Little White Lies (22 page)

She didn’t have to wait for nightfall. Just before four, when the light was only just beginning to fade, she saw a figure she recognised at the top of the road. Her heart almost stopped beating. It was Jeremy. He wasn’t alone. A woman and a child walked alongside him, the young boy holding on to the woman’s hand. Jeremy carried the shopping bags. She watched, open-mouthed, as they approached. They were having the sort of mild domestic argument she’d heard a thousand times before, in other circumstances, in different places.

‘But Dad, you
promised
! You said I could—’

‘That’s enough, Steven,’ the woman said, bending her head to his. ‘We’ll do it together after supper.’

‘But
Dad
said—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jeremy. Why on earth did you—’

Something must have made him turn his head as they walked up the steps to their flat. He stopped when he saw her. His eyes narrowed, as he looked at her. But this time, there was no interest; just the odd expression of something that looked like triumphant contempt. He held her gaze for a few seconds as his wife fumbled with the front door key and Rebecca was powerless to turn away. Then the moment passed, he followed his wife and child into the flat and shut the door. Rebecca sat there for a few more minutes as though her feet had taken root. Then with a stifled sob, she got up and fled.

There were dark shadows under her eyes and her hair was lank. She quickly washed her face, praying that the storm of weeping that had descended upon her that afternoon had left few traces. She was dreading the upcoming
seder
. Her mother, who always had a nose for whatever wasn’t being said, wouldn’t be easily fooled. She patted her face dry, ran a quick comb through her hair and pinched her cheeks to give them a little colour. She faced herself in the mirror and to her horror, her eyes started filling with tears again.
Stop, stop, stop
. She gave herself a shake. Deep breath in, slow breath out. She had to get a grip on herself. It was going to be a big dinner – her father would be there, for once, and various members of the extended Harburg clan. It was no time to appear dishevelled and distraught. She blew her nose again, took another deep breath and opened the door.

The house was redolent with the rich smells of cooking. The two girls who came in on Fridays to help Embeth would have been in the kitchen all day; everything made from scratch, just the way Embeth liked it. The beautiful long dining table, covered in snowy white linen and polished silverware, would be groaning under the weight of food: roast lamb, sprinkled with apricots and cinnamon; traditional gefilte fish and the braided, home-made challah;
shakshuka
, the coriander and green pepper stew that was a childhood favourite of her mother’s; porcelain tureens of light, clear broth with delicate matzo balls . . . all the traditional
seder
dishes she’d grown up with.

She paused on the landing for a moment, looking down the great staircase into the hallway below. The chandelier that had hung in the same position through all the long years of childhood had recently been polished. Its cut-crystal edges threw light onto the silky warm colours and textures below – the oriental rugs, cherry- and satin-wood furniture, and the ornate gilded mirror on the opposite wall.

As she descended the staircase, she caught a glimpse of herself. She’d lost weight; her jeans were baggy and her neck and collarbones stood out above the neck of her jumper. She could feel another wave of sadness threatening to break over her but she was nearly at the foot of the stairs. Any second now one of the many doors that led off the circular hallway would open and someone would step out. She couldn’t afford to start crying. Not now.

‘Ah,
there
you are.’ Her father came out of his study. ‘When did you arrive?’

‘About an hour ago, Papa.’ He too had lost weight, she noticed suddenly. She looked at him closely, seeing him properly for the first time in ages. He seemed shorter, too. He was wearing an old grey cardigan that fell in folds around his shoulders. Her heart rose alarmingly in her throat. He was old.

‘What’s the matter, Rebecca?’ He peered at her over the top of his spectacles.

She shook her head. ‘N . . . nothing. Here.’ She picked at an imaginary piece of fluff on his sleeve to give her hands something to do.

‘What’s that?’

‘Just . . . just a bit of fluff. You must’ve picked it up somewhere.’

‘
Ach, laß es doch
. I’m sure I’ll just pick up another bit somewhere else. Tante Brigitte’s here – have you seen her?’

