Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman
‘I wouldn’t argue with that. I had intended—’
‘I won’t tell Natasha. But I need to know…’
Across the space of the room, their eyes met. Court turned to the door.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll explain when I’ve seen Jonathan. Bring the coffee through here instead, Angelica. I won’t be long…’
‘Don’t be. It’s way past his bedtime; he should be asleep.’
‘I want to show you the bat book now, Daddy,’ Jonathan said, ‘and this one on whales. They talk to each other, bats and whales, they have this special language, look…’
Court looked at his small son with sadness and with love; he made an effort, fighting fatigue.
‘What, the bats talk to the whales? I didn’t know that.’
‘No.’ Jonathan laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. They talk to each other. Bats talk to bats; whales talk to whales. It’s excellent how they do it. Look—’
Court bent to the books. His son had a touching didacticism, a longing to educate, and a passion for facts. He looked at the diagrams his son was indicating; these diagrams explained bat radar to him, and the frequencies of bat squeaks; similar diagrams, accompanied by a barrage of information, explained the communication systems of whales. His son chattered on and Court sat quietly, holding his hand from time to time, or stroking his hair, and waiting for this room, and his son’s presence, to bring him the peace it usually did.
In the recesses of his mind, images stirred; he saw dark leathery shapes flit through a jungle night; he watched lianas coil like pythons, and he saw, rearing up from this terrifying fertility, the hot mouth of some orchid-like flower. ‘Oh, it torments me; Tomas, it torments me,’ his wife’s voice said. The words had been said many years before, when his wife had been six months pregnant with Jonathan, and had discovered that her husband’s infidelities were continuing. Court could not now remember the details of that particular infidelity; he rarely could. It might have been with a man, or with a woman, and it would have been brief, for Court never had prolonged liaisons, and with the exception of his wife, who came into a completely different category, he never had the same sexual partner twice.
These sexual encounters he could walk away from without rancour or regret; they were a brief sharp need, which he could satisfy as quickly and easily as he could hunger or thirst. His wife knew—he had told her often enough—that they in no way impinged on his love for her; that love, the determining force of his life, and the inspiration for much of his work, was unchanging; it would neither alter nor diminish with time. It was one of the many mysteries of his marriage, he thought, turning a page of his son’s book, that Natasha both believed in and doubted this love. Perhaps also, like him, she preferred the lightning flash of uncertainties to the long, calm summer of faithful married love. He was not sure on that question. During the course of his marriage, he had given Natasha periods of fidelity and periods of infidelity: he had come to believe that the periods of infidelity, with all their attendant pain, insecurity and indeed torment, were the ones when their marriage was most alive to her—though he was less certain of that preference since his divorce.
‘Look, Daddy,’ Jonathan said, picking up the whale book again and turning to its photographs. He began to speak of ice floes, of the Arctic, of the unimaginable depths to which, with one flick of their vast tails, these wondrous creatures could dive, and, as he spoke, Court became a little more tranquil; into his mind eddied the memory of his wife as she had been on the day he first met her. She had already been famous; he had been unknown; he had sent her a script, and through the offices of a shared friend, she had agreed to meet him. She had come to the small, humid, cramped office he had been renting in downtown Los Angeles. He had known what was going to happen, and he knew she had also, from the moment she quietly entered the room. Her beauty had astonished him; he had been unprepared for it, even though he had seen her many times on a screen. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, her face was without make-up, and she had been wearing—he could still see its every detail—a simple, cotton, Madonna-blue dress.
‘Daddy. Daddy.’ Jonathan tugged at his sleeve. ‘You’re not concentrating. I’m telling you about the whales. They sing to one another—it’s like singing. And they can hear one another through the water, from miles away sometimes…’ he smiled. ‘And you’re miles away too, Daddy.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I just drifted away a bit. I’m tired, I expect. I was thinking about the first time I met Mommy, and how beautiful she was…Now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You should be lying down, young man. You should have been asleep hours ago. Down you go. Let me tuck you up.’
He hugged his son tight against him, some emotion he could not define welling up: a rich mixture of love, pain, loss and fear for his son—none of which could be expressed. His son, small for his age, clung to him; he felt so thin, his father thought, and so light and frail. Tears came to his eyes, and he laid his son down in the bed and tucked him in, averting his face.
‘Now tell me,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking his son’s hand in his, ‘what’s all this about nightmares? Is something worrying you, darling?’
‘A bit.’ His son lowered his eyes and began to pleat the edge of his duvet. ‘It’s Thanksgiving soon. Mommy says we’ll be living in the Conrad by then…’
‘It’s possible, darling. It’s not fixed.’
‘Will you be coming for Thanksgiving, Daddy? I hoped you might.’
‘If you want me there, darling, I’ll be there. I’ll arrange it with Mommy. You know you don’t need to worry about that.’ He paused. ‘And just think, very soon after that, we’ll all be in England together—for three whole months. I’m looking forward to that.’
‘I am too.’ His son’s face brightened, then clouded again. ‘It’s just…’
‘Tell me, darling.’
