Lovers and Liars Trilogy (71 page)

“That’s enough, Sam.” Hawthorne cut him off with ill-disguised anger. “I want to get through this without threats of that kind. If I have to bring an action, I’ll do so. Gini will know that. She’s not a fool. I don’t want her to make this decision on the basis of threats. I want her to understand the human implications here. She isn’t in the business of wrecking lives. Unfortunately, she’s working with Lamartine, and he is. As we know.” He checked his watch. “It’s past eight now. Sam, you and Mary have to go. This has been very unfair to Gini. She’s hardly had a chance to speak all evening. Why don’t you two go on, we shouldn’t hold you up.” He turned back to Gini. “It’s late,” he said. “My car’s outside. Won’t you let me give you a ride home?”

It was easy enough to refuse this offer the first time it was made. It was more difficult half an hour later, when there was still no sign of Pascal. Hawthorne made no attempt to leave, despite her refusal. Mary was trying to calm an increasingly irascible Sam.

“Fine,” her father said as eight-thirty came. “Fine. The hell with this. I’ll wait too.” He began to struggle out of the overcoat he had just put on. “I mean, what the hell? So I miss this dinner with my publisher, why should I care? It’s just a minor inconvenience. We can all sit here for the next hour, why not? Let’s all dance attendance on that French bastard. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I’ll certainly goddamn well wait. Fuck my publishing deal. I wouldn’t mind a few words with Lamartine. Why should he get off scot-free? I notice he didn’t have the nerve to come in and face the music—oh, no. He waltzed off into the night, and no doubt he’ll waltz back if and when it suits him. Fine. Great. He and I have a whole lot of unfinished business. You wait, Gini—I wait. And while I wait, I’ll have another bourbon as well.”

Mary was in the hall getting her coat. Sam, taking advantage of this, moved fast to the drinks table and slopped the bourbon into a glass. Gini watched him helplessly. Behind her, by the fireplace, Hawthorne watched silently; he did not say a word.

“Look, Daddy.” Gini moved forward. “I don’t want to make you late. You shouldn’t miss this dinner. I asked Pascal not to come tonight—he wanted to be here. This is stupid. It was a very loose arrangement. Pascal’s probably been held up.” She glanced down at her watch as she said this. Pascal had said he would return at eight. It was now eight thirty-five.

“A loose arrangement?” Her father took a hefty swallow of bourbon. “That sounds pretty typical. Loose arrangements are rather his line. He taught you about loose arrangements before, if I remember rightly.”

“Come on, Sam. Cut it out,” Hawthorne said in a cold voice. “You’ve had more than enough to drink. You should go.”

“No. Stay out of this, John. You don’t understand. Gini knows what I’m getting at.” He downed the rest of the bourbon and reached for the bottle again.

“Look, Daddy, please…” Gini tried to move the bottle out of his reach. “Don’t do this. Don’t drink any more. Listen—I’ll make my own way home. I’m going now.”

“You goddamn stupid fucking bitch.” He gave her a sudden hard push, picked up the bottle, and refilled his glass. “Don’t you start telling me what to do and what not to do. Just sort your own life out, and don’t come crying to me when you make a bloody mess of it, second time around.”

There was a silence. Gini stared at him. “Come crying to you?” she began in a low, unsteady voice. “I’ve never come crying to you in my life. Why would I? You wouldn’t listen if I did. I learned that lesson when I was three years old.”

“Oh, did you? Did you just? How about when you were fifteen years old? How about when you showed up in Beirut one morning, with all those goddamn pathetic boasts. Daddy, I want to be a journalist. I want to be a journalist, Daddy, just like you….”

He did a vicious impersonation of a whining child. Gini took a step back. Mary, reentering the room, began to speak, but Sam continued, drowning her out. He fixed his eyes on Gini, took one unsteady step forward, then stopped.

