The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  John kissed her hair. ‘What’s your perfume?’

  ‘Vol du Nuit.’

  ‘It suits you,’ John said. ‘Night flight. Is it named after the Antoine de Saint-Exupéry novel?’

  Max smiled. ‘Yes. I picked it out when I was fifteen, based entirely on the bottle. It has an aeroplane propeller cut into the glass. I didn’t get to wear it till I left home for the ATA. My mother thought it was too old for me.’

  ‘Was she annoyed?’

  ‘Everything about me joining the ATA annoyed her.’ But not as much as Max breaking it off with Daniel.

  ‘Maybe she was just worried about your safety.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  John turned off Fulham Road into Pelham Crescent. The hanging light over her front door created a puddle of illumination, but it didn’t extend down the stairs. John drove a bit further down the street before parking. The key clicked in the ignition and the engine stilled. John bent his head and kissed her. Three kisses later they both took deep breaths. ‘Dr Falkland, I had no expectation of this happening tonight, but I’m awfully glad it did.’

  Max slid her fingers into the softness of his hair. ‘Me too.’

  John’s lips twitched. ‘I thought you’d planned it in advance.’

  ‘Only when I went to your WC.’

  John laughed. ‘And I imagined you carefully making a list before I even picked you up.’

  Max trailed tiny kisses over his face. ‘Mr Knox, I like that you’re intelligent, charming, and beautiful.’ She smiled. ‘Plus, you have the most stunning body I’ve ever seen.’ Every journalist she’d ever met before had a pot-belly. His cheeks warmed under her hands. Surely desire rather than a blush? Could John blush? She traced his eyebrow. ‘But you’re also mysterious.’

  ‘And do you like that too?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not that mysterious surely.’ He kissed her. ‘You’ve seen my home; you’ve seen my books.’

  ‘I’ve seen how terrifyingly tidy you are.’ She shifted in his arms. ‘I should go in. Thank you for a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He came around to her side of the car.

  Max knew she should take his arm, but instead she held his hand. Dad wouldn’t be peering out a window.

  John squeezed her fingers. ‘Would your mother be scandalised…’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  John laughed. ‘I meant if I asked you out two nights in a row?’

  ‘I think she’d survive.’ Mother would be bloody delighted. They reached the bottom of steps and she turned to him. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  The lock snicked, and harsh light poured over them from the open door. John’s hand tightened around hers.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Max, Mr Knox,’ a deep voice said.

  Mr Rawls, one of her father’s staff. She exhaled. Had he been watching them? A shudder ran down her back at the thought. Not that they had done anything wrong, but why would he stare out the peephole at them?

  She wished her cheeks didn’t heat. ‘John, Mr Rawls works for my father.’ And he clearly knew who John was already. How?

  ‘Hello.’ John’s smile was slightly pinched, but he hadn’t flushed. ‘Well, good night, Max.’ He squeezed her hand and then let go.

  ‘Good night, John.’ She stepped inside, and Mr Rawls closed the door and locked it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AT THE BREAKFAST table, her father read The Daily Herald, while her mother flicked through Vogue again. Max took The Times to her seat.

  Charlie hobbled in after her. He looked half asleep. ‘Morning, Max.’

  ‘Good morning. Need any help?’ Max asked. Charlie still lurched around alarmingly, to her eyes, on his crutches.

  ‘No.’

  Mother glanced up. ‘Good morning.’ She turned Vogue around towards Max. ‘What do you think?’

  A double page spread faced Max, with two wedding dresses. One with a high collar and long plain sleeves—too simple. The other ornate madness had pleats on the wide skirt, a mini cape and a bonnet.

  ‘That one is boring, and that one looks like the poor girl should have a shepherd’s crook and a sheep prancing at her heels. Is that a basket?’

  ‘Her bouquet, I assume.’ Mother smiled. ‘There’s another.’ She flicked the page back. The satin dress had a lovely Queen Anne neckline, but oddly, a buckled belt above the full skirt.

  ‘Why is the pageboy dressed like he’s in the military?’ Charlie asked, spooning sugar into his tea.

