The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘Victor, you’re incorrigible. You apply for it.’

  ‘I couldn’t live in Durham. Besides, it’s Viking, and I’ve only done a bit of that. You should, Max. No joking. You have too much free time to spend worrying. Get a regular job, a lot of undergrads to pester you, and marry John.’

  ‘Emma promised…’

  ‘She knows? The cheek of it!’

  ‘I thought you’d be picking out venues before I made a decision.’

  ‘Well, I do have some ideas.’ He laughed. ‘John told me. We’re becoming pretty close friends.’

  ‘Good. I don’t think he has many friends here.’

  ‘Why haven’t you answered him?’

  Max shook her head. ‘Leave it, Victor.’

  He took a breath.

  ‘Please,’ she added.

  Emma was sketching in the drawing room, but she put down her notebook when they came in. ‘Charlie and Tommy are upstairs. And I think your mother was fleeing from Mrs Gould. John?’

  ‘Working,’ Max said with a sigh. Before Victor could speak, she added, ‘I want to talk about something utterly normal. Not that bloody Durham job, not marriage, not…’

  ‘Archaeology? Diving?’ Victor grinned.

  ‘No,’ Emma said. ‘Certainly not. What are you reading, Max?’

  They chatted for a while, and then Emma and Victor headed up to bed.

  Max waited five minutes, and then forced her feet upstairs. She got ready for bed mechanically. Victor was right. She had more than guessed in Scotland, and she had blithely gone to John’s flat regardless. And as much as she had tried to tell herself it was lust, it hasn’t been purely lust since she kissed him in Scotland. Max lifted a black nightgown out of her drawer, the smooth satin skimming down her body. She wouldn’t go to John’s room.

  She thumped her pillow and opened her book. Half an hour later, she heard a minuscule sound, like a scratch on the door. She listened. Nothing. The door knob—had it just shifted?

  John? Catherine checking up on her again?

  She crossed the room and unlocked the door. Outside, she saw no one in the darkness, and then John slipped into the room.

  ‘How did you do that?’ she whispered.

  ‘Training.’ He held up his shoes. ‘And preparation.’

  Max pushed the door closed. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Marshall.’

  ‘Henry?’ Her stomach churned.

  ‘Good Lord, no. Ken.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ken. She hated to think of him with Catherine. Catherine would use him, and then she’d drop him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Max nodded. ‘Henry said he had a girl in the village. We didn’t finish talking.’

  ‘No. May I sit?’

  Her bedside lamp cast a dim light, but she didn’t turn on the overhead. ‘Of course.’ He sat in the armchair as she crossed to her chest of drawers and poured two whiskies. The last time he’d appeared in her room in formalwear in the middle of the night had been in Berlin. She handed one to John. ‘I remembered to get another glass.’ She drew the chair from her vanity closer to John. If she suggested they sit on the bed, they wouldn’t talk. And her mother would hear if they spoke from across the room. She took a gulp of whiskey. ‘I had Edward’s letter with me last night. But then you went running off with your gun, and so…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ John sipped his, then placed it on the floor beside him. He leaned forward, but he didn’t quite touch her. ‘Look, both of my sisters-in-law work. Emily earns more than Luke, significantly more, I think. For that matter, Emma works. Just because Vivian and your rich friends don’t doesn’t mean you couldn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder you don’t want to marry me, if that’s what you think.’

  Max tightened her hold on the glass.

  ‘On the assumption we were married, would I want you off in Durham half the week or more? Honestly, no. If you wanted to do it, of course. I’d be away sometimes too.’

  ‘Miss Andrews says a lot of the time.’

  ‘Miss… Oh. Joyce.’

  ‘She won’t call me Max.’

  John smiled. ‘It took me six months to get her to call me John.’

  Max sipped her whiskey. ‘I really don’t know if I want that job. And I know that makes me sound like a selfish idiot who…’

  ‘Max, that wasn’t what I meant at all.’