“You, Gini, are just so goddamn
dumb.
You come out to a fucking war zone, this stupid, arrogant kid who thinks she knows it all. You get in my way. You embarrass me in front of my friends with your goddamn inane fucking questions all the time. …”

“Sam.” Mary raised her voice. “Stop this and stop this now—”

“And then what do you do?” He lurched forward another step. “What’s your idea of being some hotshot woman journalist? You get into bed with the first asshole who makes a pass at you, and you spend the next fucking three weeks getting screwed. By the same fucking goddamned bastard who’s screwing you now—and don’t deny it, because it’s written all over your face. I knew it the second you walked in that door. Well, grow up, Gini. Get real. He’s not just screwing you, sweetheart, he’s screwing you up. And you know why? Because he’s scum, and you’re an idiot. You can’t even see when you’re being used—”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Suddenly, Gini felt blind with anger. She grabbed the glass and snatched it out of his hand. “You drink too much. It’s disgusting the way you drink. It makes me sick to watch you. I hate you for the way you drink. I hate you for the way you talk to me. You want the bourbon that badly, you have the bourbon, Daddy. Here.”

She tossed the rest of the bourbon in the glass at his face. As she did so, Sam made a clumsy grab for her wrist. Half the alcohol hit his shirt, the rest spilled on her blouse. Sam lurched against the drinks table. There was a crash, as bottles fell. Her father now looked blind with rage; he peered in her direction as if he could scarcely see her, then lurched forward again. For Gini it was all a blur of movement. Mary was moving, her father was moving, John Hawthorne was moving; her father lifted his hand. The smell of bourbon was choking now.

“You bitch,” he said. “You dumb fucking little
whore
…”

The arm was upraised now. Gini flinched, and then John Hawthorne was between them. She looked at the plain dark material of his suit jacket; she watched as if from a great distance, the swiftness with which he moved.

“Back off, Sam,” he said in a voice icy with anger. He caught hold of her father’s lapels, and almost lifted Sam, for all his bulk, off his feet. He slammed him back hard against a chair, shook him, then pushed him into it.

“Get a hold of yourself. Sober up. That was way out of line and you know it. You get up again, Sam, and I’ll knock you down.”

He stood there, looking down at her father. Sam struggled to get to his feet again, then subsided. Gini stared at them both, Hawthorne, tall, scarcely disheveled by this tussle, his face pale with anger, and her father, slumped in the chair, breathing heavily. As she watched, he let his head fall back. His jaw went slack. He closed his eyes.

There was a silence. Hawthorne turned back to Gini. “I’m sorry. I’ve provoked all this. He’s been working up to it for most of the day. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m used to it. It’s happened before.”

Hawthorne’s mouth tightened. “Well, you don’t look fine. That’s it. No more argument. I’m taking you home right now.” He hesitated. “Mary, what shall we do with Sam? You want me to call a cab? I could send Malone around, he could get him back to his hotel….”

“No, John. Leave him. Really. I’m used to this as well. He’ll sleep for a while now, and when he wakes up I’ll give him some black coffee. Then he’ll apologize. Then he’ll get maudlin. Then he’ll go.”

“You’re sure?”

“John. I’ve coped with this a thousand times. Go. Take Gini home….” She hesitated and Gini could see the shock on her face. She was close to tears. “Gini, I’m so sorry. You mustn’t take any notice of what he says. He doesn’t mean it. It’s just the bourbon talking. He does love you, in his way. He’s just never had the least idea how to express it. Darling, don’t cry. John’s right. Let him take you home.”

In the hall, John Hawthorne helped her into her coat. He drew it around her, then took her arm. He led her down the steps and into the street. Gini looked to right and left. There was still no sign of Pascal.

“Don’t worry about Lamartine.” Hawthorne opened the front passenger door of his car. “If and when he turns up, Mary will tell him where you are.”

He helped her into her seat, then closed the door. As he slid into the driver’s side, he gave her a slight smile.

