Lovers and Liars (72 page)

1 ‘Sam doesn’t dominate me,’ Gini began, in her usual defensive way, then something in Hawthorne’s expression stopped her.

‘If he doesn’t dominate you/ he said drily, ‘then he certainly has a damn good try. Judging by this evening’s performance, nyway . He hesitated, then moved across to help her off with

her coat. ‘If it’s any help, I was a lot older than you are before I found a way of dealing with it. And even now … even now my father’s influence is very strong. As a child, I often hated him - but I also loved him. And it’s that combination of emotions which is so hard to deal with. It’s … incendiary.’ He broke off with a shrug. ‘Still, I imagine most children feel the same. Perhaps that’s our problem, Gini. We still haven’t severed that chain, you and U

He was standing quite close to her as he said this in a quiet half-mocking way. He was looking down into her face, his own expression regretful yet amused. As he had helped her off with her coat, his hand had brushed against her throat. Looking at him, Gini could still sense that brief touch of his hand against her skin. She realized that she was acutely aware of his closeness to her, and that so was he. She felt a sudden tiny pulse of attraction to him - there and then gone - and she wondered if he felt that also, or sensed her reaction, for the quality of his gaze became still and intent, then at the same moment, as if on some shared instinct, they both moved further apart.

Gini went into the kitchen, and began making coffee. She ran some water in the sink, and splashed cold water on her face and hands. She felt unsteady, not at all in control, as if all the events of this evening had thrown both her thinking and her emotions out of kilter. It’s my father, she said to herself; if he had not acted in that way, I’d feel perfectly calm. But she knew it was not just her father, it was the way in which Hawthorne had defended her, it was the way in which he had spoken earlier that evening, then in his car, and now here. This Hawthorne was not the person she had taken him for, but a very different, much more complex and much more considerable man.

When she returned to her living-room with the tray, Hawthorne was standing by the window, staring out at the darkness beyond. She could see his pale reflection against the black of the winclowglass. He seemed abstracted, only turning when her reflection appeared in the glass beside his own.

Then with a smile, he made an effort to shake off his mood.. He took the tray from her, drew the curtains, waited until she had lit the fire and sat down, then seated himself opposite.

‘It is nice, this room,’ he said, as she poured the coffee.

‘It’s very ordinary,’ Gini replied. ‘Not quite the grandeur you’re used to.’

‘That’s probably why I like it. Grandeur’s not really my style My father’s, maybe - and Lise’s too, up to a point. But I’ve never

really liked that kind of thing. Has Mary ever described to you iny childhood homeT He glanced towards her. ‘I’m sure she must have. Such a terrible place. A fifty-bedroom monstrosity,

with the spoils of at least five generations of acquisitive awthornes.’ He smiled. ‘I hated it. I still hate it now. I go ck there as little as possible, but it makes no difference. It rfaces - very often - in my dreams. I dream of walking along ose endless, endless corridors. And then, of course, sometimes can’t avoid going there. I have to see my father. I go up to see m, regularly, with my boys.’

‘Your father’s here in England though, at the momentT Gini ‘isaid. ‘Someone pointed him out to me at that dinner at the -,Savoy.’

‘Yes. He’s here. He was coming over anyway for that birthday rty of n-dne - if that ever happens, which looks increasingly Vmlikely. He had some business to attend to as well, so he decided

come earlier. He’s staying with us. I’m afraid that hasn’t eased e situation. He and Lise have never gotten along.’

He paused. ‘Maybe you’ll get to meet him if Lise is well enough nd the party takes place. I’d like you to meet him. He’s an extraordinary man.’

He looked away as he said this. He rested his gaze somewhere in the middle distance, and Gini felt that he no longer saw his ‘SurToundings, but was watching his own past. He settled back in ‘;his chair. A few minutes of silence passed. Then, as if sensing her ,gaze on his face, he turned back to look at her.

111 ‘You know how old I was when I first realized my father had iny, life all mapped out in advanceT He sighed. ‘Eight years old. Can you imagine that? It was my birthday. My mother bought me a train-set - it was the year before she died. My father’s idea of a present for an eight-year-old was more unusual. You know what it was?’ He gave a halfsmile. ‘It was a clock.’