  She nodded. ‘My whole PhD, I’ve been made to feel…’ She tapped her nail against her glass. ‘Poor little rich girl isn’t what I’m trying to convey. But there is an assumption, from the people I did my PhD with, that I dabble. I’m sure Will Firmin was about to call me a bitch—he’s not the only one who’d say that. And maybe getting a job would mean they wouldn’t think I’m a dabbler anymore, but I think it’s more likely they’ll just hate me more for taking a job. They aren’t all that common. Plus, there’s probably fifty men they’d hire ahead of me, no matter what qualifications they have. Academia isn’t easy for women, rich or not.’ She sipped the whiskey again. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling.’ Dizziness swirled around her head. She stared at the tumbler in John’s fingers.

  ‘Honey…’

  ‘I’m not looking for comfort. I’ve lived with it for a long time; it’s a fact.’ She half smiled. ‘At least in their minds.’

  ‘Not Victor’s.’

  ‘No, of course not. Or Edward or Mortimer Wheeler, although I think he’s more interested in sleeping with me than…’ She stopped. ‘I really am rambling.’

  ‘Archaeology sounds more fraught than my job.’

  Max laughed. ‘Fewer physical injuries.’ John rose and went to the chest of drawers for more whiskey, but Max shook her head. She felt like she’d had more than half a shot, but maybe it was simply exhaustion. Stress. John splashed some in his glass and sat back down.

  ‘Do you think you can manage until they leave?’

  ‘I don’t have much of an alternative, do I? I can’t go back to London, Mother would kill me if I missed the festivities, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Catherine, I mean.’ She tossed back the rest of her whiskey. ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Unless you tell me to, no. I want to stay with you.’

  Max blinked. ‘Would you leave?’

  John sighed and rubbed his knee. ‘If you leave, yes. If you stay—I’d get a place in the village. I wouldn’t want… I’m worried.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go, anyway.’ She’d miss him. ‘I know I’ve been horribly cross, but I love you.’ She yawned and laughed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.’ John drank the last of his whiskey and deposited his glass on the chest of drawers.

  But would they? Max carried her empty glass to the vanity. Her legs felt a bit wobbly.

  ‘You have a fascinating array of lovely nightgowns, Dr Falkland,’ John said.

  Max smiled. ‘Thanks.’ Had he been looking at the deep V that just touched the base of her spine? ‘I have a bit of a weakness for nice lingerie.’ The black satin gleamed in the low light.

  ‘Affinity, surely.’ He kissed her lightly, but didn’t touch her otherwise. ‘And an appreciative suitor. Good night, honey.’

  ‘Good night, John.’ He slipped into the hallway, and she locked the door again, bringing the key to her bedside table. Within minutes, she was asleep.

  Max dreamt of fingers closing around her throat. Her own hands didn’t respond, didn’t lift free of the weight of the bedclothes. She wrenched from side to side, gasping for air. The pressure stayed constant, tight enough to hold her steady, but not enough to cause rushing black spots. Smoke. She smelled smoke. John’s smoke. John murmured ‘shhh’, and she relaxed as the grip loosened. His lips felt wrong when they touched hers. Prickly. A moustache? His tongue probed in hard, staccato bursts, nothing like John’s usual smooth confidence, and she pushed at the chest leaning above her. It blurred into the darkness of the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MAX WOKE HEAVY-headed. She licked her dr
y lips. Strange to imagine John with a moustache. She sank back into her pillows. At least they had talked last night without flinging themselves into bed. If only Catherine would leave today, before the cocktail party.

  Max walked down to the pool. If she came back early enough, her mother wouldn’t know. Water slapped—or splashed? Silence fell again, so she kept going. Maybe the wind. Mother had insisted on the brick wall around the pool, claiming the flat landscape would mean neighbours with binoculars could see straight in. How George had mocked… Max jerked to a stop. A body stood just inside the gate and it took a second too long to recognise it as John. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ John said. Water dripped from his trunks, his hair. ‘I couldn’t tell who was coming.’

  Max exhaled. ‘What time did you wake up?’

