“What is this? What’s going on? I know this woman—obviously I know her. Who wouldn’t? It’s Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“That’s right. The U.S. ambassador’s wife.”
“I know that. I’m not a fool. I’ve even met Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Don’t sound so bloody surprised. I met her last spring. In a children’s hospital ward. My youngest was very ill last year. She nearly died. She had to have dialysis. You know who donated the money for the machine? Mrs. Hawthorne. I was one of the parents there when she did her hospital tour. You ought to be bloody ashamed of yourself, you ought—”
Her voice had risen. She stood, and moved toward the door. “I talked to her! She sat by my daughter’s bed, and we talked. She’s got two children of her own. She was lovely to me. Really kind. And she wasn’t doing some Lady-Bountiful act either. I could tell she really cared.”
Gini knew that any confidence Suzy had placed in her was irretrievably gone. The hostility blazed from her.
“So Mrs. Hawthorne and the woman in the hotel room,” she said quietly, “they couldn’t possibly have been the same woman?”
“No. They bloody well couldn’t. They were nothing alike. I told you! The hotel woman was English. She was younger than Mrs. Hawthorne. She had blond hair. …What’s fucking wrong with you? Sodding journalists. And I thought you were okay. …I must want my head read. You’re just another bleeding muckraker, that’s all.”
She opened the door and looked back with one last angry glance. “What is it with you people? You have to do it, don’t you? Drag every poor fucking sod down in the mud. And I thought I was the whore. …Pay you well, do they? Well, screw you—you want to wreck an innocent person’s life, you do it without my help. Just don’t fucking contact me again, you understand? You or your friend!”
When Pascal returned, his manner was tense and cool. Gini recounted this conversation. Pascal listened carefully.
“It’s not conclusive,” he said finally. “The man could have been Hawthorne or McMullen. The woman could have been Lise, I suppose, if she can change accents. Or, more likely, one of Hawthorne’s blondes. What do you think? An audition of some kind? A rehearsal? It sounds like one of those.”
“Both, maybe. Some kind of preliminary to the Sunday meeting? There must be a connection, Pascal. Black gloves, silence, rules.”
“That, or we’re supposed to see a connection, to imagine one.”
“I think it has to be one of Hawthorne’s blondes. Going through some tryout before the Sunday assignation. This meeting was two or three days before the December Sunday, remember? Maybe Hawthorne was deciding which woman to hire—Suzy or a blonde with an upper-class accent and a two-thousand-pound Hermès bag.”
“And he opted for the more expensive product?”
“Presumably.” Gini frowned. “It’s odd, though, the way Suzy described her, so sweet and polite—it made me think of Lise. I started to wonder. You remember what McMullen told us? How Hawthorne showed those pictures of blondes to hire and asked her to choose. Maybe Hawthorne does more than just describe these events to his wife. Maybe he compels her to get involved.”
“You mean he makes her audition the girls? Gini, come on.”
“I know. I know. But the way Suzy described her, the woman was reciting a part. Something scripted. Playing a role.”
“Suzy also made it clear the woman enjoyed it,” Pascal said dryly.
“That’s true. But Lise’s behavior is so odd anyway, so unpredictable—and she is on medication. She takes tranquilizers. Maybe she takes other stuff as well. Maybe Hawthorne persuades her to take other stuff.”
“Once a month? Just prior to the Sunday he slips his wife something that transforms her into a procuress? Gini—”
“Okay. Okay. I agree. It’s absurd. Anyway, Suzy was definite. The blonde in the hotel wasn’t Lise.”
Pascal gave a sudden dismissive gesture. “Even that proves nothing,” he said. “You said yourself—Lise Hawthorne is auditioning to be a saint. Well, that’s how Suzy saw her, as an angel of mercy at a hospital bedside, ministering to a sick child. A heroine, if you like. People need heroes and heroines. They need to cling to their illusions.”
An edge had come into his voice. “Speaking of which,” he added, “you’re due to see your father shortly. Gini, we should go.”
