. And I loathe and detest and despise myself for rking for him. I should have walked out, months ago, and I

‘t. I should never have listened to all those lies and promises is. Next month, Gini, maybe then we’ll send you overseas … ‘ did a vicious and accurate impression of Jenkins. ‘Meantime,

if you’d just get on with this really key story. It’s about hone sex lines, for God’s sake … ‘

K.’ Lindsay lit a cigarette. She could not quite believe this shappening, that Gini - quiet, cool, controlled Gini, who rarely so much as lost her temper - was acting like this. K/ she said. ‘What else?’

‘What else? What else? Those damn voyeurs, for a start, passthose Sonia Swan pictures around. “Hey, Gini, hot or not?” ey make me sick. Sick. Not one of them has the nerve to

Ptand up to Jenkins and say, Why the hell are we running this Pff? Who cares if Sonia Swan screws the entire French Cabinet, $.v what?’ She drew in a deep breath, and swung around to ok at Lindsay once more.

;‘They don’t have the courage - and neither do 1, do you see? could have said that to Jenkins. I had the perfect chance up I*re in his office, and did I? No. I kept my mouth shut. Why? pecause I’m frightened of hirnT She paused, and then shook her Imad. ‘No. It isn’t even that. Because I’m working on something

right now that I actually want to work on. And I didn’t want to risk losing it. So I toed the line yet again. Yes, Nicholas. No, Nicholas. I hate myself.’

‘And?’ Lindsay said.

Gini met her eyes. She hesitated. Lindsay watched her fight herself, watched some angry internal struggle take place.

‘All right/ she said finally. ‘All right. It’s Pascal Lamartine. Him above all. He took those Sonia Swan photographs, and I mind. I mind passionately about that.’

‘Why?’ Lindsay said, although she already knew the answer. It flared in Gini’s eyes, it sprang from every feature of her face. ‘Why? Because he’s better than that. Much better. You know the

kind of work he used to do. You know the kind of pictures he used to take. And now he does this. And he hates himself for doing it - I can see that he does, Lindsay. It’s destroying him. It’s his own very special way of committing suicide, and I can’t bear to watch it.’

She pressed her hands to her heart as she said this. Then she made a wild and angry gesture, as if she was relinquishing something, or giving up. She moved her head, and that astonishing hair flared with a bluish-white fluorescence. Lindsay waited, one beat, then two. Gini’s gaze met hers, then faltered. She looked away.

Lindsay gave a sigh. She hesitated, then said, ‘OK, Gini. Tell me. WhenT

She was expecting Gini to say nothing at all. Or, if she admitted it, something like, last year, or six months ago. She did not.

‘Twelve years ago,’ she said, and began pacing again.

‘Twelve yearsT Lindsay stared at her. She could not remember Gini’s having mentioned Pascal Lamartine’s name, ever.

‘Twelve years? You mean you were fifteenT

‘Yes. But he didn’t know that. I lied about my age to him.’ ‘Where was thisT

‘In Beirut.’

‘How long, GiniT ‘Three weeks.’ ‘That’s all?’

Gini swung around angrily. ‘It was enough. Believe me, it makes no difference. He’s still here.’ She pressed her hands against her chest. ‘He’s in my heart and in my head. I can’t get him out. I never could.’

Lindsay hesitated. She herself was ten years older than Gini; she suddenly felt that the age gap was much greater than that.

what happened, GiniT she said, more gently, and thought: can I explain? How do you talk someone down from this?

at happened? My father happened. He found out.’ Anturn, another wild gesture of the hand, another swirl of

d that was it?’ Lindsay said. ‘Nothing afterwardsT

silence,’ Gini said. ‘Silence. I met him once, by accident, s. But that was all. just silence until I met him again this

kind of silence that talksT

my side. Not on his. He married. He had a child. He d_2

he contact you thenT

ou hope he wouldT I let myself. Yes.’

flared in her face. She turned away. There was a long The lights flickered. Outside the rain lashed the windows. storeys; below a truck passed. In the outside office a telerang. ‘Three weeks then twelve years of silence?’ Lindsay slowly. ‘Gini, do you want to get hurt? AgainT

I want God to intervene and make everything wrong come Her voice dipped then rose more strongly. ‘Failing that - if s to a choice, something happening and getting hurt, or g happening and I stay safe - then I’d risk getting hurt. I’d rather get hurt. I wouldn’t care.’

at’s not very sensible.’

nsibleT She turned and stared at Lindsay. Her face contracted an instant. ‘I don’t even know what that means any more. It ‘t part of the equation. I can’t go through this inch by inch, suring this, accounting for that.’

tell him then/ Lindsay said, a little sharply.

