Read Online Lovers and Liars by Sally Beauman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Beauman
Tags: Suspense, Erótica, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction, romantic suspense, Mystery & Suspense, Romantic
Ads: Link
on the edge of the group. Some sycophant made some sycophantic joke, and her father was launched.
The Frenchman watched him quietly. He never spoke once, but Gini could feel the eddies of Lamartine’s dislike. She was young and naive, and she loved her father very much. The ceiling fans revolved; on and on her father talked, and Gini’s heart shrivelled inside her. The young Frenchman stood there, silent and stonyfaced. He made no effort to disguise his contempt.
Gini could feel Beirut on her skin now, in a newspaper diningroom. She could smell Beirut - honey and pastries, arak and coffee grounds, cordite and mortar dust - while the English waiter served them an English lunch. Nicholas Jenkins was speaking, but over and above and through his words came a richer sound - the clamour of the Beirut streets.
Machine-gun fire and the cries of street vendors; the liquid voices of the bar girls; the creak of louvred shutters, the sudden drum of summer rain, the Western songs seeping out from the dancehalls, the thunderclap of bombs and wail of Arab ululations. She could feel it now, that new foreign land, that dry rasping heat.
Pascal Lamartine had lived in a room by the harbour. It was next door to a bar, over a cheap dancehall: twelve feet square, bare as a monk’s cell, all his pictures filed in boxes. There was a
54
mattress on the floor, two chairs and one table. When she went to -the room, she found that the dancehall music from below filtered up. It made the air move and the floor vibrate like the deck of a ship. Several times, in the evenings, she’d stood at his window ,,,,and watched night fall. When darkness came, the fishing boats left “Iffie harbour beyond, and the dancers below began their routines. ,,$he could hear the murmurs of their male audience soft as distant #iunder, a million miles beneath.
She’d imagine then, waiting, how it would be if Pascal did not back. She’d hear the bomb, see the sniper, live his deaths. ,5.he would count the seconds, the clink of glasses from the bar, _, e
“ih passers-by in the streets, whispers in foreign tongues. And “then the door would open, and Pascal would come back. Quick, “MY darling, he would say, or she would say, please be quick.
mo twilights; neon seeping through the shutters. She could ell his skin now, recollect the detail of his gaze, feel the touch his hand. She closed her eyes, and thought, Dear God, will I ver forget?
J#,, Years ago, another place, another life. She had encountered Pascal just once since.
She looked up, tried to push the past back where it belonged, in e deadzone. She sipped a glass of water. A modish newspaper g-room deconstructed then reassembled itself. The lunch
rovided was elaborate, unusually so - as if Jenkins intended impress.
In front of her on a white plate was a tiny bird some in
ki d, its glazed skin impaled with grapes. Jenkins was &A 9, and she had not heard a single word he’d said. Sense s agmen
fr ting: Pascal sat three feet away from her as polite astranger. There was still a pair of handcuffs in her bag; this in was a very normal and a very crazy place.
ns was drinking Meursault. He drained his glass and coned speaking. Beirut receded: this was some briefing, a new ment. For the first time Gini began to listen to what he
… tota confidentiality.’ He smiled. Nicholas Jenkins, thirtypink-cheeked, baby-faced, growing plump. He wore rimless clear-physicist-st%je spectacles. His bonhomie never quite dis…,194ised t e fact that Jenkins was on the make.
I.. F, -
.. . ‘No leaks,’ he continued, stabbing the air with his knife. ‘Anyug you discover, we check it once, we check it twice. Make blY sure. We can’t afford any errors. This story will be big.’
55
He looked from Gini to Pascal. He pushed his quail aside, half-eaten. ‘I’m using you, Pascal, because I want pictures. Pictures equal proof. And I’m using you, Gini, because you have certain contacts.’ He paused, and gave a tight
The Frenchman watched him quietly. He never spoke once, but Gini could feel the eddies of Lamartine’s dislike. She was young and naive, and she loved her father very much. The ceiling fans revolved; on and on her father talked, and Gini’s heart shrivelled inside her. The young Frenchman stood there, silent and stonyfaced. He made no effort to disguise his contempt.
Gini could feel Beirut on her skin now, in a newspaper diningroom. She could smell Beirut - honey and pastries, arak and coffee grounds, cordite and mortar dust - while the English waiter served them an English lunch. Nicholas Jenkins was speaking, but over and above and through his words came a richer sound - the clamour of the Beirut streets.
Machine-gun fire and the cries of street vendors; the liquid voices of the bar girls; the creak of louvred shutters, the sudden drum of summer rain, the Western songs seeping out from the dancehalls, the thunderclap of bombs and wail of Arab ululations. She could feel it now, that new foreign land, that dry rasping heat.
Pascal Lamartine had lived in a room by the harbour. It was next door to a bar, over a cheap dancehall: twelve feet square, bare as a monk’s cell, all his pictures filed in boxes. There was a
54
mattress on the floor, two chairs and one table. When she went to -the room, she found that the dancehall music from below filtered up. It made the air move and the floor vibrate like the deck of a ship. Several times, in the evenings, she’d stood at his window ,,,,and watched night fall. When darkness came, the fishing boats left “Iffie harbour beyond, and the dancers below began their routines. ,,$he could hear the murmurs of their male audience soft as distant #iunder, a million miles beneath.
She’d imagine then, waiting, how it would be if Pascal did not back. She’d hear the bomb, see the sniper, live his deaths. ,5.he would count the seconds, the clink of glasses from the bar, _, e
“ih passers-by in the streets, whispers in foreign tongues. And “then the door would open, and Pascal would come back. Quick, “MY darling, he would say, or she would say, please be quick.
mo twilights; neon seeping through the shutters. She could ell his skin now, recollect the detail of his gaze, feel the touch his hand. She closed her eyes, and thought, Dear God, will I ver forget?
J#,, Years ago, another place, another life. She had encountered Pascal just once since.
She looked up, tried to push the past back where it belonged, in e deadzone. She sipped a glass of water. A modish newspaper g-room deconstructed then reassembled itself. The lunch
rovided was elaborate, unusually so - as if Jenkins intended impress.
In front of her on a white plate was a tiny bird some in
ki d, its glazed skin impaled with grapes. Jenkins was &A 9, and she had not heard a single word he’d said. Sense s agmen
fr ting: Pascal sat three feet away from her as polite astranger. There was still a pair of handcuffs in her bag; this in was a very normal and a very crazy place.
ns was drinking Meursault. He drained his glass and coned speaking. Beirut receded: this was some briefing, a new ment. For the first time Gini began to listen to what he
… tota confidentiality.’ He smiled. Nicholas Jenkins, thirtypink-cheeked, baby-faced, growing plump. He wore rimless clear-physicist-st%je spectacles. His bonhomie never quite dis…,194ised t e fact that Jenkins was on the make.
I.. F, -
.. . ‘No leaks,’ he continued, stabbing the air with his knife. ‘Anyug you discover, we check it once, we check it twice. Make blY sure. We can’t afford any errors. This story will be big.’
55
He looked from Gini to Pascal. He pushed his quail aside, half-eaten. ‘I’m using you, Pascal, because I want pictures. Pictures equal proof. And I’m using you, Gini, because you have certain contacts.’ He paused, and gave a tight
Similar Books
