Lovers and Liars Trilogy (111 page)

She had met Helen, a thin, brisk, dark-haired Englishwoman, on two occasions before that, both with Pascal. This conversation, over a lunch that had been Helen’s suggestion, had been the first the two women had ever had alone.

Helen had remarried earlier that year. Her new husband, whom she referred to as her good, safe Englishman, was a widower with three teenage children away at boarding school. He had inherited and ran a successful textile manufacturing company that had recently taken over a French silk-weaving business with headquarters in Paris and factories in Lyon. The modernization of this once-famous company now took up much of his time, Helen explained. As a result, she and Ralph had decided to postpone their search for the perfect English country house, and were going to spend the next six months at Ralph’s Paris apartment; this plan had benefits for everyone concerned.

Gini listened to all this numbly. Helen described the interior decorating she had embarked on in Paris. Not a stupid woman, she made no comment about Gini’s lack of animation, or on her appearance, which Gini knew was unimpressive, although she had tried very hard.

“It means, of course,” Helen went on, “that Marianne will be able to stay on for another six months at her French school. She’s been a little difficult about the move to England. I told Ralph—she adores him already, I knew she would—we don’t want to bombard her with too much change. To stay on in her old school, with her friends, just for a while… All in all it seemed the most practical plan. Pascal thought it was sensible too…”

“Oh.” Gini looked up. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, well. He and I discussed it briefly. Before the two of you left for Yugoslavia… Bosnia. Whatever one’s supposed to call it now. I expect he just forgot to mention it. You must both have had other things on your mind.”

She looked closely at Gini, who did not reply. She gestured to the waiter to bring more coffee.

“Do you mind if I speak frankly?” she said in an abrupt way, then hesitated. “This isn’t very easy to broach. I want you to know, what I’m going to say isn’t motivated by ill feeling or jealousy. It might have been once, but not now.”

“No, please. I understand.”

“I was married to Pascal for five years. We lived together before that. It may not have been a successful marriage, but I do know Pascal. I know him very well.”

Gini said nothing. She fixed her eyes on the chic scarlet cashmere sweater Helen was wearing; on the single string of pearls. Helen was around forty. She looked a decade younger, radiant, in charge of her life, on top of the world.

“Do you intend always working together, alongside each other? That might be one solution, I suppose.”

“No, we don’t,” Gini replied. “Not always, obviously. We had thought—when we can…”

“I don’t like the term workaholic,” Helen went on. “The word’s overused. It implies an addiction, obviously—but I never felt Pascal was
addicted
to his work. That would suggest passivity, a lack of willpower on his part—and no one would ever accuse Pascal of that, least of all me.” She gave a tight smile. “I’m sorry. I used to be a translator, as you know. I’m fussy about words.”

She paused thoughtfully, then frowned.

“I always thought Pascal was
dedicated
to his work, in an intense, almost priestly way. As if it were his vocation—you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. And it costs him a great deal.”

“Perhaps.” Helen pushed this suggestion aside. “For my part, I found that very hard to live with. Not at first, maybe. There was a certain glamour, you know. Pascal was becoming famous. I liked the drama of it all, sending letters off to remote places, trying to get a call through to some war zone. I gave several interviews, did you know that?” Her eyes flicked toward Gini’s. “People were intrigued by how it felt to be his wife. How I coped…” She made a face. “Of course Pascal didn’t approve. He was furious when I showed him the pictures. He always refused interviews. He’s never been interested in being a celebrity. Fame never interested him at all.”

Gini said nothing. She wished Helen had never mentioned war zones in that particular way. She could feel Bosnia very close, just the other side of this restaurant wall; another few minutes and she’d start to hear its sounds; all that desolation and pain would come swooping back to her. This was not normal, she told herself. She had to regain perspective. She forced herself to pay close attention to Helen’s words.

“Even before Marianne was born,” she went on, “there were difficulties. Pascal was away for months at a time. I had to go to parties, dinners, on my own. Of course, I’ve always been very independent, I didn’t really
mind
…” She gave a small frown.

