Lovers and Liars Trilogy (32 page)

“You’re very good to me, John.” She reached for his hand. If he saw the tears, he had the wit and the discretion not to comment upon them. He pressed her hand in return.

“We’ll see you later tonight. I have to run now.” He glanced into the house beyond her, made sure the new security man was not in earshot, and then held out to her a large manila envelope.

“Those details I promised you, on Lamartine. I put two people on it. They came up with a good deal.”

“Heavens above, John…” Mary felt the weight of the envelope. “Whatever’s in here? It weighs a ton.”

“All the press clippings. Details on his past work and his current exploits. Some things from a few less obvious sources as well.”

He turned and began to descend the steps. Two security shadows instantly materialized, one at either end of his car.

“Dinner smells delicious.” He smiled back at her. “I can smell wine, cinnamon—very good indeed. Lise sends her love. Enjoy your read.”

Later that afternoon Mary opened that manila envelope. When she saw its contents, she gave a gasp. It was not the information per se that astonished her, but the extent of it. Of course she knew, vaguely, that with modern technology, such checks were easily made. She knew that for a man in John Hawthorne’s position to run such checks was easier still. But the speed with which he had done this, and the breadth of information obtained still astonished her—and shocked her.

Here before her were the details of Pascal Lamartine’s birth and parentage, his schooling, his career, his marriage, his divorce, his bank accounts, his earnings, his debts, his tax returns. She could follow his mortgage payments, and where he used his credit cards. She could learn what items he purchased from which shops, which countries he visited, when he flew, by which airline, on which flight, and what hotels he used. She knew the address of his Paris studio, and the name of his concierge. She knew whom he called long distance from that studio, for it lay before her, a long list of numbers, a computer printout of his calls.

Mary stared down at these papers. She then returned them—for the most part unread—to the envelope. She was aware that she was trembling. She felt deeply ashamed.

She burned the envelope and its contents there and then. It made her feel unclean, shabby, like a voyeur or a spy.

T
HE RESTAURANT JOHNNY APPLEYARD
had selected for their meeting was called Stiltskins. It was the last restaurant in London that Gini would ever have chosen, a place much patronized by tourists, out-of-town businessmen, and the kind of women that Mary still quaintly referred to as
filles de joie.

It was located on the edge of Mayfair, in Shepherd Market. They drove there in Gini’s battered Volkswagen, parked a few blocks away, and began to walk through the rain. This had always been a red light district, and call girls still operated in the area, though they did so discreetly, by appointment and from upstairs rooms. They passed several male clients, who averted their faces.

The noise emanating from Stiltskins could be heard two streets away. When they reached the restaurant, a party of Japanese businessmen, Western girlfriends in tow, was spilling out onto the sidewalk. The interior was dark and cavernous, a sequence of hot red smoky rooms. A Tom Jones medley was playing full-blast; there were bad jokes in frames on the walls.

A reservation, it seemed, had been made by Appleyard, and the headwaiter became deferential at the mere mention of his name. He ushered them through to a rear room, and a table set for four. There was no sign of Appleyard. They sat down. Pascal ordered some wine. Gini sighed.

“I’m afraid we’re in for a wait,” she said. “Appleyard’s notoriously unpunctual.”

“Oh, great.” Pascal looked around him gloomily. “Well, I hope he turns up soon. I can’t stand this place too long.”

“He won’t. He’ll keep us waiting—twenty minutes at least. He thinks being late indicates status.”

Pascal groaned. Raucous laughter came from the table behind them, where a noisy party was ordering magnums of champagne. Pascal twisted around to survey a new group of people, just entering.

“He’s not one of those? What does he look like?”

“No, afraid not. And very recognizable—you won’t be able to miss him. Last time I ran into him he was having lunch with Jenkins. He was wearing a white suit, a mauve shirt, and a pink tie. He’s not always that flamboyant, but he’s a snappy dresser. Medium height, slight build, fair hair. Heavy on the peppermint breath spray. Been known to wear a carnation. Thinks he’s Oscar Wilde.”

“And he isn’t?” Pascal was smiling.

“His scripts let him down. Also,” Gini hesitated, “he’s not a nice person. Malicious. Always screwing around.”

“Poor Stevey in New York, you mean?”

