‘Mr Knox, this is an old friend of the family, Catherine Dinsmore, and her brother Tommy,’ Mother said. ‘Mr Knox—John—is Max’s beau.’ Mother laughed. ‘I suppose you don’t use that term anymore, do you?’
‘We met… John in Berlin with Max, Aunt Nancy,’ Catherine said. The hesitation before John’s name was tiny. Her teeth flashed. ‘I believe he was covering the film festival for his newspaper.’
‘Yes,’ John said. ‘How nice to see you again.’ He dried his hand and stepped forward to shake with Tommy. Catherine pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red smear.
Max’s stomach dropped.
‘I didn’t know you saw Mr Knox in Berlin,’ Mother said.
‘Mother, we’re freezing. And dripping all over the clean floor.’ Max shook herself. ‘Would you excuse us please? We can properly catch up after we change. I saw Catherine and Tommy so briefly in Berlin.’ She took Charlie’s hand. ‘Come on. Showers and hot drinks, I think.’
‘Is your car all right?’ Catherine asked. ‘I do hope it doesn’t hail. Charlie said you couldn’t make it to the garage?’
Max’s smile stayed tight.
‘I’ll send tea up to your rooms,’ Mother said. ‘Take your time.’
Max headed to the stairs and hoped John followed. Charlie she pushed ahead of her.
‘Have the first bath, Charlie,’ she said. He walked down the hall, a dazed look on his face.
She and John paused at the turn to the guest wing. He’d wiped Catherine’s lipstick from his cheek, but she could still visualise the smudge on his neck in the hotel in Berlin. How could she be here, with another man that Catherine had… kissed. She forced a stop to that spiral of thoughts. Alone with John. Two hours ago, she planned to say she would marry him. She pulled her wet cardigan more tightly around her. ‘An axe,’ she said instead.
‘And the Dinsmores.’
‘God knows what she’s telling my mother.’
‘I’m sorry, Max. I never thought…’
She took a deep breath. ‘No.’ She shivered. Sitting in the drawing room, talking to that woman, here… ‘What do we do?’
John hugged her. ‘I don’t know, honestly. Go downstairs?’
‘I’ll take longer than you.’ How could she go through the motions of dressing? Her arms folded around him automatically, but she didn’t tighten her grip.
‘I’ll wait.’ He pressed his face to her wet hair. ‘I love you.’
‘Who would chop down a tree?’ The rain still clattered overhead, but the car had to be a secondary concern. Not just chop it down, partially chop it so it would fall across the drive. Fall on them. ‘Do you think that was a coincidence in Thetford?’
‘I have no idea.’ John squeezed her. ‘You’re shaking. Go have your bath.’
Charlie must have taken a speedy shower, because the bathroom on the family wing was free. Max turned on the taps and headed to her room. She stripped out of her wet dress and poured a glass of whiskey before she found her dressing gown.
The water thrummed into the tub as she stepped back into the corridor.
‘Goodness me, drinking in the bath,’ Catherine said. ‘I’m sure that’s not safe.’
‘I’ll be fine. Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Everyone is just full of surprises on this trip. Imagine seeing James—I mean John. Maybe I should just call him J.’
‘Call him whatever you like.’ Max wished her hair didn’t snarl around her face, full of saltwater and rain.
‘Oh, I have, Max darling. He is rather fine, isn’t he? If a terrible liar. I mean, of course, quite accomplished as a liar. So are you. Surprisingly.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’d say James/John is quite energetic as a lover, wouldn’t you? If a bit traditional.’
Max kept her face neutral, her grip on the tumbler relaxed. What if her mother came upstairs? If Charlie came out of his room? ‘I think my bath is ready. Pardon me.’
‘Did you forget your swim cap? By the way, how much does Aunt Nancy know about our Mr Knox?’
Max could throttle her, right here. Or throw her whiskey at her face, shatter the perfect smile. ‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Excuse me.’ Max extracted the key from the inside of her bedroom door and locked it.
Catherine chuckled. ‘I was actually looking for Charlie. Charming boy.’
‘He’s sixteen,’ Max said. ‘More than a little young for you.’
‘Malleable. Is his room this way?’