  Max laughed as Mother snapped the magazine shut. ‘Dresses aren’t going to make me get married, Mother. I have loads of dresses.’ She couldn’t imagine walking towards John in a church in any of those dresses. But somehow she could imagine him standing at an altar, smiling towards the back of the church. At her. She swallowed.

  Dad put his newspaper down. ‘You certainly do. I think we got a new bill for some yesterday.’

  ‘All completely necessary,’ Mother said.

  ‘Of course,’ Dad said.

  Given that Mother brought all the money to the family, Dad never questioned her spending.

  ‘I received a call this morning,’ Dad said. ‘I need to go to Berlin tonight, for a week. And in a couple days there’s a ball, so...’

  ‘I can’t possibly go,’ Mother interrupted. ‘I have to look after Charlie. But Max could join you.’

  Max looked up from her cup of tea. ‘Why would I want to go to Berlin? I’m expected on the dig, anyway.’

  ‘But darling, your father needs someone to go with him. And you have such a lovely new gown too.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. That new Fath arrived yesterday.’ She smiled. ‘With the bill.’

  Max shook her head. ‘Mother, someday, someday, do you think you might get tired of trying to coerce me into a bridal gown in front of an altar?’ She didn’t want to think of John again. ‘You don’t even know who will be at this ball. They could all be ancient diplomats or ministers. No offense, Dad.’

  Dad laughed. ‘None taken. I’m sure there will be some young people there. Assistants, security, if nothing else. I thought you had your sights for Max set higher, Nancy.’

  ‘I’ll take anyone at this point.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘I’d be perfectly fine here with the servants, you know. In fact, I’ll have a lot more fun with Max.’

  What exactly did Mother do for Charlie besides harass him about not joining the RAF as soon as he was of age? It wasn’t like she helped him get around.

  ‘You mean Max won’t make you do your coursework,’ Mother said. ‘Max should go.’

  Would Mother change her mind if Max told her she had a date with John? But it’d only make Mother even more convinced they’d get married. His proposal. A flush warmed her face. He couldn’t have meant it. Not this quickly. He couldn’t have meant it. Not this quickly.

  ‘Will you come along, Max?’ Dad asked. ‘It’d be nice to have the company.’

  ‘Okay. What time do we have to leave?’ What would she tell the dig supervisor?

  ‘We’ll take the night train.’

  ‘And when you get back, it’ll be time to go to Norfolk. You can stop going to the dig all together.’

  ‘Mother, I always come up just for your birthday.’

  ‘But you’re normally in some other country. Not in London. Where would you stay once this house is closed up?’ Mother’s smile looked ridiculously self-satisfied.

  ‘With Victor and Emma?’

  ‘Max,’ Dad said. ‘It’s one summer.’

  One summer, and another nail in the coffin of her archaeological reputation.

  ‘You said yourself you aren’t doing a job that’s at your level,’ Charlie said. ‘Please, Max, please, please come with us.’

  Max unclenched her molars to sip tea. And she sipped again. ‘Fine.’

  Max needed to run to town for a few things for the trip, so she wore a sundress when she left the ho
use. All the way to the dig site, she rehearsed quitting, only two weeks after she’d started. She parked and walked in her clippy high heels towards the site. She’d only really need to talk to Audrey, or maybe Frank Beasley, who headed the project. Not anybody else.

  As she approached though, Firmin stepped out from behind a bush. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and he wiped his mouth. Looked like he hadn’t slowed his drinking after they left the party.

  ‘You planning on digging in that?’ he asked.

  ‘Not today. Were you just sick back there?’

  ‘You missed the rest of a great party.’ He smiled. ‘Where’d you run off to?’

  To John’s bed. ‘I had a headache.’

  ‘Couldn’t be as bad as the one I have now.’

  Surely now he’d harass her about John, or proposition her as he usually did. But he walked beside her down to the site.

  ‘Why aren’t you digging today?’ he asked.

  ‘I have to go away. Family stuff.’ Now he’d start talking about being the kid of a peer, or about her father being Home Secretary. All things she’d heard before, but he only nodded. And then laughed.