“Yes. He sounded very unhappy, poor Stevey.” Gini looked away as she spoke. Pascal saw her eyes scanning the other tables. He frowned.

He and Gini had worked from his hotel room that day because he distrusted her phone. He had concentrated on James McMullen, Gini on Lorna Munro and the question of her clothes. At the end of the afternoon they had returned to Gini’s apartment so that Gini could change. In honor of Mary’s party later that evening, she was wearing a new dress. It had been a Christmas present from Mary, and it was the first time she had worn it, she said. It made her a little nervous, she explained, because she so rarely wore dresses of this kind, but she would wear it for Mary, who would be pleased. Pascal had said nothing. He might have liked it, he thought, had Gini said she was wearing the dress to please him, but he pushed this idea aside quickly. It struck him as petty.

It was a very beautiful dress, a narrow column of black silk crepe which left her throat and shoulders bare. It fastened on the shoulders with two slender straps as narrow as knife blades. Against the folds of the silk crepe her skin looked pale. There were two bluish shadows just above her collarbone. She looked delicate, Pascal thought, fragile, very young, and very pure.

He rested his eyes on the oval of her face. She had drawn back her pale gold hair. She was wearing only one small gold earring, his earring. Gold and ivory and a dress like shadows. He had a sudden image of that pale hair, loosened, spread out beneath him across the floor. The image burned in the recesses of his mind, and he looked quickly away. He had said nothing to Gini, but it troubled him deeply that the story they were working on centered on appointments with blond-haired women, presumably on an obsession with such women. He thought of the shoe she had been sent, and the black silk stockings, and the handcuffs and for an instant he wished, devoutly wished, that Gini had dark hair.

He pushed that thought away and glanced around the room. Time was passing and there was still no sign of Appleyard. Gini had taken her notebook from her bag, and was turning its pages, head bent, unconscious of his gaze. He looked at the smooth coil of her hair. It was twisted, then fastened in some invisible and ingenious way. Pascal would have liked to reach across the table, remove that fastening, and watch that hair uncoil. It struck him suddenly that here was the scene he had envisaged four days before. They were in a restaurant, and even if it was one he would never have chosen, it had candles, it had wine. He, also in honor of Mary’s party, was wearing that jacket he had bought at the hotel, that white shirt, that damn tie. Here, more or less precisely, was the scene he had imagined, and what was Gini doing? She was reading a notebook. She was working. Did she ever
stop
working? Pascal gave a sigh. Gini looked up, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Pascal. He’ll turn up soon. Any minute now. I just thought—while we’re waiting…” She tapped the notebook. “Would you mind if I went over some of these details? I think I’m reading them correctly, but I might have missed something.”

Pascal lit a cigarette. He said, “Now? Why not? Sure.” His reply was terse. Gini looked at him uncertainly.

“Would you rather talk about McMullen?” she asked.

“No, no. We can go over that tomorrow on the plane to Venice. We’re seeing the Hawthornes soon. Let’s concentrate on them—or on Lise anyway.” He refilled her wineglass.

“I’ll come to Lise in a minute. I found out something very interesting there….” Gini flicked back through the pages of the notebook. “First, this Lorna Munro—”

“She still hasn’t called back?”

“No. She hasn’t. And she’s moved on, from Milan to Rome. She’s doing a tryout for Italian
Vogue,
apparently. I have her new hotel number. I’ve left more messages there.” She paused, frowning. “The more I think about this, Pascal, the more certain I feel Lorna Munro isn’t closely involved. I think she was just hired by someone. Come to London, wear these clothes, deliver these parcels—like a modeling job, an unusual modeling job.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Presumably we’ll find out when we finally speak to her. Go on….”

“Well, having drawn a blank there, I moved back to the clothes.” Gini sighed. “Someone once said to me that the secret of journalism was detail—check and then cross-check again.” She paused. “So, I tried. I went back to all the people Lindsay spoke to yesterday. I tried a more indirect approach—not that it got me that far. You want a summary?”

“Sure. Why not?” Pascal glanced over his shoulder. Still no sign of that damn Appleyard. He was over half an hour late now.

“I tried every major furrier in London. There are so few now, I’m glad to say. I despise furs. No luck. Not one would discuss client purchases, not with Lindsay yesterday, not with me today. The same with Bulgari. But they implied that the pearl necklace featured in
Vogue
had been sold.”

