Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  “This story is breaking,” he said, “and that call might be urgent. Do you want to answer it?”

  Gini looked up at this semi-stranger. Want for him surged up through her body with an astonishing force.

  “No, I don’t,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” he replied, and with that acknowledgment past, he did not hesitate. With the noise of the ringing telephone blindingly loud, and his composure suddenly gone, he pulled her against him. He kissed her hair, then her eyes, then her mouth. It was urgent, and very swift: Gini opened her mouth to his; she cried out as his hands touched her breasts. At some point the telephone stopped ringing; at some point Rowland locked the door, but afterward neither of them could have said when, or at which point.

  A while later Gini rose from the bed and went into the bathroom. She felt blind; blinded by its darkness, still blind when she switched on the light. It had the predictable luxury of such hotels. It was lined with marble. Rowland’s belongings—a brush, a comb, a shaving kit—had been thrown down carelessly on a shelf. Above the basin was one mirror, behind her on the opposite wall was another. Gini looked at a room that would not stay still, in which reflections doubled back and the veins of the marble seemed to pulse. She made herself focus; she looked into the mirror; she looked at herself.

  Sex was like pain, she thought. If you were without it for a time, you forgot how all-powerful it was. It was sex she could see in this mirror now: its imprint could be seen on her mouth, which was swollen; on her skin, which was flushed; and on her body, where his hands had touched and gripped. She ached with the pleasure of being fucked; her thighs were wet; she smelled of sex, leaked sex, and she could still feel the little aftershocks of sex, the residual tremors of sexual delight that came to her as she remembered how he had done first this, and then that.

  This, then, was what she was. These specifics measured out her betrayal. For all her certainties, all her past vows, she had still arrived here, in a situation she had never envisaged, and would have claimed was beyond the bounds of possibility. She had made the choice, and to compound her own faithlessness, the sexual pleasure had been intense.

  Why had she had that fixed, stupid, adolescent certainty that only Pascal could give her this? Why had she convinced herself that love altered the very nature of this act and gave it a resonance and intensity it otherwise lacked? What a very female mistake, she thought: what a woman’s error; how many men would claim that? That belief was unfounded; she could read its untruth in her reflected face, and feel its untruth in her womb. In betraying her lover, she had learned a most bitter and unwelcome truth about herself.

  She ran some water in the basin and washed herself. She returned to the bedroom. Faint light came through the closed curtains. Rowland McGuire was lying on his back, his head cradled in his hands. He turned as she entered; Gini crossed, and knelt down beside him. Naked, he was very beautiful. The hard lines of his body still gleamed with sweat. She rested her face against his shoulder and pressed her mouth against his skin, which tasted of salt. He placed his arm around her quietly and drew her closer, his hand resting against the jut of her hip.

  The intimacy and peace were also unexpected. Neither spoke for a while. Gini felt the remembrance of his kisses and embraces wash through her body. She was the first to speak.

  “Once, Rowland,” she said. “It has to be that way. It was just this one time. Nothing happened before it, and nothing must happen after it. It was accident, chance.”

  “A mistake?”

  “No.” She met his eyes steadily. “No, I would never say that. But it’s something neither of us meant to happen, or even wanted to happen. And then it did happen. If we never think of it again, never speak of it…”

  “Treat it as a momentary aberration?” He was watching her intently.

  “No. I’m not sure…” Gini flinched. “Maybe. How would you define that word—exactly define it?”

  “I can give you a dictionary definition. It’s a straying from the path, a deviation from type.”

  “That, then,” she said, grasping at the word. “A straying. Something neither of us would have thought of, or allowed, or planned in normal circumstances.”

  “Were these circumstances so abnormal?” He removed his hand and sat up.

  “Yes. I think they were.”

  “A room. A man and a woman? An unexpected choice? Is that so abnormal?”

  “It felt that way.” She turned away from his gaze. “I love Pascal. Rowland, none of this alters that.”

  He gave her a sharp, questioning look but said nothing. He rose, reached for his clothes, and began to dress.