She shook her head. That was another thing. He often lapsed into German these days, something he’d never have done when she was younger. When she was very young, she didn’t even realise he
was
German. She remembered coming upon him once, in the very same study, speaking German to someone on the telephone. She’d listened, stunned, for a few minutes, then run to find her mother. ‘Papa’s talking all funny!’ she’d shouted, much to everyone’s amusement. The sudden memory prompted a fresh load of tears and she had to turn her head away. ‘Come on, Papa . . . they’ll all be waiting.’

‘
Ja, ja
.’ He put a hand on her arm, as if waiting for her to lead him through. But as she moved forward, he exerted a gentle pressure, making her stop. ‘Rebs,’ he asked enquiringly, using his childhood name for her. ‘Is everything all right?’

She swallowed. The desire to lean into him in a way she hadn’t done in nearly fifteen years was overwhelming. She saw him so sporadically, especially now. She rested her head for a moment on his shoulder. It wasn’t the firm, solid pad of muscle and flesh she remembered from childhood but he was still her father, still the most dependable, most trustworthy man she’d ever known. ‘Papa,’ she began hesitantly, but stopped. What would she even
say
?

‘Everything will be all right, Rebecca,’ he murmured, reaching around to catch hold of her hand. ‘Everything will be fine.
Ist nichts
. In a month’s time you’ll have forgotten all about him.’ He patted her arm and then moved on, leaving her standing there, open-mouthed with surprise. How on earth could he have known? Suddenly she caught her mother’s eye. Embeth was standing on the other side of the table, nodding faintly in a way that let Rebecca know
she
too understood. As she took her place amidst cries of welcome from those who knew and loved her best, she felt their obvious affection and warmth behind her like a solid presence, a reminder of who she was and why the events of that morning would pass. Just as her father said.

TASH

The evening was all going splendidly according to plan. She slipped away from the hordes of event managers, their assistants and assistants-to-the-assistants, bodyguards, chefs, bartenders, security chiefs and general all-round gofers whose job it was to keep everyone happy and in line. Lady Davenport was somewhere in the great entrance hall together with the host, Lord Hetherington, doing what she did best – meeting and greeting, air-kissing and cooing delightedly over the masked guests, the glamorous ball gowns, dresses, hairdos and jewellery. The rules were strict – no entry without a mask, and pinned to everyone’s back was a beautiful gilt-edged card with a single word or statement that alluded to their identity. In the two-hour mingling-and-cocktails slot before dinner, guests were asked to guess who was behind the mask and, if the answer was correct, the wearer was obliged to unmask. By dinner, Tash hoped, most people would be unveiled, with a prize going to the person who’d correctly identified the highest number of masked partygoers. The atmosphere was gay and festive, exactly what she’d wanted; even the waiters had joined in the fun. Some of the clues were hilarious. Lady Davenport had enlisted the help of yet another friend who set out crosswords for the
Sunday Times
– it was all very witty and jolly.

She opened the door to one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor, closed the door firmly behind her and walked over to the window, extracting a cigarette from her handbag. She lit it with slightly shaking fingers and opened the window, carefully wiping the sill before arranging her white silk dress so that it wouldn’t crush. The dress had been a gift from Lady Davenport. Lyudmila cried when she saw it. She inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out carefully. Far below her, the gardens sloped away to the river. There were dozens of taut, cream silk tents, decorated with lilies, garlands of tiny white spray roses and giant bouquets of pale flowers whose names Tash couldn’t even pronounce, let alone remember. Under each marquee there were three or four circular tables, decked out in silver, gold and white, with matching chairs and linen. Thousands of tea lights and silver-and-gold hanging chandeliers provided the rosy glow under which everyone, even the ageing celebrities would look gorgeous. It had all been organised by the event planner, the formidable Lady Caroline Ashford, another friend of Lady Davenport’s whose connections stretched across six continents and most of Europe’s royal houses.