Pascal shrugged. “Was Lorna Munro even wearing that particular necklace? One string of pearls looks much like another, doesn’t it? Real, fake, cultured—they all look the same.”

Gini smiled. “To a man, perhaps. Those Bulgari pearls were real, perfectly matched, and they had a very distinctive clasp. Gold, with a cabochon ruby, designed to be worn at the front of the throat. Susannah at ICD was adamant that it was the necklace Lorna Munro was wearing.” She turned a page of the notebook. “I gave up on Bulgari. Then I tried Cartier—you remember, Susannah said the woman was wearing one of their tank watches, with a green crocodile strap? Hopeless! I tried, but the Bond Street shop alone sold fifteen like that in the week before Christmas. That’s just one outlet. Hundreds of other jewelers up and down the country sell Cartier tank watches. So, nothing there either.”

She looked up from her notebook. An expression came onto her face that Pascal was beginning to recognize. Its eagerness touched him, and he smiled.

“I can guess,” he said. “You drew a blank, but then you made a breakthrough?”

“Not a breakthrough exactly. But I did find out several interesting things. First of all—that Chanel suit. Something about that story puzzled me. I wasn’t surprised that Lise was in the habit of having clothes sent on approval—lots of famous women, rich women, prefer not to try on clothes in public. But
French
clothes, Pascal? Lise is the American ambassador’s wife. I checked back through the magazine profiles, and I was right. Lise is careful. On public occasions she flies the flag—American clothes, American designers: Oscar de la Renta, Calvin Klein, Donna Karan…”

Pascal was beginning to look bored. He lit a cigarette. “Clothes?” he said. “Is this important?”

“Yes, Pascal, it is. Try and understand.” Gini gave him a patient look. “Clothes may not interest you, but they’re important to Lise. They’re a fundamental part of her image, her identity even—”

“More fool her.”

“
Listen,
Pascal. Why is Lise Hawthorne so famous? Three reasons. One, she’s beautiful. Two, she astonishingly chic. Three, she’s auditioning to be a saint.”

“You’ve left one out.
Four.
She’s John Hawthorne’s wife.” Pascal gave her a sharp look. “If it wasn’t for her husband, she wouldn’t be famous at all.”

Gini hesitated, then shrugged. “Yes. You’re right. She’d certainly be a very great deal less famous. I wonder if she minds that? I would.”

“You would?” Pascal was watching her closely.

“Of course,” Gini replied. “What woman wants her identity to depend on her husband? What woman wants to be seen as…as a kind of appendage to her husband? An accessory, like his car?”

“Plenty of women,” he said somewhat sharply. “I’m not agreeing with that attitude, Gini, or disagreeing with it. But it exists, it’s commonplace.”

“I know. I know.” Gini looked away. There was a moment of tension she could sense in the air. More raucous laughter came from the table behind them. Pascal glanced down at his watch, then swore.

“Damn Appleyard. This is getting ridiculous. We’ve been here an hour. What do you think, shall we order? We may as well eat here.”

Gini agreed. They consulted the menu, which was discouraging.

“Steaks?” Pascal caught her eye, and smiled. “Presumably they can’t go too wrong with steaks and salads. Even here.”

“Fine.”

Pascal called the waiter over and ordered. When he turned back to Gini, his manner was slightly awkward, slightly sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, and rested his hand briefly over hers. “I’m not being very receptive. It’s not your fault. I’m thinking about meeting the Hawthornes. This place is getting on my nerves.” He hesitated. “Take no notice. I’m tired too, I think. I didn’t sleep too well.”

“I did warn you about that sofa,” Gini began, then stopped. She looked more closely at the expression in his eyes. “It wasn’t just that?” she asked more quietly. “It was more than that? Pascal, I wish you’d tell me. I wish you’d
talk
to me.”

He looked away. She saw reticence mask his features. He gave a dismissive gesture of the hand. “Yes, well. It’s not your concern. There are certain problems at the moment—residues of my divorce. I had to talk to my lawyers here yesterday. Anyway, I often sleep badly….” He shrugged. “I dream of war.”

There was a brief silence. Gini wondered if he ever let anyone past these defenses of his. She hoped, for his sake, that he did. She leaned forward.

“Why are you using lawyers in England?” she asked gently.