‘A clock?’

i ‘Oh, valuable, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘Long-case. Antique. An -historic piece. Said to have belonged to Thomas Jefferson. It had a seven-day system. All these levers and pulleys and weights. Every ‘Sunday, my father and 1, we wound it up. Our special ceremony. My father liked ceremonies. Rituals. I guess he still does.’

His tone sharpened. ‘You won’t find this story in the clippings -

4or what it’s worth, I kept it to myself. You know why he gave me clock? To teach me about time. He wanted me to watch it go past,

able to measure it in the movements of cogs and pendulums

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and weights and counter-weights. The day he gave it to me, he said: “Forty years from now, John, you will be the president of your country … ” Then he said children couldn’t imagine forty years. It was too huge. So every time I wound the clock, I had to remember. Forty years is two thousand and eighty weeks … I

He paused once more, still staring off into the middle distance, as if he were back in the memory, and had forgotten her ‘presence.

‘It sounds like an awfully long time, put that way,’ Gini said, still watching him carefully. ‘Two thousand and eighty weeks., ‘It isn’t.’ He jerked back to look at her. ‘We’re in the two thousand and seventy-ninth right now. It’s my forty-eighth birthday next week.’ His smile tightened. ‘I’m behind schedule. As my father has already pointed out.’

His tone had now dipped towards bitterness. Gini hesitated, unwilling to break this odd and sudden confessional mood. When he said no more, she risked a quiet prompt.

‘But you plan on catching up? That’s what people say . ‘Maybe. I know I could. My father wants it.’ He paused, and then turned to look at her.

‘Would it surprise you if I said I had abandoned it all - all those plans, all those ambitions? I almost did. Four years ago, when my son was ill. I decided then. That’s why I resigned from the Senate. There were other contributing factors - the state of my marriage for one - but that wasn’t the main reason. The night my son nearly died, the night his illness reached its crisis - I spent that night, alone, by his hospital bed.’ He gave a weary halfsmile. ‘I prayed, of course, though I have very little faith left. I looked at myself, my past life. In the end, around three in the morning, I made a deal, with God.’

He gave a shrug. ‘It’s the kind of thing one does, perhaps, in those circumstances. It seemed right at the time. When I looked back at my life there was a great deal I despised, and very little I liked. So I made my deal. Make my son better, and I’ll give it all up. All the power and the glory and the hypocrisy and the unrest . He paused. ‘God was obliging. He fulfilled his side of the bargain. My son recovered. I resigned from the Senate later that week.’ He glanced at her. ‘You won’t find that story in the clippings either. It’s true, nevertheless.’

He had told her this in a strained, almost harsh way, so his tone was at odds with the actions he described. Looking at him, Gini came near to pitying him. She said gently, ‘But then, you must

you really made that promise - you’re a Catholic born and you must feel it’s still binding, surely?’

aps. I look at it rather differently now.’ The reply was curt; itated, then said in a quieter tone, ‘I canf t let superstition rule

- and that’s what it is now, my religion. It’s superstition. I

you, I have no faith. I have to think of my father. He’s devoted tis life to his ambitions for me. He’s old now, he can’t have years left to live. I’d like to give him one last gift … ‘ A smile crossed his face. ‘And then, I’m not without abilities. ny ways I miss my former life. I miss the drive of politics. having one clear goal ahead of me. After all, I lived with oal, that one aim, for most of my life.’

you will return to politics, then? You haven’t abandoned presidential hopesT

o. I haven’t abandoned them. Nor has my father, of course.’ you have a timetableT

thorne smiled. ‘Sure. A realistic one. A flexible one. You ‘t tie it down to forty years, or two thousand and eighty ks. It depends on Lise’s condition, partly. It depends on present incumbent and his performance, just a few little conrations of that kind … ‘

e rose, in a sudden and agitated wayf betraying a restlessness had not exhibited before. He began to walk back and forth in room. Gini watched him silently. He stopped, and swung nd suddenly to look at her.

‘I have tried, ‘ he said. ‘God knows I have tried to alter my But the ag . Do you see? Even before I was renda was set

rn. The inexorable rise of my family. It was never enough for simply to be a senator. My grandfather was a senator. My ther was a senator. I had to do more than that. Without that e goal ahead of me my life seems aimless, empty. Can you derstand that? I’ve lived with that aimlessness for four years

tiow and I’ve had enough. After all, what other consolations do I have, other than my sons? Take the ambition away, and there’s hothing left.’