‘I don’t really like that Conrad building, Daddy. Mommy says I’ll get used to it, but it’s spooky. I’ll have a big room there, Mommy showed me, with all these closets for my toys, and Mommy knows this artist man, and while we’re away in England, she says she’ll get him to paint these animals for me, on the walls. Any animals I like…’
‘Well, that sounds good, darling.’ Court looked closely at his son. He had a small, somewhat melancholy face, expressive, with its fears and its joys easily read. He pressed his son’s hand and added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘Which artist man is that?’
‘He works at the theatre; he painted some of the sets for Estella. He made that horrible spooky room Miss Havisham has…’ He hesitated. ‘I hated that Miss Havisham. Nasty spooky old witch.’
‘Well, you know there’s no reason to be frightened of her,’ Court said gently. ‘That’s just an actress playing her—and Miss Havisham doesn’t exist; she’s just someone made up, for a story…’
‘I didn’t like the artist man much either…’ his son continued, in a low voice. ‘I met him one day when Mommy was rehearsing. He looked at me in this funny way. He shook hands, and he had this horrible damp hand…He looked at Mommy too; he stared. She didn’t notice, but I did.’
Court felt a quickening of alarm then, but controlled it. He would find out the man’s name, he thought wearily, and get him checked out, just as he always did. But Jonathan’s reaction probably meant little; it was not the first time he had expressed feelings of this sort. They were a by-product of the restrictions that encompassed him, of the bodyguards, of the constant, unremitting suspicion of every male who came to this apartment, every male who lingered, or approached on the street. King had imprisoned his son, Court thought, as effectively as he had imprisoned Natasha and himself, and Jonathan’s fear of strange men, exacerbated by Natasha and Angelica, was a legacy he deeply regretted.
‘Jonathan, people do stare at Mommy,’ he replied now, in as reassuring a manner as he could. ‘It’s because she’s famous and because she’s beautiful; it doesn’t mean anything. Now I want you to promise
‘It’s very big, Daddy.’ His son clasped his hand more tightly. ‘There’s all these rooms. I thought, maybe you might come back and live there too. I wish you would…’
The plea in his eyes and in his voice cut Tomas to the heart. He leaned forward to kiss him, and it was a few minutes before he felt able to trust his voice.
‘We’ll have to see, my darling. These things—well, they’re complicated, you know that. Mommy likes this city more than I do, and it’s not very good for my asthma. I expect we’ll sort it all out in the end. Meanwhile, just remember how much I love you and Mommy. Now, lie back and I’ll read to you for a bit…Which book? This one?’
Jonathan nodded. The book, one with which Tomas Court was not familiar, was The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. His son found the chapter he wanted and the section he wanted. The story took place in Yorkshire, he said, which was where they would all be going shortly; Court agreed that this was so. It took place in a large house, Jonathan went on; there was a little orphan girl called Mary, who was plain and sour, but got nicer as the book went on; and there was a little boy, called Colin. Colin was ill, his son explained, pointing to the paragraph where his father was to begin reading, and this section here was Jonathan’s favourite. Court could see why that might be so, as soon as he began reading. Like Jonathan, the boy in this story was isolated and troubled; the chosen chapter concerned Mary’s reaction when she awoke to the sound of Colin’s cries in a strange house at night. The girl went in search of him, Court noted, and—he found the tone sentimental—they began on a mutual process of healing.
‘I need the facts,’ Angelica said, pouring coffee. ‘Tell me the things you left out when you spoke to Natasha.’ She gave him one of her black-eyed, scornful glances. ‘I know your techniques. You never tell a story straight; you fast forward past the awkward facts; you back track; you throw in these diversions—well, that won’t work with me. I’ve seen you do it too many times. You do it all the time in your movies.’
‘Yes, well you’re not too likely to understand my movies.’ Taking his coffee and moving away from her, Court gave her a dismissive glance. ‘Stick to your women’s magazines if you want a simple story.’
‘Romance, crime; that’s what I like.’ She gave him an unapologetic stare. ‘I like true love. I like a mystery solved. I like happy endings.’
‘You surprise me. And life isn’t like that unfortunately, so, no romance, no ending yet—happy or otherwise. I fear this mystery may not be solved, but I’ll give you the facts, such as they are, including the ones I didn’t tell Natasha, and you can play detective.’
Angelica gave him a look of sour amusement. She sat down heavily and spread her hands on her thighs, turning her slab of a face towards him.
‘So why didn’t you tell Natasha the whole story?’
‘Because I want to protect her. I don’t want her to worry any more than she needs…’
‘And?’
‘And, all right, the more worried about King she is, the more convinced she is that he could still be alive, the likelier she is to make this move to the Conrad. I don’t want her going there.’
‘I don’t like it there either,’ Angelica said, surprising him. ‘No point in saying so. The more you argue with her, the more she digs her toes in. I figured—keep my mouth shut. They probably won’t let her take that apartment anyway.’
‘Jonathan’s afraid of it. Does Natasha know that?’
‘She knows and she doesn’t know. I guess she thinks he’ll come round to it.’ She paused. ‘And it is secure; it’s a real secure building. Famous for it. Keep anybody out, that building would. I guess that’s why she chose it.’