Max nodded. She’d find it soon enough on her own, and Charlie was nearly an adult. God help him. Max closed the bathroom door, leaned against it and downed all the whiskey in one gulp. The burn didn’t soothe her. This would be her life. His cases, bumping into her normal world. A bloody hairpin. She longed to sit in the tub and soak, but instead she scrubbed quickly.
Tea was waiting in her room when she returned from the bath. Lucy, or whomever had brought it, had locked the door behind her again. The whiskey bottle looked more attractive, but she couldn’t face Catherine at dinner already tipsy. She brushed the tangles from her hair and wound it around rollers. Why did she have to dry her hair and dress? But if she went to bed, Catherine would have won. She drew the bonnet of her hair dryer over her head and switched it on. The hum irritated her to the point of screaming, but she poured a cup of tea. After two minutes, she put on a record. Anything but Ella Fitzgerald. She lifted the Singin’ in the Rain disc she’d bought when she’d taken Charlie record shopping. While John was in Berlin with Catherine. She gritted her teeth. Gene Kelly started singing ‘All I Do Is Dream of You’, but the noise of the dryer limited her hearing of the lyrics.
The long cord let her walk to the wardrobe. They would dress for dinner, and how she would dress. No black for her tonight. She lifted a cloud of organza from the wardrobe, the green and bronze layers melding into copper. The strapless bodice had soft pleats above a tight midriff. She hung it on the wardrobe door. The shop assistant had insisted she needed a low-cut long line brassiere. She hooked herself into the black bra and attached her stockings to the garter belt’s straps. On the beach, she’d imagined sneaking to John’s bedroom after dinner tonight. Max stared at herself in the vanity mirror, her cleavage pushed high by the bra. John called her beautiful. But Daniel had said that too, and he still fucked Catherine. Max exhaled and sat down. Her mask had to be perfect around Catherine. She lifted a pot of moisturiser.
No tears. She couldn’t bear the hair dryer, so she removed it early, her hair hot to the touch. Damp. She’d wear it up. After she flipped the record, Gene Kelly crooned ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ cheerfully. A small whiskey would be okay.
Near the end of her makeup routine, a tap sounded on her door. She slid on her robe. ‘Come in.’ The handle rattled. She’d locked it, of course. John stood on the other side of the door.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Did you have tea?’
He glanced at the bed, but sat in the arm chair. Max went back to her vanity and brushed on mascara. John leaned forward.
‘Whiskey?’ She held out her glass. ‘I’ve only the one glass, but you’re welcome to share.’
‘Max, I’m sorry.’
‘Me too. But this is my real world, and my mother is downstairs. Who might hear at any point that you seduced somebody who insists on calling her aunt.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘You’re an energetic, if traditional, lover.’ The record scraped to an end.
‘Is that your review?’ He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Catherine’s.’ Her mouth twisted, and she took a deep breath before rolling up her red lipstick.
‘Max.’ He paced quickly, his reflection crossing her mirror twice before he stopped behind her.
Max outlined the bow of her upper lip and then swept the colour along the curve of her lower. She compressed her mouth firmly. ‘Traditional isn’t a word I’d apply to you.’ A faint smile appeared on John’s face. ‘I believe you. But it doesn’t make it less painful to hear.’
; ‘I know.’ His hands folded over her shoulders, but she twitched away from his touch.
She blotted her lipstick and clenched the Kleenex in her palm, before lobbing it towards the bin. It bounced off the side, but John dropped it in. If she hadn’t been so angry, would it be awkward to have him in the room as she got ready? He’d seen her without makeup in Berlin. How different was a skull that bristled with rollers?
She unpinned the rollers and tugged them free.
‘You’re beautiful,’ John said. He lifted the arm from the record, but didn’t change the disk.
Her hair was a tumble of blonde waves. ‘My goal was strong.’