0,Vo. No. I can’t do that. That’s the one thing I can’t do. You don’t ,OGw what he’s like. He’s just been through a horrible divorce. The

* thing he needs is more problems.’

ORubbish.’ Quite suddenly Lindsay lost sympathy and patience. Oe sounds like a first-class bastard to me, Gini.’

01here was absolute silence. Gini’s face went white. Why do you say that? WhyT

V , Oh come on, Gini. Grow up. Three weeks in a war zone and Otwelve-year silence? That sounds like indifference to me. ExWation and then indifference.’

‘You’re wrong. Totally wrong. It wasn’t like that. He was never like that. He isn’t like that now.’

‘You’re sure?’ Lindsay said more kindly. ‘Or is that you, Gini, writing his scriptT

There was another silence, briefer this time. Then Gini whirled about. She began putting on her coat, her gloves, her scarf. She picked up her bag. Lindsay said nothing. Gini had not touched her coffee, and was now hesitating by the door, a stricken look on her face.

‘Lindsay ‘YesT ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you with all this. It’s - it’s not

something I’ve ever talked about before.’ ‘I can see that.’

‘You won’t tell anyone else? You promise meT ‘Come on, Gini. You know I won’t.’

Gini did know that; she hesitated again, then made a little half-pleading gesture of the hand. ‘Lindsay, what you said about indifference - is that really what you think?’

Lindsay sighed. She rose, and they hugged each other. ‘Come on, Gini,’ she said. ‘You know I can’t judge. Outsiders never can. But just reading the facts - no, they don’t look good. I’d be lying if I said they did.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Gini’s face took on a closed, blank look. ‘I mean, I always knew, in a way. Twelve years of silence. I had been dealing with it. Really, Lindsay, I’d almost put the whole thing right out of my mind. It’s just meeting him again, so unexpectedly. It brought all the past back.’

‘Just so long as you remember it is the past, Gini.’ ‘Yes. Except we are our pasts. He is a part of me .

Lindsay began to protest, and Gini gave herself a shake. She smiled. ‘No. No. You’re right. Grow up. That’s just what I should do. Thank you, Lindsay. Have a wonderful time in Martinique.’

A few minutes later, Gini left. She took with her the directories for the model agencies. She crammed them into a carrier-bag, and hurried out of the offices.

It was past four o’clock. Rain was falling heavily, sluicing the streets. If she was quick, she could make it easily to the City and the ICD offices before Susannah left. Perhaps the woman who had delivered those parcels had indeed been a model, just as Susannah had assumed, a model hired to do an unusual job.

aps, if Susannah went through these directories, she would e the woman’s face.

it was a long shot, but worth trying. Then, when she returned e to Pascal, she would have made more progress still. Another of this puzzle would have slotted into place.

e stopped abruptly, in the middle of the street. Home to

- why had she allowed herself to think that? She would going home, to ,her flat, and Pascal might be there, but she

not returning home to him: it was vital she remember that.

e stood for a moment, the rain beating down on her head. ughout the conversation with Lindsay she had known that say was correct in all she said, that she gave sensible and good

. Her mind did not doubt that, but her heart did. I loved him, said to herself. She let the words repeat, and repeat, until they just a refrain, utterly meaningless, a fifteen-year-old girl’s ion, a delusion she should have had the strength to discard s ago.

When she was certain she saw that delusion for the foolish thing was, she began to walk onwards. There were no taxis. All the s were full. She walked the whole way back to the City, and discarded the illusion, tossed it aside like a physical thing, into grey water of the Thames, as she passed by Tower Bridge. She light, unburdened, and empty, insubstantial. She felt a quick ve sense of betrayal, then walked on. The pain was intense.

Xiii

JAMES MCMULLEN’S sister was called Katherine, or, as she always insisted, Kate. She lived in a small three-storey house in Chester Row, Belgravia, leased at enormous expense from the Westminster estate. Modest enough from the outside, but in a prime residential area’ the house was an extravagance. The lease had been purchased some twelve years before, when Kate had been younger, prettier, and still in demand as an actress. She had then been a household name, thanks to her twice-weekly appearances in a prime-time, highly popular TV soap.