  Gini sat up, watching him, pleating the sheets in her hand. She wondered if he thought her naïve, or disingenuous; he judged her as a self-deceiver, perhaps. And at that, a memory came back to her, an incident from her past she disliked to recall.

  “I was warned of this once,” she began in an agitated way. Rowland turned to look at her, in the act of fastening his belt.

  “A man warned me. His name doesn’t matter, and he’s dead now, in any case. He told me—these things happen, and they get under every guard. Duty, ethics, vows—even love. He said nothing was an adequate defense against—”

  “Against what?”

  “All of this.” Gini gestured sadly to the bed. “Sexual desire. Sexual attraction. Suddenly wanting someone so badly, you can’t think. He warned me how powerful that could be. I was angry. I told him he was wrong.” She rose. “That was a year ago. He was killed a few days afterward. I now see he was right.”

  “Was this man your lover?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I was working on a story about him, that’s all. I was with Pascal. I don’t sleep around, Rowland, all right?”

  “I didn’t think that. I wasn’t suggesting that…” He hesitated, then buckled the belt, reached for his tie and jacket.

  “We’ll do as you suggest,” he went on, his manner becoming brusque. “This never happened. It was a dream. A hallucination. A departure from the prescribed plot.”

  “I’ll describe it to Pascal that way, shall I?” Gini said, averting her face.

  “Do you tell Pascal all your dreams, all your imaginings?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then I wouldn’t mention this one.”

  “Lie, you mean?”

  “Lie by omission. Yes.”

  Gini hesitated, looking at him. He had turned away from her so she could not see his face.

  “Do you lie, Rowland? Do you lie well?”

  “Very well. When necessary. Yes.”

  “Would you lie to me?”

  “Of course. Without hesitation. And you’d never suspect.” He turned back to look at her, and then, to her surprise, he crossed back to her, took the blouse she was still holding out of her hand, and drew her into his arms.

  “I’ll say this just once,” he began quietly, resting his hand against her hair and drawing her face against his chest. “I give you my word—I’ll never tell anyone what happened tonight. I’ll never discuss it, under any circumstances—not with any other woman, not with a man. And if this is something you want erased from the record—it’s erased. It’s without consequences. From now on I’ll treat you exactly as I did before this happened, and you will treat me the same way. And no one will ever suspect.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I’m good at disguising my feelings. I learned as a child. I’ve had plenty of practice since.”

  “Feelings aren’t involved.” Gini broke away from him. “This has nothing to do with emotion. It’s sex—”

  “Even simpler, then. I’ve always found sex very easy to forget.”

  He moved away from her and began to pick up objects that had been scattered about the room earlier: a wallet, keys. His composure hurt Gini, as did the tone of his replies, and she despised herself for this. It was a very female perversity, she thought, to start objecting when a man granted her her wish, and she had no intenti
on of giving in to that impulse. Without further comment she began slowly to dress.

  Rowland had moved across to one of the fax machines and was reading various messages. Gini was unsure when those messages had come through: before, during, after? She could not have said.

  “The Cazarès offices have closed down for the night. Apparently.”

  He looked up from the page. “I doubt that. They may not be taking calls, but they’ll be working. Preparing the authorized version of Maria Cazarès’s death. Lazare is holding a press conference at eleven o’clock.”

  Gini hesitated, then tried to match her tone to his. “Nothing more on the circumstances of her death?”

  “No. Heart failure—cardiac arrest was the first rumor. There’s been no advance on that. And there’s still evasiveness as to exactly when she died, and where. Not at one of her own properties—that was the initial rumor. I have some inquiries out about that. She was taken by ambulance to a private Catholic hospital, the St. Étienne. She’s been treated there before, apparently. It would be useful to know from where, and when, the ambulance picked her up.”

  “If our suppositions were correct, she’d been taking White Doves for—what? Two days? Three?”

  “Probably three. But they’re still suppositions. And likely to remain that way, I suspect, as far as the doctors and clinic are concerned anyway.”