  His laugh stopped as quickly as it started. He rubbed his forehead. ‘Ow. You don’t have to look so shocked. I can listen if you shout at me loud enough. You made a decent point last night.’

  ‘Okay.’ What did she say to Will when he wasn’t acting like an octopus or haranguing her to sleep with him? ‘Hope you feel better soon.’

  Max should have driven to Oxford Street, but instead she headed to Hampstead, finding Elm Row easily. A phone call felt forward, but surely turning up at a man’s door unannounced was much worse? And yet her feet propelled her that way. The bell chiming inside the flat sounded muffled.

  The door opened. John’s blue shirt sleeves were rolled up, his dark hair slightly untidy. He wore shoes. At home. Max never wore shoes when she could help it. ‘Good morning. Come on in.’ He acted as if her behaviour was perfectly normal.

  ‘Hi.’ She eased past him through the doorway.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ he asked. They moved towards the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have milk.’

  ‘Tea, please. Thank you.’ She sat at the kitchen table while he lit the gas under the kettle. He’d thrown out the dead plant.

  John leaned against the countertop and smiled. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  A flush rose in her cheeks.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘I have to go away tonight,’ Max said. ‘My mother—well, it’s a family thing. But I didn’t want to leave without saying—cancelling our date over the phone felt...’ she trailed off. When had she lost the ability to form sentences?

  ‘I’m glad you came over.’ He took a teapot from a cabinet and spooned in tea. ‘Have you thought any more about my question?’

  ‘Thought about it? Yes.’ Only constantly. ‘Decided? No.’

  ‘All right.’

  Max rose. She took three steps towards him. ‘I really just wanted to see you. Full stop.’ If she kept talking, she’d tell him something silly.

  ‘Do you want tea?’ John asked.

  Max smiled. ‘Not really.’

  John kissed her and turned off the gas. He caressed the shell of her ear, then touched her chignon. ‘May I?’

  Max nodded. John was as adept as finding hairpins as he was at everything else. The pins tinkled onto the countertop. She forgot to ask why as his fingers stroked her scalp.

  ‘I have a confession,’ John murmured.

  Would he tell her about his real job? Her hands didn’t falter against his shoulders, but her breath shortened.

  ‘I was just about to take down that print when you rang the bell. If the sofa’s still out, would you like to go upstairs?’

  Max laughed. ‘Please.’

  Max snuggled into the warmth of John’s body. His counterpane was pale blue; his sheets white. Open windows flanked the bed’s headboard. A cool breeze blew into the room, constantly shifting the net curtains. No photos, no toiletries, no cufflinks—the chest of drawers top remained completely bare. ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she said.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ He traced a slow pattern on her back.

  ‘Anything. I know you went to Carolina, you read detective novels in foreign languages, you have two brothers, and you have no family photos. And I really like this patch.’ She nibbled on the triangle framed by his collarbone, the skin wonderfully soft under her lips. ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Kannapolis, North Carolina. It’s tiny.’ He sighed as she kept nuzzling. ‘I lived there until I was eighteen.’

  Her fingers trailed down to the crease of his hip. ‘It’s nearly as smooth here. I like this too.’

  John laughed and caught her hand. He kissed each finger. ‘And presumably you spent a lot of your childhood in New York, or you wouldn’t sound like you do.’

  Max nodded. ‘My mother lived here for six months after their marriage, and then she insisted on going home.’ She smiled. ‘I can fake a British accent, but I have to concentrate.’ She returned to his neck. ‘You sound more Southern in bed than out.’

  John laughed. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ He half sat up, but Max held onto him. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll get you pictures.’

  Max pressed a few more kisses to his skin, and then he slid out of bed. A drawer in the study trundled open and closed, and John returned with a large brown envelope. He dumped the envelope out on the bed beside her. ‘I just don’t keep them out.’ The bed dipped as he climbed back in.

  Max sat cross-legged and spread the packets of photos around. Some were developed in North Carolina, but several had German words on them, and one Asian characters. She lifted that one first, her fingers shaking. A few American soldiers sightseeing, but none of her brother George.