Then, not six months after she’d signed the lease, that bastard of a producer had walked out on her, and two months after that her character started slurping pills and within a month a little month, Kate thought vengefully - well, what do you know? Her character was dead.

And so was her career. This idea, not a pleasant one, recurred now and then. Kate pushed it to one side, or drowned it in a vodka tonic, whenever it popped up. The truth was, TV chewed you up and spat you out, but she refused to give up. She still found work occasionally. Any day now, in the very next post, the perfect script, the perfect part might plop onto the mat.

Meantime, she thought grin-fly, returning to Chester Row after an unsuccessful audition for a TV detergent ad, meantime this

et little doll’s house cost too much. But it helped to keep up arances, and appearances mattered in this business. She’d n great care with her appearance today, but had she got the No, she had not. And now, to add insult to injury, it was g again. She paused to glare at the sky, then quickened her

- her house was in sight now - and then stopped.

man was standing on her doorstep, an extremely handsome , an utterly gorgeous man, just the kind of man she liked. He tall, with black hair worn rather long, designer stubble; long narrow hips, tight black jeans, a black sweater, a black leather t. He looked moody and dangerous like a French movie-star.

looked like the-kind of man who made love magnificently, then ed a Gauloise in bed. He looked like trouble with a capital ‘T’ he was ringing her doorbell. She increased her pace rapidly. s were definitely, but definitely, looking up.

e arrived at her doorstep out of breath. The man looked down ‘her. He had wonderful smoky-grey eyes, and an astonishing e. When he spoke, the accent was the kind that made her s weak.

ou must be Katherine,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of your brother, es.’

te didn’t give a damn who he was. He could have been s’s sworn enemy for all she cared.

name’s Franqois,’ Pascal said. ‘Franois Leduc.’

of course … ‘ The name meant nothing to Kate. She gave a radiant smile. ‘James is always talking about you. God, this I Come in, come in and have a drink.’

Franois,’ Kate McMullen said, ‘there’s vodka and then there’s . Is vodka all rightT

Pascal inclined his head politely. Werveilleux/ he said. He looked nd him. The drawing-room was dated, cluttered, and not very . There were dirty glasses everywhere. Paisley shawls were

ped across the sofa, scripts were piled on the coffee table, room smelled of joss-sticks or possibly marijuana. Chelsea, he ght, circa 1968.

e was surprised to find himself inside it so easily, but Katherine ullen seemed unconcerned. She was rummaging around for n glasses: a tall woman, slightly over-weight, once attractive aps, but now in her mid-forties aging badly. She had long k hair, heavily hennaed and tied around with a hippie-ish rf. A great many bangles on her arms; she was wearing too

much make-up and a voluminous multi-layered dress. Over this she wore an embroidered Afghan coat; it was a get-up some twenty years out of date, and Katherine McMullen very nearly carried it off. She gave a grand gesture of the hand - chipped nail polish and waved the vodka bottle. I

‘Sit down, sit down. Oh, Christ, I m out of tonic. D’you mind it straight?’

Pascal said straight would be fine. He said, ‘Thank you, Katherine.’

‘Kate/ she cried dramatically, removing her coat. ‘Please. Kate.’ ‘I am not inconveniencing you, I hopeT

‘Christ, no. Quite the contrary. I’ve had a bitch of a day. I was auditioning. I need cheering up.’

‘Ah yes. Of course. James told me you were an actress.’

‘For this TV ad. This stupid, pathetic, feeble detergent ad. Two tarts in a kitchen. That’s what they call them, those ads. And this little creep from the agency, five feet nothing, covered in pimples, aged approximately fifteen, can you imagine? He says I don’t look right. He says I have the wrong accent. The wrong accenfl’ She made a violent gesture.

‘So I told him - “Listen, darling, any accent you need, I can do. I’m an actress, remember? You want Scots, I’ll do you Scots. I can do Irish, I can do Liverpool, London, Manchester. I can do American. I can do Australian. If you really twist my arm, I can do you bloody Welsh.” ‘ She plonked a very full glass of neat vodka down on the table in front of him. Pascal smiled encouragingly, waited for her to sit down, then sat down himself.