“Perhaps, if Pascal had earned more money than he did then, it might have been better. We could have had a larger apartment. I could have entertained. It’s awfully easy to get left out, you know, if one’s a woman living alone. I did say to Pascal, he could have earned more—it would have been so easy. Advertising agencies were clamoring to use him. I used to tease him; I’d say, surely you can fit them in, darling, before the next war…”

She laughed, and glanced at Gini.

“I can see. You don’t approve. Maybe you’re more high-minded than I was. I really couldn’t see that it would do the least harm. Anyway, that’s beside the point. On the whole, we managed very well. It was different once Marianne was born.”

She paused, and her face became set.

“I had to manage, Gini, I had to manage entirely alone. Of course, our marriage was a little shaky by then. Even so, if Marianne was ill, if there was any problem at home, small or large, I had to cope with it. Ninety percent of the time Pascal was away. He was on a plane, in an airport, in some damn flea-bitten hotel in the back of beyond, where the switchboard didn’t work half the time, and if it did work, Pascal was never there… I coped. Not always very well. Sometimes, when he got back from Afghanistan, Cambodia, Mozambique, wherever, I’d try to explain. He’d never tell me what he’d been through in those places. He wouldn’t talk about it at all. And I didn’t really want to know. I mean, whatever horror he’d been through—there was nothing
I
could do. Of course, I knew it wasn’t tactful to start complaining about
my
little problems. I knew they’d seem petty to him. But I couldn’t stop myself. There’d be scenes, tears, pleas, recriminations, on my part. None of it made the slightest difference. He’d calm me down, then go off and catch the next plane.”

She paused, looking closely at Gini. “After a while it made me angry. Really terribly angry. I felt this
fury
all the time. If he’d had another woman, I think I could have coped better; at least that would have been commonplace, predictable. But my rival wasn’t a woman, it was his
work.
From my point of view”—her mouth tightened—“it became unacceptable. An absentee husband is one thing. An absentee father is another. Pascal adored Marianne, of course. When he was actually there, he was wonderful with her. But he simply couldn’t understand that devotion wasn’t enough. Has he changed, would you say?”

The question was sudden. Gini flushed scarlet.

“It’s very hard for him, obviously,” she began. “He’s trying to balance the things that matter most to him. Even in Sarajevo he thought about Marianne all the time. He wrote constantly, he telephoned. When he gets back, he—”

“That wasn’t really what I meant, as I think you know,” Helen said. “I wasn’t thinking of Marianne. I was thinking of you.”

Gini lowered her gaze. “We don’t have children,” she said in a quiet voice. “So it’s different for me.”

“Of course.” Helen looked at her, her expression doubtful. “Anyway, it’s not my business. I don’t want to interfere. Do you know when he’s coming back from Sarajevo?”

“No, not exactly. The situation changes every day. But soon. In a couple of weeks, probably.”

“Well, he’ll be back for Marianne’s birthday in January. That we
can
count upon,” Helen said, a slight edge in her voice. “There’s a fixed date anyway.”

“He’ll be home before that,” Gini said quickly. “He’ll come back for Christmas, I know.”

Helen said nothing. Looking at her face, Gini could tell she doubted the accuracy of that prediction—and of course, as it turned out, Helen was proved right. Pascal had not returned for Christmas. Indeed, his ex-wife knew him well.

“I’ll get the bill.” Helen had turned to wave at the waiter. “No. My treat. I insist. I’ll hope to see you again soon. Perhaps in Paris, for Marianne’s birthday? I’d like you to meet Ralph. I always think that these things are much simpler if they’re handled openly. There’s no reason why we can’t all be friends now.” She hesitated, and then to Gini’s great surprise reached across the table and pressed her hand.

“I like you, Gini. I didn’t expect to, but I do. I hope you know—Pascal deserves some happiness in his life. God knows he never found it with me. When I last saw him—he did seem so altered, so much better in every way. No bitterness, no anger—I could see how good you’ve been for him, and I was glad. It’s just—”

“What?”

“My dear, you don’t look terribly well, you know.”

“I’m fine. I picked up some bug in Sarajevo. I’m fine now.”

“Good.” Helen smiled. “Well, tell Pascal to take care of you. Don’t let him get too obsessive—after all, you are supposed to be living together now! Crack the whip a little, Gini, the next time he calls. It may not have worked in my case, but I’m sure it would in yours.” She rose. “I must go. I’m catching the four o’clock Paris flight. Ralph is meeting me, so I mustn’t miss it.” She gave Gini a tiny conspiratorial glance. “I have a plane to catch now.”