Chapter 30
“GINI, COME IN,” MARY said, ushering her into the hall. They both paused in the doorway, looking down into the street outside. There, Pascal gunned the engine of his motorbike. He pulled away fast, without any gesture of farewell.
“He’s coming back to get me around eight,” Gini said. Mary sighed and closed the front door.
“One moment, Gini,” she said, “before you go in. There’s something I want to say.”
The door into the studio was closed, Gini noted. Mary’s kind features wore an expression of bewilderment. She put her hand on Gini’s arm.
“Gini, I don’t understand exactly what’s going on. But one thing is clear: You and Pascal Lamartine have been working on an investigation, a story on John….” She shook her head sadly. “Gini, how could you deceive me in that way? You must have known when you came to my party. You came here under false pretences. John is one of my closest friends. How could you, Gini? It’s so unlike you.”
Gini’s face became set. Slowly she removed her coat. “I see,” she said. “Then that is why I’m here. I might have known.”
She felt both angry and sad. Her arrival had been preceded by another argument with Pascal. He had been very close to losing his temper, and so had she. The past hour had been one of mounting irritation between them, with both of them edging toward a confrontation, then edging away. It had left her nervous, and miserable, and this confirmation that Pascal had been correct in his assessment of her father’s motives made her feel worse. For a moment her instinct was just to walk out there and then, not to see Sam Hunter at all. Perhaps some of what she felt could be read on her face, for Mary looked at her closely, and then sighed.
“Oh, Gini, what a horrible mess. Listen, never mind that now. That’s not the main issue, I know. It’s just that it hurt me, Gini, and…anyway,” she hesitated, “do watch what you say. Sam’s in a foul mood. He’s been working himself up for hours. I’ve been trying to calm him down, but there is a limit. He’s on the second bourbon already, and you know what he’s like when he drinks. I thought it was better to keep this brief. Sam has a dinner with his publisher later. I’m going too. So it’ll be only an hour, darling, an hour and a half at most. But do watch your tongue. Try to stay off the subject of Pascal Lamartine, for heaven’s sake.”
She broke off; her face crumpled. Gini saw that she was suddenly very close to tears. She felt a rush of affection and guilt. She put her arms around Mary and hugged her. If her father had been building up to this meeting, she could imagine what Mary had been through this afternoon.
“Oh, Mary,” she said. “I’m sorry. I will explain it all to you eventually. Don’t get upset. This isn’t your fault, any of it. It’s not fair for you to be in the middle of it.”
“But I am.” Mary’s hand waved, a sad, helpless gesture. “I haven’t been honest with you either, Gini, and I should have been. I knew about Beirut all along. I knew who Pascal was. I should have admitted it. I hate all these lies.”
“Mary, that doesn’t matter. I don’t mind. I’m even glad. Truly.”
She broke off.
From the room beyond came the sound of movement, a chair being pushed back. Mary looked quickly at the closed door, then back at Gini. With a small, agitated nod of her head, she went on.
“Gini, it’s not just that. Sam blames Pascal for all this, of course, and I want you to be prepared for that. But…”
She hesitated again. An almost guilty expression crossed her face. Gini looked at her, puzzled, then glanced back at the closed door. From beyond it came the sound of her father’s voice. There was a pause
, then more quietly another man replied. Gini tensed.
“Who’s in there with him?” she began in a low voice. “Mary, he isn’t alone. What’s going on?”
Mary gave her a silent and unhappy look. She did not need to answer the question, for at that moment there were footsteps, then the door was thrown back. Sam Hunter stood there, glowering. He had a full glass of bourbon in his hand. Beyond him, leaning against the mantelpiece, was the figure of John Hawthorne.
“So.” Her father glared first at Gini, then at Mary. “Are you coming in here? Or are you going to spend the rest of the goddamn evening whispering in the hall?”
He might have continued in that vein, but Mary took charge. Steering Gini by the arm, she led her past Sam and into the room. John Hawthorne acknowledged her arrival with a brief nod, but said nothing. Mary turned and faced Sam.