  “Won’t there be a post mortem?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine it depends on Lazare, and the degree of his influence. The security shutters came down very quickly on this.”

  “And the collections? She was due to appear Wednesday. Her show is on Wednesday. Will they cancel that?”

  “Presumably. Either way, they’ll announce it tomorrow, at the press conference… We can see if Lindsay knows anything later. I’ve left word. She must still be out with Markov. They were supposed to be at the Grand Vefour, but they must have changed the reservation. It’s conceivable Lindsay hasn’t even heard yet. Anyway”—he turned back as Gini picked up her coat—“shall we try your Chantal? It’s possible Star could be there, I suppose. Mina too. The rue St. Séverin, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s close to the St. Séverin church. In the Latin Quarter. About fifteen minutes from here.” Gini glanced at her watch. “It’s eleven-fifteen now, Rowland.”

  “I know. Late to be making a call.” He shrugged. “It gives us the advantage of surprise anyway.”

  “It’ll probably be another false lead. This man Star seems to have a gift for disappearing.”

  Gini stopped. She had reached Rowland’s side; they were both now standing in the doorway; she watched him undo the bolt, and she had a sudden hopeless sense that she could not keep up this pretense.

  She wondered if Rowland also felt this; he gave no sign of it. He was about to open the door, but turned to look at her. She could see strain in his face then; she saw his eyes rest on her mouth. He hesitated. “I want to kiss you again,” he said. “I suppose you realize that?”

  “Rowland—don’t. We have to stop this. We have to stop it now. You said—”

  “I know what I said.” He hesitated again, then slowly lifted his hand, rested it against the nape of her neck. “Just tell me one thing—before we go.” He frowned. “Your hair—you cut it yourself? When? Why did you do that?”

  “It was when I came back from Sarajevo. I don’t know why exactly.” Gini paused; he did not prompt her, but waited for an answer just as he had that afternoon in the drive outside Max’s house. “I was unhappy. I wanted to change myself. So I took the easy way out, the woman’s way out. I changed my appearance instead. I just hacked it off with some nail scissors. My hair was long before. Why?” She raised her eyes to his. “Does it look horrible?”

  “No. It does not. It makes you look—I like it. I noticed it when we were in England, driving back from meeting Mitchell, and… it’s not important. We should go.”

  It was important, of course. Gini knew that, and she knew Rowland knew too.

  “I like you, Rowland,” she said as he was about to open the door. “I want you to know that.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re astute. Very quick. I like you for the things you don’t say.”

  “And your silence was the first thing I liked about you…” There was a pause, then he took her arm, and his tone altered. “We should hurry. The rue St. Séverin. We should have been there two hours ago. What happened to those two hours?”

  “There was a hitch in the story. A kink in the plot line. We neglected our work,” she replied as they stepped into the elevator. “Press ground, Rowland.”

  The lobby was full of journalists. Seeing some Englishmen he knew, Rowland disappeared into their group. He listened attentively, then spoke, his voice quiet, his manner confidential.

  “What were you doing back there?” Gini asked as he joined her in the cab outside.

  “Obtaining information. Spreading misinformation. Reverting to type.” He smiled. “What’s the first rule of journalism, Gini?”

  “Oh, I know that. My father told me often enough. It’s the one you forgot earlier. Check—then double-check.”

  “That’s the second rule.” Rowland gave her a sharp glance. “We both forgot the first rule.”

  “Which is?”

  “Always be ahead of the pack.”

  The rue St. Séverin was tiny and very narrow. It was dominated by its church. The church’s gargoyles reared up across the sidewalk, almost touching the buildings opposite. Facing the church was a stretch of Algerian and Moroccan restaurants, advertising couscous and kebabs. As the clock in the tower above them struck, Star drew Mina into the dark doorway of the church.

  “It’s eleven-thirty,” he said. “Wait here, and don’t move. I’ll be ten minutes, fifteen at most.”

  “Can’t I come in with you, Star?”

  “No. You can’t. Keep your scarf on. Stand out of the light.” He grasped her hands and fixed her with his beautiful eyes. “I need you, Mina. You promise me you’ll wait?”

