Lovers and Liars by Sally Beauman Page A

undercurrents. Pascal’s wife’s face became tight. The little girl began to cry. Eventually, the family group moved off. Beside her, her companion knocked back his drink.
    ‘Well, well, well/ he said. ‘Pascal Lamartine, no less. So tell me, when did you screw him - and don’t bother denying it, Gini. It was written all over your face. And his.’
    She had not said one word. She simply rose and walked away. ‘As she did so, she felt the headiest relief. She ran back to their hotel, packed her bags, and left. The man was completely unim—
    ant. Now, still sitting in her car, she could scarcely remember name let alone his face.
    Aut that glimpse of marital happiness - she could remember t`-,.Aat only too clearly. Looking across the wet yard, she watched -gesture by gesture, Pascal’s other life. When, just a few minutes
    h had mentioned his daughter, he had made no reference r, er, e
    “-7,,`Jb the incident. Perhaps he had forgotten it, forgotten she had
    40w, seen his wife or Marianne.
    it was likely, to be expected. Releasing the brake, she drove -ard, and out of the gates.
    cal’s hotel turned out to be in Park Lane. It was large, efficient, mational and anonymous. He had been assigned a business with two telephones and a fax machine. His life was now in similar hotel rooms. He felt he could move around them dfolded. It took him two seconds to unpack.
    e checked his cameras, dialled room service, and told them to g some food at eight. He showered, changed, inspected the pled garments in the closets, and resolved to reform. Would want to work with a man who looked as if he’d slept the night
    in a hedge? No, she would not. He rang the valet service, feeling proud of himself, gestured grandly at the closets.
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    ‘Take them away/ he said. ‘All of them. I want them all cleaned and pressed. Oh, and the shirts laundered. Can you do thatT
    The valet smiled and said he could. He made no comment when he opened the closet doors to find it contained three ancient shirts, three pairs of blue jeans, and innumerable pairs of odd socks.
    ‘The leather jacket as well, would it be, sirT
    Pascal ran his hands through his hair, so it stood on end. ‘No. Maybe not the jacket. It’s cold. I’ll need this.’
    ‘Replace the missing buttons on the shirts, sirT ‘That is possible? Superb.’
    ‘If you’ll be staying with us some while, sir, I could make a suggestion .
    ‘One week. Two weeks. Maybe more. What?’
    ‘There is a very good shop in the hotel arcade, sir. It sells excellent gentlemen’s clothing
    ‘Suits?’ Pascal said, on a suspicious note.
    ‘More your actual informal wear, sir. I think you’d find it to your taste. It stays open until eight.’
    ‘Excellent.’ Pascal gave the man a very generous tip. He went downstairs at once. He inspected the shop in question warily, since clothes did not interest him in the least, and he bought them rarely, only when the previous garments gave up the ghost. Steeling himself, he went inside and began grabbing things from shelves.
    ‘These/ he said, ‘and these. And three of these. And those over there .
    The pile on the counter mounted. The assistant watched hirn, straight-faced. ‘They’re all black, sir. You’re sure you-!
    ‘Yes, yes, black/ said Pascal, proffering plastic. He was already bored with this. ‘Everything black. It’s simpler like that.’
    The assistant knew a pushover when he saw one: customers in a hurry were usually the best. Besides, this customer would be a pleasure to advise: he was tall, lean, rangy. He deserved to be well dressed.
    ‘If I might make a few suggestions, sir? To complement these purchases. A classic white shirt, perhaps? We have Turnbull and Asser in stock. And a nice tie to go with it. Knitted silk is back …
    Pascal was not aware that knitted silk had ever been away. He gave the man a blank look. ‘Ties? Ties? I never wear ties .
    ‘For a dinner engagement, sir? Or a business meeting, perhapsT Pascal hesitated. He