Free Beautiful Lies by Clare Clark Page A

views in large letters in your newspaper.’
    ‘Oh, I do. It is something of a weakness of mine.’
    Cody laughed. His was a face made for laughter, Maribel thought. As soon as he smiled, the planes of it folded neatly into place, like Japanese origami.
    ‘Mr Webster, are you acquainted with Mrs Campbell Lowe?’ Burke asked him.
    ‘Regretfully I have not had that pleasure.’
    The newspaper editor turned to Maribel, fixing his gaze upon her as he bowed. While his face was handsome in the ordinary way, his eyes were astonishing, a brilliant blue-white that was both piercing and milkily myopic, like the eyes of an old cat. They gave the unsettling impression of both seeing into the very heart of her and not seeing her at all. She was the first to look away.
    ‘I am, however, acquainted with your husband,’ Webster said, like Cody unable to keep his eyes from sweeping the curves of her figure. Unlike Cody’s, however, his study was of the utmost seriousness, devoid of the blandness of ordinary propriety. He did not smile. Maribel, who was accustomed to being looked at, was not accustomed to being looked at in that way. Despite herself she flushed.
    ‘Is that right?’ she said, pricklingly aware of her hand still clasped in Webster’s. Abruptly Webster let her go. He did not take his eyes from her face.
    ‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Maribel asked.
    ‘I thought it magnificent. Until two minutes ago, I had imagined it the most remarkable thing I’d see all year.’
    From another man such a remark might have been impudent, even improper, but in Webster’s face there was no prurience, only wonder. He gazed at her, running his hands through his thick hair. It stood up on end as though electrified.
    ‘You are a flatterer,’ she said softly.
    ‘No, I am a newspaper editor. It is my job to tell the truth.’
    A waiter brought a tray of champagne. Maribel took a glass. Webster did not. He watched her as she fumbled for her cigarette case, the glass held awkwardly in her fingers, and, though he hardly moved, the energy rose up from him like a race horse, charging the air. Awkwardly she snapped open the case and offered it to Webster. He shook his head.
    ‘Please tell me you are not entirely devoid of vices, Mr Webster?’ she asked, attempting gaiety.
    ‘Oh, I have plenty. I am flesh and blood, after all.’
    Extracting a cigarette she put it between her lips and hunted for matches. Webster took a box from his own pocket.
    ‘May I?’ he said.
    Leaning towards her he struck one. The flame was sudden and startling. When she bent down towards it he cupped it with both hands, his fingers brushing hers. The shock of it made her dizzy. She drew deeply on the cigarette, pulling the smoke down into the shiver of her stomach. Webster watched her, turning the spent match over and over in his fingers. His palms were square, his fingers blunt and capable. On the edge of his left cuff there was a smut.
    ‘I hope you do not disapprove of women smoking?’ she said.
    ‘Disapprove? No, why should I?’
    ‘Some men do.’
    ‘Some men are idiots.’
    Maribel smiled.
    ‘I smoke myself,’ he said. ‘I can’t seem to keep a pipe alight but there is nothing to beat a fine cigar. Useful in interviews, too. A smoking man is more open, I find, he talks a great deal more freely.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Webster considered her. She could think of nothing else to say. Then he smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.
    ‘Its effect upon the gentler sex, however, requires further study,’ he said and he gazed at her, his smile half forgotten, all the vigour in him trained upon her like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She could feel herself burning.
    ‘Why do you smoke?’ he asked and she hesitated, considering her answer. It startled her, how much she wanted him to understand.
    ‘It is not about talking,’ she said at last. ‘I think it is the opposite. When one talks one disperses a little, the words, the breath, it is as though one is