  ‘Five. I felt quite woolly headed so I thought a swim would help.’ He slid back into the water. ‘I’m not used to holiday living.’ He grinned. ‘My dinners are relatively simple as a general rule.’

  Max dropped her towel on a chair and tucked her hair into her swim cap. ‘I slept oddly too.’ The water was chilly around her ankles as she climbed down the steps.

  ‘I thought you’d all be swimming more.’

  Max submerged and came up shivering. ‘Mother hates it.’

  ‘Should I not be here?’

  ‘It’s fine. We’ll head back early though.’ She closed her eyes, briefly seeing George’s eager face. ‘George wanted it. He bugged her for years—Dad never cared of course—and it was put in just before he shipped out. I think he only used it twice maybe. It was fine till he died. We all swam a lot at first.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s getting a bit easier to talk about him.’ The constriction in her chest didn’t feel quite so smothering. ‘I think that’s because of you.’ John’s wet hair lay flat against his head, and sunlight glittered on the water beading his shoulders. ‘It’s funny, George set me up on all these dates with his Cambridge pals after Daniel, and every single one without fail was dreadful. Not bad people, of course, just horrible bores or infants. I never thought…’

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ John said. He hoisted himself out of the pool and moved by the wall again.

  Would life always be like this? Max wrapped her arms around her stomach.

  John jumped back in the water with a splash. ‘It’s Emma.’ He walked towards her and reached for her hand. Max hesitated fractionally before she peeled it away from her waist. His lips were warm against her palm. ‘We didn’t say good morning, did we?’

  ‘No.’ Maybe if they didn’t have Catherine here, they’d just have a normal conversation where he stayed put. Maybe someday… but Victor had been right. She did know after Scotland. Max kissed John. ‘Why didn’t you scare Emma like you did me?’

  ‘You walk more quietly. I didn’t hear you till you were quite close.’

  ‘It’s good to know finishing school is good for something.’

  John laughed and kissed her again. Her fingers ran over his smooth upper lip.

  ‘Have you ever had a moustache?’

  ‘I can’t quite imagine it,’ Emma said as she stepped inside the pool area.

  Max started to ease away from John, but she stopped. Emma wouldn’t care.

  Emma dropped her things next to Max’s and didn’t even seem to notice. ‘Remember when Victor flirted with one?’ Emma climbed into the water. ‘Crikey, it’s cold. By the way, Tommy’s headed this way.’

  ‘Victor’s was disastrous,’ Max said. ‘I’m glad you talked him out of it.’ Would they fight again?

  John squeezed Max’s waist. ‘I’ll behave. What made you think of a moustache?’

  ‘Just an odd dream. Someone in my room who kissed me, and I thought it was you, but it wasn’t, if that makes sense. And he—you—had a moustache.’

  ‘Shall I grow one?’ He pouted his lips exaggeratedly.

  Max wrinkled her nose. ‘Too prickly.’

  John laughed and kissed her.

  ‘Not every man has a prickly beard. Mine’s quite soft,’ Tommy said. ‘How about yours, Knox?’

  Was John’s silliness just holiday relaxation or another performance for Tommy?

  ‘Never tried it.’ John splayed his palm against the small of her back. The warmth should have soothed her, but it felt like a proprietary act. Max wiggled a little, but John didn’t move.

  ‘That’s surprising.’ Tommy threw his towel on a chair.

  ‘I’ve been out of the active military less than a year. How long did you serve?’

  Tommy pulled his shirt over his head and didn’t reply.

  ‘John,’ Max said. She rubbed his arms, still wound around her body. ‘Shall we go find some breakfast?’

  ‘Sure.’ He let her climb the steps first, and then followed.

  He towered over Tommy as they stood by the pool’s edge. Victor was right—Tommy was half John’s size. Please God, no fighting. She tossed John his towel, and John turned his back on Tommy. Max exhaled and tugged her swim cap off.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Emma said. Her cap easily cleared her short curls.

  ‘You don’t all have to leave on my account.’ Tommy dove into the pool.

  Max and John left breakfast together. Tommy hadn’t appeared this time. ‘Can we do something utterly normal?’ Max asked.