‘Always.’ He walked to her bookcase and bent to look at titles. ‘I probably shouldn’t stay. If your mother…’
‘She’ll be on hostess duties.’ At least Mother didn’t know Max had planned to say yes. She’d have already been lining up Max’s charity causes, just like she did when Max was engaged to Daniel. Max stood and untied her robe. As it hit the chair, John took an audible breath. A tiny red bow sat at the deep plunge of the bra, and its trailing ribbons swayed as she walked to the wardrobe. She would not look at John. Max took the dress from the hanger and stepped into it. The skirt billowed around her as she held the bodice in place. ‘Could you zip me, please?’ she asked. Did she want to torture him?
A book thumped back onto the shelf, but she didn’t turn.
His fingers lingered for just a moment, and his breath fanned across her back, but after the zip came to the top, he took a step back. Max slid her arms into the short jacket, the gauzy tulle clinging to her skin.
At the vanity, Max coiled her hair and jabbed in hair pins. How could one little scrap of metal have charmed her so completely? She added the same pearl earrings she’d worn last night, and then padded back to her wardrobe to collect black stilettos. Max pulled the thin straps over her heels. When she straightened, her wide skirt brushed John’s leg, but he didn’t shift.
‘You’re stunning,’ John said.
‘Thank you.’
‘This probably isn’t… what did you want three minutes for?’
‘Nothing in particular.’ She forced a smile. ‘I like kissing you.’ She hadn’t been acting like a woman who liked kissing him. The sharp edges of her perfume bottle pressed into her hand, and the stopper felt cool against her throat, between her breasts.
John exhaled. ‘I like kissing you too.’ He didn’t move towards her. ‘I just thought you—I had a feeling it was something specific.’
Max shook her head and shoved the stopper back into the bottle. The propeller cut into the glass froze in mid spin, going nowhere. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’
John’s hand closed over her arm. ‘Hang on. Where are we?’
‘The same as we were before, I suppose. With a ticking bomb downstairs as to how long my mother will let you stay in the house.’ How could she explain this to her mother?
‘Should I tell her?’
‘Are you allowed to?’
‘No.’
‘Well, let’s go see how vindictive Catherine is feeling.’
Charle grabbed John as soon as they came into the room. Max kept walking towards Mother.
‘I do dislike an unbalanced table,’ Mother said. ‘We need to invite more men. Was Group Captain Knocker busy?’
‘I forgot to ask him. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right.’ Mother looked at her dress. ‘You look gorgeous. The hair’s a bit severe.’
Max raised her fingers to the smooth, damp strands. Maybe she had pulled it back too tightly.
‘I still think you should cut it.’
Mother called her severe, Charlie had called her fierce and George had called her ornery. What would John say? Stunning, when they were upstairs. Brave and kind at his flat. Max exhaled. She didn’t feel kind. Mrs Gould talked at John and Charlie. God knew what she was ranting about. John managed polite interest better than Charlie.
‘Are you all right, Max?’
Max shook her head and looked at Mother.
‘You seem terribly distracted.’
‘I wasn’t expecting the Dinsmores.’
‘Well, Tommy helps slightly balance the table. I thought Bernice might be with them, but…’ She stopped. ‘Mr Knox can’t stop looking at you. Did he propose last night in the garden?’
‘No.’ Strictly speaking, it was the truth. ‘How would Tommy balance the table if his mother came too? Wouldn’t that make it worse?’
Harris appeared in the doorway.
‘Harris, we’re still waiting on Miss Dinsmore,’ Mother said.
‘And Vivian,’ Mrs Gould said. ‘Really…’
‘Vivian’s having dinner in her room,’ Mother said. ‘It’s all arranged. She’s still quite tired.’
‘Catherine may be a bit late,’ Tommy said. ‘She often is. We could go ahead without her.’
‘Which would disrupt us even more,’ Mother said. ‘We’ll wait.’
Max fetched two glasses of champagne and took one to John. Mrs Gould kept talking about her dogs. Charlie’s eyes looked glassy. Tommy drew close to her and brushed her arm.
‘Still flying your Piper Cub?’ he asked.
Mrs Gould glared at him, and then stalked towards Mother.
Max smiled. ‘I’m amazed you remember that. I sold it before I came back to London.’
‘You took me up once. I never told you how terrified I was.’
‘Your lack of faith would have wounded me terribly.’
‘Not you. It was when you told me it was wood covered in fabric.’
‘And some metal.’
John lit a cigarette.