  He crossed the narrow street and disappeared into a doorway between the restaurants opposite. Mina stared at the building he had entered. It looked as if there might be small apartments above the restaurants; the windows were less than fifteen feet from where she stood. They were lit but not curtained; she could see the flickers of a television set, the shadow of a moving figure, nothing else.

  Cautiously, she looked along the street. The restaurants would have phone booths, she thought. If she were quick, if Star was really away fifteen minutes, she could try to call England. She had no money, but she could call collect, though she wasn’t sure how to do that from France. She took a step forward, then her nerve failed her. No. Star was sure to come back, sure to catch her; better wait.

  She looked at her watch. He had been gone only a couple of minutes. He had been promising her, all day yesterday, all day today, that he would let her make the call, and then, when it came to the point, something else would intervene. He would say no, he had to wait for a friend, or they had to go out and meet someone, but he would never explain whom they were seeing or why. Whom was he seeing now, for instance? Whom had he been seeing this afternoon? Some horrible, shuffling, muttering old woman dressed in black who lived in this huge, horrible, musty apartment, full of knickknacks and crucifixes, and horrible gaudy pictures of Christ.

  Mina had had to sit in a corner while Star and this old woman muttered to each other in French, and while the old woman kept stroking Star’s hand and fawning over him as if he were some kind of god. The old woman kept talking about Maria: it was the only word Mina understood—Maria this, Maria that. Star had given Mina some grass to smoke before they left for the old woman’s apartment, and it had been powerful, but it hadn’t given her a lift. It had made her feel sick, and trapped, going round and round like some squirrel in a cage, so her thoughts wouldn’t fix. When they got to the old woman’s apartment, it was airless and hot, and Star had sat her down right next to a radiator, wh
ich made her feel worse.

  In the end, right in the middle of one of the old woman’s endless weird crooning speeches, Mina had known she was about to pass out, or be sick. Star showed her through to a bathroom in an irritable way, and she could sense that whatever the old woman was telling him was making him angry.

  “Stupid fucking old bitch,” he said when they were back in the air, back in the street. “She doesn’t know if it’s tomorrow or last week. She’s fucking up my timing. Now I’ll have to drag all the way over here tomorrow.”

  “Why, Star?” she asked before she could stop herself, but for once he answered.

  “Because I was supposed to meet someone there,” he said. “A friend. She should have been there, and she wasn’t, because that fucking old bitch can’t tell Monday from Tuesday. Never mind. I have time.” He stopped. “You see that pharmacy there? Go in and get the hair dye. Here…” He pressed some money into her palm. “Hurry up. I can’t do it. A man buying hair dye, they’d remember that. You do it. Hurry up.”

  Mina took the money. She wondered if there might be a telephone in there, but of course there was not. She found the package of dye and paid for it. She wondered if the friend Star was supposed to have been meeting was that woman she’d seen at the airport, the one he’d said was Maria Cazarès. When she’d been coming back from the bathroom in the old woman’s apartment, she’d seen into a bedroom, a bedroom like a shrine, with a big bed with a pink silk eiderdown and photographs of Maria Cazarès everywhere, hundreds of them, on tables, on chests, on the walls. Except no, she thought now: Maria Cazarès wasn’t Star’s friend, she was his enemy, he had said.

  She was getting cold now. Star had been gone more than five minutes. She edged out of the doorway and crossed the narrow street, ready to dart back if need be. Smells of food grilling assaulted her, and she pressed closer to a restaurant window, realizing how hungry she was. Star never seemed to want to eat. It was hours since they had eaten. In a mirror to the side of the restaurant doors, she suddenly saw a girl, very close; the girl startled her and then she realized the girl was herself. She stared at her reflection. With a glance over her shoulder she eased back her blue scarf and then grimaced. Tears came to her eyes: Star had cut her hair himself. Then she had applied the dye. He’d let her look at herself in a hand mirror, just very quickly, when it was dry, and he had seemed so pleased, he’d kept saying how pretty she looked.