Court gave her a pale glance. The taunt under her words was obvious enough, and she made little attempt to disguise it.
‘Well, it won’t keep me out,’ he replied quietly, ‘not as long as my son’s there, and Natasha would do well to remember that.’ He turned away. ‘Now, do you want these facts, or don’t you?’
‘Sure I do.’ She paused. ‘What Natasha told me, I couldn’t really understand. Why all these tests and checks? It seems pretty clear to me—I mean, they found the body…’
She continued speaking for some while, and Court listened, interested to see just how accurately his explanation to his wife had been reported back. As he had expected, few details had been left out—but then Natasha had always confided in Angelica minutely. He had never had any privacy in this marriage, he thought with a flare of anger. Natasha ran to Angelica the way a good Catholic ran to the confessional; he was certain that Angelica knew Natasha’s version of every one of his infidelities.
It had always seemed to him that Angelica would find them undisturbing, and just what she would expect from a member of the male sex. Angelica did not judge, he sometimes felt, she just watched, and very little either surprised or shocked her. He wondered now, watching her as she spoke without emotion of violent death and the details of that body in Glacier, whether Angelica knew of, and understood, the final paradox: that it was the advent of Joseph King that had cured him of the need for adulteries.
Had Angelica’s keen hard mind made that connection? He thought it probably had. He thought Angelica would have seen the link between a letter or call from King and his own haste, immediately afterwards, to get his wife back upstairs to their bedroom. He felt sometimes that Angelica had been able to see through those walls and locked doors, and that she had known, as precisely as he did, what then provoked the ensuing excitement, desperation and physical abandon.
‘He’s sick,’ Angelica was saying now, gazing off into space, her slab of a face hard with concentration. ‘He’s sick and obsessed, and the way I figure it is, he went out to Montana because he knew Jonathan was there, then he finally cracked. He went out to Glacier and found a real quiet private place, and he jumped. Good riddance. It took him a while to die—I hope it did. I figure…’
Had Angelica made that connection? Court wondered, looking at her, then moving away as she continued speaking. Sometimes he felt she had not only seen the link, but pointed it out to Natasha. At other times, he felt that his wife had understood that link and had done so alone and unaided. It would not have been difficult; besides, it had seemed to him that Natasha shared his needs initially. He had been able to see a certain dark excitement in her eyes, which, on occasion, she had disguised with weeping.
‘Oh, I can’t bear this,’ she would say, letting one of King’s letters fall from her hands. ‘Take me upstairs, Tomas. I want to be with you.’
Being with him was a euphemism. The instant the door had closed and they were alone, he had seen her face light; she might not admit it, but he had known that she responded as strongly as he did to promptings others might have judged perverse or transgressive.
‘So he finally went over the edge,’ Angelica was now saying, still frowning off into space. ‘But what I don’t understand is, how come he was always so well informed? How come he knew where you’d been? Where Natasha had been? I mean, that wasn’t guesswork. He must have been following. He must have been watching…’
Court turned his back to Angelica. He leaned up against a table; he could hear his wife’s voice very clearly. ‘He must have been watching, Tomas.’ She closed the bedroom door, and, beginning to tremble, turned to face him. ‘How else could he have known that? He must have watched you with that boy. In a parking lot? Tomas, how could you do that? It makes me ache. I can’t bear—you let him? What did he do? Is it different when a man does that to you? Did he do it more than once? How long did it take him? Tell me…’
Her husband had told her. Her response, agitated and disguised, was immediate; he had been able to feel the electricity in her hands when, bolder than the boy had been, she b
‘But what I can’t figure out,’ Angelica was saying. ‘I can’t figure out why it stopped. I mean, why would he give up so suddenly? Like this has been going on five years, and then he ups and kills himself? How come?’
Court passed his hands across his face. He stared at a pale wall hung with watercolours. For three of those five years this new charged relationship with his wife had continued; then he had made a very foolish mistake—he had admitted, under close questioning from his wife, that for the last two and a half of those years he had had no other sexual partners; he had neither wanted nor needed them; he had desired only her, and had been faithful. She had wept in his arms with apparent joy; her bedroom door had been closed to him thereafter.
Separation had ensued; divorce had swiftly followed. In the period since the divorce—and it was nearly two years—he had remained celibate, if not in the strictest sense, at least in the sense of having no other sexual partners. He was beginning to see that this too was an error; when it was admitted to his wife, here in this room, a week ago now, her lovely eyes had darkened with an expression of sympathy and disappointment. He had reacted as he always did: angry yet filled with longing for her, he returned to TriBeCa and lay there alone in the darkness, listening to those tapes, finding some release as he communed with ghosts and took his wife by proxy.
‘You still keeping all those King tapes?’
Angelica voiced the direct question suddenly, as if even while speaking she had been able to follow his thoughts with unerring accuracy. ‘You still listen to them the way you used to do?’
Colouring, Court kept his back to her.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘the police have most of them. I never listen to them now. I’m over that.’
‘He had you hooked.’ There was a malicious triumph in her voice; in this weakness of his she also exhulted.
‘Night after night you used to listen and reread the letters. I told you then, it wasn’t healthy.’