‘Has she taken you up yet, Mr—Knox, was it?’ Tommy asked.
John exhaled. ‘No.’ His voice stayed neutral.
‘She won’t teach me to fly either,’ Charlie said.
‘You haven’t stopped, have you?’ Tommy asked.
‘I had some trouble with my plane. A Beechcraft Bonanza now.’ She glanced at John. ‘John’s been away since it’s been repaired.’
‘Working in Berlin. Of course.’
Catherine came into the room, wearing the same gold dress she’d worn at the film premiere. Why had Max chosen copper for tonight?
‘Max had a terrible time,’ her mother said. ‘Her engine failed in the wilds of Scotland, and she had to make a crash landing.’
‘Was that before or after you met John?’ Catherine asked.
Her smile disturbed Max. John tapped his cigarette against an ashtray on the piano, but neither of them replied.
‘You met Mr Knox before, didn’t you, darling? Not long before though,’ Mother said. ‘The crash was terrifying, of course, but at least it allowed Max to be here. She planned to spend the whole summer working in Scotland.’
If nothing had happened in Scotland, if she’d still been flying air survey and diving with Victor—that imagined summer seemed impossibly restful. But maybe she wouldn’t have gotten to know John.
‘That would have been a pity,’ Catherine murmured.
Max let her eyes close for a moment. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to miss out on knowing John. When she glanced at him, he smiled, a small, tight smile. She liked having him in her life, no matter how awful this felt.
‘Incidentally, dinner at eight means eight, Catherine,’ Mother said. ‘Please remember that in the future. Shall we go in?’
John managed to shift away from Catherine’s claws before they landed on his arm. ‘May I escort you in, Lady Bartlemas?’ he asked.
Max expected Catherine to raise the question of John’s names throughout dinner. But instead it came from Tommy. He waited for a lull in the various conversations as the main course was cleared.
‘Knox, I wanted to ask, why did you use a different name in Berlin? Which do you prefer, John Knox or James Carter?’
Charlie’s mouth formed an ‘o’, but Max didn’t dare look at Mother. Even Harris hovered, as if he needed the answer before he could
move.
‘Universal Dispatch.’ John sipped his water.
‘Excuse me?’ Tommy asked.
John’s smile appeared perfectly relaxed. ‘My paper. We have a pretty small staff, so sometimes we write under different names. It makes it seem busier and bigger than it is.’
Would that work? Would anyone believe it?
‘How does your organisation deal with the ethics of that choice?’ Mother asked.
‘It’s been debated endlessly, to be honest.’
Nothing he said was honest. The dessert course started arriving. The footmen appeared to be ignoring them.
‘They argue that a by-line doesn’t give information, and if anyone contacted the paper about it, I’d still reply. As James Carter, I usually cover cultural events.’
‘And as John Knox?’ Charlie asked.
John laughed. ‘As John Knox, my job primarily is worldwide sales. But I’d be more likely to cover hard news, from wherever I am.’
‘Interesting.’ Catherine arched her back, pushing her cleavage forward. ‘Do you ever forget which name to use?’
‘No.’
‘Or any other part of one persona? Such as which acquaintance knows you under which name? Or any other… entanglements?’
‘Nonsense,’ Max said. ‘It’d be like Bela at Vassar.’
‘What?’ asked Mrs Gould.
‘A friend we knew at Vassar. She was Hannah to most people, but her intimate circle knew her as Bela.’ Max delved for a finishing school smile to shine at Catherine. ‘Oh, but you weren’t in that circle, were you?’ Bela had loathed Catherine.
Catherine didn’t smile back. ‘Still, it must be odd to not know someone as one person but not as another.’
‘I’m sure Mr Knox is quite capable of handling that, Catherine,’ Mother said. ‘I’m much more interested in the ethics. Do other newspapers do this too? The Times?’
‘I’m sure they don’t,’ John said. ‘Like I said, we’re very small.’
Catherine continued to snipe at Max across dessert, and Max had a headache by the time they retired back to the drawing room.
‘I’m walking to town early in the morning,’ John murmured over his whiskey. ‘I need to make a telephone call.’
The Running Lie Page 15