She stubbed out her cigarette and closed the windows. She picked up her purse and opened the door. Rebecca and Annick were somewhere in the crowd eagerly anticipating the stars, the show . . . the whole damned event. Rebecca’s parents had politely declined the invitation. The Harburgs had their own discreet brand of philanthropy in which movie stars and actors rarely featured. No matter. There were more than enough millionaires in the crowds waiting under the tents. Her heart began to beat faster. It was time to don her own mask – a gorgeous, diamanté-studded pair of green cat’s eyes, complete with whiskers made out of peacock feathers and jewelled tassels. Her note read,
A Left-handed Marriage
.
One of Eight. A Cousin
. She couldn’t remember the complicated history by which Princess Tatiana Konstantinova of Russia had seven siblings, a cousin and a morganatic marriage, but it was the name ‘Tatiana’ that was the link. No one present would guess it, anyhow, she thought. Annick’s card was equally obscure.
Two Presidents and a Daughter
, a reference to her father and the president of Venezuela, Rómulo Betancourt. Embeth Harburg was possibly the only person who might get it – and she wasn’t there, of course. Rebecca’s was easier.
Captivating. Dreams of Manderley.

She smoothed down her skirt and took a deep breath. It was time for the show to begin.

SYLVAN

He stood a little way behind his wife, who was resplendent in crushed dark green silk, her beautiful face hidden behind her mask as she stood chatting to people. Whose idea was it for everyone to wear those damned masks, he thought to himself irritably. Although, he mused, the black velvet behind which he hid and surveyed the crowd had its advantages. He wasn’t expected to know or recognise anyone, which was something of a relief. It had been so long since he’d been involved in Anouschka’s world that he was no longer up to date. He had no idea who anyone was, who’d married whom, who’d divorced whom, who was on his or her way up or down . . . and besides, they were all English. Anouschka seemed to know everyone, or at least she appeared to know everyone. It was often only when they were alone, afterwards, in the hotel room or official residence, that she confessed she didn’t actually know who anyone was.

There was a woman to his left wearing what looked like a motorcycle helmet, not a mask, chatting to someone who’d taken hers off. Their voices were shrill and clear. They were talking about someone – a mutual friend, it seemed – who’d been diagnosed with cancer. All of a sudden, without warning, his mind gave a violent jerk, catapulting him backwards in time and place. He was four or five again, perhaps even six, and his mother was dying, slipping agonisingly slowly from one world to the next. She’d been doing it for more than a year and since the humidity of Lomé had proved unbearable to her, they’d all decamped to Paris, to the big, half-empty apartment on rue Louis Pasteur in Boulogne-Billancourt. It was near a tennis stadium, he remembered dimly, and there was a large park, a forest, nearby. One day, his grandfather took him to watch a match. Afterwards, they walked back along the main road, one hand held loosely in his grandfather’s and an ice-cream in the other. He remembered two things – the pleasurable, almost-forgotten sensation of his smaller hand in someone else’s and the melting ice-cream that trickled down his sleeve.

His mother was too sick to hold his hand anymore. She was too sick to do much other than lie in that bed in the big room on the first floor that overlooked the forest and smelled of terrible things. Her days, which in Lomé had seemed rather idle, were now given over to a strict routine: breakfast sent up to her on a tray; then the nurses trooped in, washing her in bed, arranging her pillows and her hair, doing their best to disguise the scent that he didn’t know until much later was the scent of death. Then he was allowed into the room to kiss her before her mid-morning nap. Grandfather came in and sat with her until lunch, after which the nurses took over again. In the late afternoon he was brought in once more. He perched gingerly on the end of the high bed whilst her temperature was taken and various pills administered. After a few minutes murmured conversation she slipped away into sleep.

Her dying gave form to the temporary household that didn’t have one. Until that point, Paris had been a place he associated with summer holidays. The rules were relaxed; there was no homework, no maids, and no school friends, just him, his mother and his grandfather, alone in a way that the families of presidents never are. It was just after the war and there was little traffic on the roads. He was at last allowed to have a bicycle and could wander off down the road to the park as he pleased. Late in the afternoon when the household was preoccupied, he would cycle off, exploring the side streets and roads that led to the Bois de Boulogne. He made friends with the women who emerged from the bushes and trees, standing on the side of the road in belted coats, in all weathers, even rain. They called him
chéri
and occasionally gave him sweets or a
sou
or two. He would cycle homewards, feet furiously pumping the pedals, his cheeks bulging with liquorice or those small butterscotch sweets – what were they called?
Berlingots
. That was it!
Berlingots
. All of a sudden, their sweet, silky taste of them was in his mouth and he gave out a stifled groan. Anouschka turned her head and frowned at him. What was wrong? He couldn’t explain. He had to get away from it, and from them.