Gini returned to her apartment. She could not like Helen, and she was unsure if she could trust her, but she had heard very genuine feeling break through her pointed words. For an hour, two hours, Gini paced up and down. The telephone did not ring. Eventually, giving in to temptation, she went into the bathroom and used the pregnancy testing kit she had purchased earlier that day. It was simple enough: if you were pregnant, the strip turned pink; if you were not pregnant, it turned blue.

It took fifteen minutes to react. She sat there, watching it. She wondered what Pascal would say if he knew the truth, if she told him that she wanted it to turn pink, wanted it with her whole soul. What would he say if she confessed that the desire to have his child had taken hold of her the day of that hospital shelling, and that the desire, still acute, was with her still?

She covered her face with her hands. She had no need to imagine a reaction to an emotion she did not intend to admit: she knew what the reaction would be. She had seen it in that brown and orange hotel room, when she had explained that she had just missed her period; concern, then anxiety, then something very close to despair.

“You are still taking the pill? I don’t understand.”

“Yes. I am. I think it’s just overwork. Tiredness.”

“Gini, are you sure? You couldn’t have missed a day or two by accident?”

“No. I checked. Don’t worry, it’s just the stress—it’s happened to me before.”

He tried to embrace her then; he began insisting she see a doctor for a checkup. When she had done so, and it was confirmed that she was not pregnant, Gini found herself unable to meet his eyes. She was afraid to see the relief in them. She stared at the ground.

“Suppose I had been,” she said in a low voice. “What then, Pascal?”

“Darling, I don’t know…” He put his arms around her. “We’re only halfway through our time here. This was something you so much wanted to do—this work. Your career matters very much to you. You said you didn’t want children. A mistake like that, coming at a time when we’re both working all hours, always on the move, in danger to some extent—”

“A mistake?”

“Well, it would have been a mistake in one sense, darling, you know that. This is something we’ve never considered—the last thing we’d planned, coming now, in the midst of all this mayhem.”

Gini turned away wordlessly. She could hear the anxiety in his voice; she thought she could detect an undertone of impatience, imperfectly concealed.

He was right, she told herself; his reaction was sensible, pragmatic, responsible. She thought: he does not want another child; he does not want a child with me.

The pain was very great. Despite the pain, and the rationality of his arguments, the desire remained. She still wanted his baby, and she continued to clutch at the hope that she might be pregnant long after leaving Bosnia. She knew, of course, when that desire began. She could date it to the day, the hour. After Mostar. She had watched too many children die; now her body dictated—she wanted to feel a child grow within her; she wanted Pascal to watch this child be born.

The fifteen minutes had eventually passed. In that bathroom she had looked at a test-tube device, at a sample strip that reminded her of school chemistry lessons, years before. Its verdict filled her with desolation: as both feared and expected, the strip was turning blue.

Charlotte was the first of the family to surface. She came down to the kitchen yawning, wrapped in a deep blue woolen dressing gown, complaining she had been awakened by sirens.

Gini averted her face from the swell of her stomach; Charlotte, fussing over the dogs, did not notice her reddened eyes.

“I don’t understand.” She waved a scrap of paper. “Max left me a note—he didn’t want to wake me, and I was dead to the world. But there’s been some kind of accident. He and Rowland had the police out last night, after we went to bed. But why aren’t they back? Where can they be? Why haven’t they called?”

“I’ll make some tea.” Gini rose. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. There’s probably some simple explanation. It can’t be too serious. Max would have awakened you if it were.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’s protective. Of me—and this daughter of ours here.” She patted her stomach. “She’s kicking away now. Here…” She held out her hand. “Feel, Gini. Isn’t it extraordinary? So small, and all that power?”

Gini allowed her hand to be taken. She rested her palm on the curve of Charlotte’s belly. Its hardness astonished her. At first she felt nothing, then she sensed a tremor, then movement. There was a bumping beneath her hand, as if tiny hands or feet resented this confinement and pushed against the womb’s walls. Then there was stillness, then movement again, rippling out beneath her fingertips in one long, fluent curve.