  Max opened another pack. The North Carolina ones were of his family. John rarely looked as relaxed—at least out of bed—as he did in these photos, including some where he made silly faces, mostly to a tall woman. His army uniform displayed an impressive range of ribbons. Presumably that would be what her father would find if he looked into his background.

  ‘My most recent trip home. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She looked up from the pictures as he clicked the flame to life on his lighter and held it to his cigarette. She shook her head. ‘You did that the night we met. And your fingers—as attractive as I found you, I never imagined I’d be sitting naked on your bed within two months.’

  John dropped the cigarette in the ashtray and kissed her. ‘I like it. I like you being here.’ He stroked her face, settling on her lips. ‘For me, it was this. You’ve got a great mouth.’ He shoved the photos off the bed and drew her down beside him.

  John’s cigarette had long since burned to ash before Max looked at the photos again. She smoothed a bent corner, but he didn’t seem bothered.

  ‘They’re lovely. Your mum looks really nice.’ The woman stood in front of a pale A-frame house. She wore sensible dark shoes and had a softly rounded figure—the polar opposite of Nancy Falkland. But Max imagined the hugs Mrs Knox would give would comfort, and she wouldn’t trick her children into revealing more than they wanted. In the next one, John stood between two slightly older men, leaning against a battered pickup truck. He cradled a baby against his shoulder, and Max’s heart constricted. He held the baby well. She inhaled deeply. Under no circumstances would she imagine what her baby with John might look like. Madness. It made her want to say silly sentences. Sentences with love in them.

  ‘That’s my nephew. And godson. Johnny. He’s Luke’s.’

  Max smiled. ‘Which one is Luke?’ Had he told her the other brother’s name? John was by far the best-looking brother.

  John flicked his finger against one face. ‘There. Mark’s on my right.’

  ‘Apostles?’ Max asked. John nodded. In the next two photos, a dark-haired woman about Max’s age beamed at the photographer, outside the house.
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  ‘It’s not much, our farm. Nothing like your parents’ home. Homes, I suppose.’

  The same woman appeared in the next six photos, in various combinations with his brothers and mother. She was tall. And beautiful.

  ‘She’s in a lot of these,’ Max said, finally pointing to the woman in a photo where she sat next to John on a sofa. His arm draped as easily around her shoulder as hers did around his waist. John looked off to the side, clearly speaking to someone else, but it made the intimacy all the starker.

  ‘That’s Sarah.’

  Max lifted a plain white envelope. The top photo was of a bathroom. It looked perfectly ordinary, so she couldn’t think it held any historic value. ‘Was this sightseeing?’

  John lit another cigarette. ‘No.’

  He said nothing more. Max watched him draw on the cigarette. How could he feel distant now? Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. He didn’t have to show her pictures. The next photo was of his mother on a telephone, smiling. Maybe they had redone their bathroom. The final photo was of the tall woman again, holding a cake. Four small children danced around her full skirt.

  ‘Is she Luke’s wife?’ Max asked finally.

  ‘Who?’

  Max held up the photo of the woman with the cake.

  ‘No, that’s Sarah again.’ He sifted through till he found a photo of a blonde woman, mixing the packs with wild abandon. ‘That’s Emily, Luke’s wife.’ He handed her another photo, of a woman with a small baby in her arms. ‘That’s Carol and Mary, Mark’s wife and daughter. Their twins are the little girls in the picture with Sarah.’

  Both of his brothers had married blondes. But who was Sarah? Was she a former girlfriend, a cousin, a friend? Max opened another pack; this one developed in Germany, and saw still another photo of Sarah, although the rest were of soldiers and buildings. John ground out his cigarette. ‘Enough?’ he asked. He tucked her hair behind her ear and traced its edge.

  She shivered. He was in bed with her now, and he’d proposed. She would not allow herself to fall into jealousy. ‘What’s Sarah’s surname?’ An ex-girlfriend? She stared at Sarah’s dark hair, elegantly coiled. She couldn’t expect him to come without a past—she had Daniel and…