“I know. No thugs—as Mary likes to call them. Just occasionally I get to drive myself, as you see. With escort…” He gestured to a black car some twenty yards behind, which pulled out behind them. “Even so, it’s a relief. I get behind the wheel of a car, and I feel human again. A private person. An ordinary person. I can’t tell you how good that feels.”

At the end of the street he paused, and glanced at her again. “Where to, Gini?”

“I’m sorry?”

He smiled. “I don’t know where you live.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m not concentrating.” She hesitated. “I live in Islington. Gibson Square. Are you sure about this? I don’t want to take you out of your way. You can drop me at the tube.”

“No.” He gave her a bemused look. “I don’t think so. Not under the circumstances. I told you. I’m taking you home.”

He said nothing more, and Gini, too, remained silent. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. She tried to think of Pascal, and what could have happened to him. Perhaps he was still angry, she thought; perhaps he’d decided not to come for her after all, and had gone back to Hampstead on his own. But she knew that he would never do that, however much he might have resented this meeting with her father. And at that thought, her mind went into another flurry of anxiety and pain.

She heard her father say those things again, and she saw again the expression on his face when he did so. She swallowed; her whole body ached.

John Hawthorne glanced toward her.

“Shall I put some music on?” he asked. “Would that help? I find it does, sometimes. Mozart—I like Mozart. I have
Figaro
here….Do you know that opera?”

“Not well.”

“It’s one of my favorites. Great happiness and great pain fused together…” He hesitated. “An absurd plot, mistaken identities, heartbreak avoided by a kiss in the dark. I find it gives me hope—while the opera lasts.”

He reached forward to the CD player and pressed the controls. Music filled the car. Mozart propelled them north, and melody ate up the distance. As the second act began, Hawthorne turned into Gibson Square and parked the car. He sat for a while in silence, listening to the music, then he switched it off. He reached across and took her hand.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am. The Mozart does help. I’ve calmed down.”

“I’m glad.” He paused. “I wish now that I had never involved Sam. The drinking’s much worse than when I last saw him. If I’d foreseen what would happen…” He shrugged. “I wonder. There is something I need to say to you. I couldn’t discuss it in front of Mary and Sam. Could I come in with you, just for ten minutes? Would you mind?”

He released her hand as he said this and drew back a little. Then, without waiting for her reply, he climbed out, came around, and opened her door for her. As Gini stepped out she saw the car that had followed them all this way. It had drawn in, engine running, a short way up the street. Inside it, two male figures were just discernible. Hawthorne lifted his hand and gestured at them. The engine cut out instantly. In the silence of the square, Gini heard a faint crackle of radio static. Hawthorne led her across to her house, and she saw his eyes flick up over the dark windows. Mrs. Henshaw’s letter box, Gini saw, was jammed open with mail. Two bottles of milk stood on her doorstep, proclaiming her continued absence. Gini led the way down the area steps and fumbled for her key.

“Gini, you mind if I come in?” Hawthorne hung back politely. “It will only be ten minutes. I have to get back to Lise.”

“No, no, that’s fine. I’m grateful for what you did. I’ll make us some coffee.” Gini bent quickly and scooped up the pile of letters on her mat. It was obvious from their number, that she had been away several days. Hawthorne gave no indication of noticing this. He followed her into her living room and looked around him with apparent approval. She saw his gaze take in the comfortable if shabby furnishings, the posters for art exhibitions. He looked around him, frowning.

“It’s a nice place you have here, Gini. When I was your age, I always wanted to live this way. My own space…I guess I managed it at Yale. Never since. My father had pronounced views on how I should live, where I should live…even with whom.” He turned back and smiled at her, almost sadly. “I told you before, we have something in common, you and I. Difficult fathers. Dominating fathers…”

“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 dryly, “then he certainly has a damn good try. Judging by this evening’s performance anyway…” He 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 that 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 I.”

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 farther 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 the 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.