He broke off angrily. Gini had begun to speak, but he cut her :off.

‘I know what you’re going to say. Fame? That’s meaningless vithout power. Money? I was born with more money than any bne human being could possibly want. I’ve already told you, I have no faith. So what’s left? And don’t mention my marriage. You’re not as easy to deceive as either Mary or Sam. I’m sure it

hasn’t escaped your notice. My marriage is dead. It’s been dead for at least nine of the ten years it’s lasted.’

He stopped abruptly. His voice had risen, and the silence after he stopped speaking was intense. Gini could feel the room reverberate with the unsayable and the unsaid. Hawthorne’s eyes now rested on her face.

She hesitated, then said quietly, ‘That’s not what you implied earlier this evening.’

‘I know that. As you no doubt noticed, I was very careful in what I said. I told you one lie, and only one. I said that I loved my wife. I do not love Lise, and I never have loved her. As a matter of fact, I loathe her.’

There was another silence. His gaze was now intent. Gini looked at him uncertainly. The real Hawthorne, she felt, was suddenly very close, perhaps one question away. She bent her head and inched back the sleeve of her blouse, so she could just see the face of her watch. It was nine-thirty. Pascal was one hour and a half late. She felt uneasy at that, and a little afraid, but she pushed that fear aside. She looked up at Hawthorne again, and she could see the tension and the pain in his face.

‘You want me to goT he asked abruptly. ‘Perhaps I should go.,

‘You said you had something you wanted to say to me.’ Gini hesitated. ‘Was it about your marriage? About LiseT

‘Indirectly, yes.’ He gave a quick defensive gesture of the hand. ‘Except that I shouldn’t discuss Lise. It’s wrong of me … ‘ He glanced at her. ‘I couldn’t say this in front of your father or Mary, but those rumours you heard about me, they did concern other women, infidelities on my part, yesT

‘Yes. They did.’

The direct reply seemed to please him. He gave a wry smile. ‘Then that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. The other women in my life. I thought I might tell you the truth.’

‘Why should you tell me of all peopleT

‘Why you? Well, partly because for all your denials, you’ve been hunting me down, and so I thought, Why not let her in, why not open the gates? Also,’ he paused, and frowned, ‘I like you.’

‘Is that trueT

‘Yes. It is.’ He began to move away. ‘I liked you the first time I met you, aged thirteen, with your little friend who wanted to flirt and couldn’t quite manage it - you remember that? I liked you when I re-met you at Mary’s. There’s no point in

laining liking. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. I be I don’t like you or trust you and you just happen to be at the right moment - who knows?’

He paused. He had moved across to a side table, where there a bottle of Scotch and some glasses. He picked up the bottle began to unscrew its cap.

ay I? Will you join meT He was smiling, then the smile ppeared. He stood absolutely still, and Gini realized he was ning. She looked around the silent room, then she also heard ound - footsteps passing outside in the street.

awthorne’s expression was now alert. He still held the whisky e. ‘Is this apartment safeT

afe?’ “Is it wired?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She hesitated. ‘It might be, yes.’

He gave a sigh, a long, slow exhaling of breath. ‘You know, I n’t give a damn,’ he said, with an odd defiant smile. ‘I don’t ve a damn any more one way or another. Here.’

He handed her the glass of whisky. His hand brushed hers as passed it across. Hawthorne gave no indication of noticing S. He moved back to the chair opposite her, and sat down.

gave her a long and considering look. Again Gini felt that Ise of tension and unease.

‘You remember what I said in that speech at the SavoyT wthorne said. ‘About accountability, about a public man’s vate lifeT

‘Yes. I do. You said if such a man had nothing to hide, he had othing to fear.’

‘Exactly so. By that rule, if my claims earlier this evening about iny marriage were true, I’d have no reason to fear McMullen, yes? t best, he could start rumours, gossip. I could probably live with at. Neither he, nor you, nor anyone else would be able to supply roof.’ He gave her a cool glance. ‘Unfortunately, as I guess ou’ve realized, it’s not that straightforward. There have been t er women, infidelities on my part. If you tried hard enough,

ong enough, you’d find out about them eventually. Well, I’ll ve you the effort. I’ll explain them myself.’