“Now, let’s just get one thing clear, Sam,” she said in a quiet, firm voice. “This is my house, not yours. If you’re going to start shouting and blustering, then you can leave, because I won’t put up with it, you understand? This isn’t easy for me, or Gini, or any of us. I agreed to all this on one condition. You say what you have to say. John says what he wants to say. Both of you give Gini a fair hearing, and then we all leave. But I will not have this degenerating into one of your brawls, Sam. So you can just sit down and calm down. If we’re going to do this at all, dammit, we’ll do it in a civilized way.”
Mary’s tone, Gini thought, would have quelled most people, but not her father, or not her father when he had been drinking anyway. He rounded on Mary belligerently.
“Look,” he said, jabbing one finger in the air. “Look, Mary. If you think I’m going to pretend this is some goddamn social call, forget it. It’s not. I’m not here to sit around making small talk. I want to get to the bottom of this. My daughter’s got some goddamn explaining to do, and the quicker we get on with it, the better. I mean, Jesus Christ! I don’t see her, I don’t damn well lay eyes on her in two years, and then what happens? This.”
He took a deep swallow of bourbon. His eyes, which were bloodshot, ranged around the room, then fixed on Gini. “Just get one thing straight, Gini, before we start. I blame that goddamn fucking Frenchman. But I also blame you. You’re not a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. Where’s your judgment here?”
Both Gini and Mary began speaking then. Mary launched on some remonstrance, Gini on a quick and angry reply. Sam Hunter attempted to shout them both down, and then John Hawthorne spoke for the first time. His voice, cold, clipped, and authoritative, silenced them all, including Sam.
“Sam, that’s enough,” he said. “Mary’s right. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by this kind of scene. Or that kind of language. Control your temper for once, will you? Sit down. Shall we all sit down? I am the reason Gini is here tonight, and since she’s had the courtesy to come, I owe her a courtesy in return. I would like to explain.”
Gini said nothing. She watched her father, and she saw how easily John Hawthorne whipped him into line. It pained her to see it, but Sam capitulated at once. He gave her one last angry glance, then a truculent sigh. Turning his back on her, he moved across to the left of the fireplace and slumped in a chair, nursing the bourbon.
Gini was shocked, and hurt, by the change in him in these last two and a half years. The continued coarsening in his appearance was now very evident. He was, as always, well dressed; he wore one of the dark suits he had tailored for him in London, and a crisp, somewhat loudly striped Paul Stuart shirt. His handmade shoes were well shined. But the thickening waistline, the ponderous bulk, the heavy jowls, the blotchy complexion of the heavy drinker—all these aspects of her father could no longer be ignored. He looked, she realized, like an aggressive, unstable, and deeply unhappy man.
Quietly, she moved across to a chair opposite John Hawthorne and sat down. Mary fussed in an uncertain way at the drinks tray for a while. She handed Gini a glass of wine, as if she would have liked to pretend this was an ordinary social occasion, then she seated herself a little behind Gini, just outside the semi-circle in front of the fire. The focal point of that half circle was Hawthorne. He remained standing, Gini noted, despite his earlier suggestion that they all sit down.
In contrast to her father, Hawthorne looked calm and in control. He was wearing a dark, elegantly tailored suit. His manner was quiet, and when he looked at her, Gini felt there was a certain regret or possibly contempt in his eyes, as if he had expected better of her, as if he had set her some test and she had failed.
“First of all,” he began, “I suggest we waste no time. I don’t intend to spend the next hour listening to denials and lies. So if we could just set out the parameters here. Can we all accept, please, that the News launched an investigation into me, and into my private life, some nine days ago, and that Gini was assigned to that story, together with a French photographer, Pascal Lamartine?”
He looked directly at Gini as he said this. Gini did not reply. Behind her, Mary gave a small sigh. Her father stirred in his chair.
“Look, Gini,” he said, leaning forward. “John’s right. Can we just cut the crap here? He knows you’re working on the story. I know. We all damn well know. So there’s no goddamn point in denying it. It just wastes time.”