  John blinked. ‘Of course. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘No talking about work—either of us—no running around, just being together.’ Without having sex, she added mentally, but couldn’t say it aloud.

  ‘Okay. Any ideas?’

  Max nodded and pulled John to the library. She would forget the fight. She left the double doors wide open. John sat down and lit a cigarette as she searched on the shelves. He didn’t ask. She crossed to the novel section, and ran her finger along the spines till she found Murder on the Orient Express. Her father liked it. They had it in English and—yes, in French. She pulled out the French and handed it to John.

  ‘Just one? Am I reading aloud then?’

  ‘This is a holiday. And I’m not convinced we won’t circle back to work, in one way or another.’

  John took her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Max sat beside him. ‘I’m not sure it’s normal—I’m positive Brian has never done this for Vivian and absolutely not in French—but it’s what I’d like.’ Far too demanding, Daniel had said. Over and…

  ‘Then I’ll do it every day.’ John’s lips brushed her palm. ‘Hercule Poirot. Are you making some type of commentary?’

  ‘None at all.’ Max slid off her flats and curled her legs under her as he started reading. The French words rolled around her, and she relaxed.

  John slid his arm around her shoulders. ‘She’s married to an archaeologist. Named Max.’

  ‘Why do you… but a well-rounded gentleman has many interests.’

  John laughed. ‘I like crime fiction.’ He dropped his mouth to the shell of her ear. ‘Here’s a secret,’ he whispered. ‘I only came to the Society of Antiquaries that evening to meet you.’

  Max kissed him. ‘I’m glad.’ She leaned into his side.

  He kept reading, and even the memory of his fight with Tommy couldn’t prevent her from imagining married life being like this.

  Charlie came in after two and a half chapters and threw himself on the other sofa. Then he sat up and looked at them as John kept reading.

  ‘Is this what adults do?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ John half closed the book, holding his place with a finger. ‘How’re you doing?’

  Charlie buried his head in a cushion.

  ‘I’ve never seen you at eight thirty before.’ Max didn’t move from the circle of John’s arm.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, okay? I can’t believe I was so stupid.’ The cushion muffled his voice.

  John spoke before she could even come up with an opening. ‘You’re sixteen, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’ve had an important realisation about girls much earlier th
an most of your peers. That’s important, not stupid.’

  ‘What, that pretty girls are lying bitches?’ He lifted his head. ‘Sorry, Max.’

  ‘I’d probably phrase it more that you need to look beyond just prettiness,’ John said. ‘Lots of pretty girls are great. Most of them, actually.’

  ‘I suppose. Max is all right.’

  Max smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did your dad tell you stuff like this?’

  She squeezed John’s arm, and he dropped the book to thread his fingers through hers.

  ‘Two much older brothers. Now, has anybody talked to you about condoms?’

  Charlie blushed. ‘In front of Max?’

  Max rose. ‘I can leave.’

  John smiled and tugged her back down to the sofa. ‘Another time,’ he said.

  Charlie sat up. ‘Seriously though, you guys should try being more discreet.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Had he seen a condom? She hadn’t asked John what he did with them here.

  ‘Your door was open last night.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’ They’d been so careful.

  ‘When?’ John’s voice came quietly.

  Max tried to push aside a sudden welling of nausea.

  ‘I don’t know, three thirty or four. I was going down to the kitchen for a snack. I called your name. You didn’t reply or anything, but then I saw somebody move by the bed so I kept going.’

  John walked briskly out the door.

  ‘We’ll be right back,’ Max said. By the time John reached the stairs, he was running. Max kept pace beside him.

  ‘Somebody was in my room.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  John stopped outside her door and knelt. He shone a small torch into the lock. Did he always carry torches?

  Mother came out of her room. ‘Darling, what on earth are you doing?’

  John immediately rose. ‘Good morning, Lady Bartlemas.’

  ‘My lock sticks,’ Max said.

  ‘Well, tell Harris. Mr—John, you really don’t need to work while you’re here.’