“If you’re so well informed,” Gini began carefully, “then you’ll also know that I was taken off the story last Tuesday. By my editor. As far as I know, the story has been killed.” She hesitated. “A few rumors had been circulating, that’s all. I was asked to check them out—and for what it’s worth, I got nowhere. That’s one of the reasons the story was killed. The other reason, as I understand it, was that the owner of the News was pressured. To such an extent, I hear, that my editor’s job is now on the line. What I don’t quite understand”—she raised her eyes to look at Hawthorne—“is why, when you have influence of that kind, you should now try to influence me. It’s pointless. I’m not even working on this anymore.”
“I did suggest we avoid wasting time.” Hawthorne’s reply was even, his expression cold. “You were asked—told—to drop the story, as we’re both well aware. Your editor may or may not lose his job as a result of his continuing involvement. That is Henry Melrose’s decision—it has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But let’s not pretend you obeyed your editor’s instructions. With or without his knowledge, you have continued to work on this, and so has Lamartine. The source for this story is a man named James McMullen. You met with him two days ago, first in Regent’s Park, and then in the British Museum. You have been in contact this week with his former tutor in Oxford, Dr. Anthony Knowles. You’ve been continuing your inquiries today. You met with a friend of McMullen’s today, in The Groucho in Soho.” He looked directly at her. “You call that dropping the story?”
Gini met his gaze briefly. The meeting with McMullen in Oxford, she noted, was not mentioned. “I don’t know where you’re getting this information.” She shrugged and looked away. “I should double-check your sources. I met no one at the British Museum, I went there to look at the exhibits, that’s all. I had spoken to Anthony Knowles earlier, and I called him back to tell him I was dropping the story. As for today, I had a drink at lunchtime with an old contact of mine. The meeting had nothing to do with this story at all.”
“You were with a former school friend of McMullen’s today. A man you’d never previously met.” Hawthorne gave her a cold glance. “And in some ways, when I learned that, I felt a certain relief. Presumably you’re at last making some attempt to check James McMullen’s credentials. It’s somewhat overdue. But check him out, by all means. And make a thorough job of it when you do. McMullen is a liar and a troublemaker. I sometimes wonder if the man’s entirely sane—”
“Entirely sane?” Gini’s father could hold back no longer. He gave a sweeping gesture of the arm, spilling bourbon. “That’s the goddamn understatement of all time. The man’s a goddamn nutcase. He’s a sicko. A weirdo. He’s obsessed with John, obsessed with me, he’s been nursing
some goddamn crazy paranoid delusion for Christ knows how long—and now he comes crawling out of the woodwork yet again, and who does he home in on? My goddamn daughter! You think that’s some kind of an accident? Christ, Gini”—he swung around to face her—“how long have you worked in newspapers now? Can’t you recognize a crazy when you meet one? Or do you just swallow it all down, whatever stuff they feed you? Check, why don’t you? Learn to goddamn check—and if you can’t, then go back to journalism school. Better still, find some other career.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Gini began, but Mary interrupted her.
“Yes,” she said. “Wait, Sam, and think for once before you start throwing accusations around. You don’t have the least idea of Gini’s capabilities because you’ve never bothered to take any interest in Gini’s career. Gini isn’t some child, starting out. She’s had a lot of experience—”
“Experience? Give me a break. Where? On some goddamn cheap sex-scandal rag.”
“She’s had a lot of experience, Sam. If Gini has been working on this story, you can be quite sure she will have tried to investigate it thoroughly and properly, from day one.” Mary spoke firmly. “If this James McMullen had been as you describe, Gini would have seen through him. It can’t be as easy as that.”
“No. Mary’s right.” Again it was John Hawthorne’s cool tones that interjected, and silenced the others. He gave a sigh. “It isn’t as easy as that. I wish to God it were.”
He looked away as he said this, and for the first time Gini sensed the tension he was feeling. For a moment she glimpsed on his face that expression she had seen at the Savoy dinner. She thought: Beneath that calm, he is very close to despair. She thought that both Mary and her father sensed this too. Her father shot him a quick look, and at once altered his tone. He rose, and the belligerence lessened.