Little White Lies (38 page)

‘Because of just now . . . what I said. About Tash and the deal and everything,’ she hiccuped, like a child.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Rebecca. I was irritated, that’s all. Come here,’ his fingers went under her chin, drawing her face firmly up to meet his. ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s just a little disagreement, that’s all. It happens.’ He kissed her, slowly, deeply, his tongue thick and urgent and forgiving.

Her relief was so great it was almost orgasmic. She felt herself opening up, quite literally, all through her body. His hands were in her hair, pulling her even closer to him. There was a sudden urgency in him that she hadn’t felt before, a need that he’d never shown her. His next moves happened so fast she didn’t have time to think. One minute her head was in his hands, the next he’d pushed it down to his waist. It was so out of character – in all the time they’d been together he’d never once indicated that he’d even so much as heard of oral sex, never mind expect her to perform it. But he was certainly expecting it now. He thrust himself into her mouth impatiently, his hands still gripping her hair. His mood reminded her of Jeremy Garrick and his odd, frequently unpleasant sexual demands. What surprised her was her willingness to perform. At some obscure, deeply subconscious level, she was desperately trying to atone for something she wasn’t even sure she’d done.

Her face in the mirror
. There was a faint bruise already beginning to show up underneath her skin. Her mouth was swollen and her lips felt numb. Nothing had been said. When she’d finished and brought her face back up to his, he’d pushed her away from him suddenly. ‘Julian?’ she’d whispered. ‘Julian?’ But he seemed very far off from her. He’d belted his dressing gown and walked into the bathroom, then beckoned her back to bed. She’d followed obediently, leaving the un-slept-in sofa bed in the study for the maid to clear away the following morning.

She brought her fingers up to her lips again. There was nothing wrong. She looked down at her wristwatch, a beautiful
Ballon Bleu de Cartier
. He’d given it to her just after their wedding. Its cold, steel-silver face glinted in the semi-darkness. It was almost four o’clock. She’d lain awake for hours after he’d fallen asleep, unable to sleep herself. She cast her mind back again over the events of the evening. Dinner, a good bottle of wine, the conversation about Tash and the small argument that followed . . . so far so good. She had a handle on that. But the way he’d left the room had left her in a state of panic so great she’d almost been unable to breathe. And then the sex . . . it was strange, urgent, and horribly crude. So out of character. But her willingness to
perform
, to do whatever he wanted, shocked her even more. In that instant where he’d grabbed her hair and she’d felt herself melting into submission, she was ashamed to admit that it excited her. She wanted more.
That
was it, she realised suddenly, a flush that was both shameful and exciting rising up through her belly and breasts. She’d wanted his roughness. Julian was quick to pick up on it. When he’d held her face in both hands, pushing her away from him, she’d seen from his eyes that he’d caught her moment of weakness. It was
that
she was afraid of, she realised slowly. She’d allowed him a glimpse into herself and into something she wasn’t yet sure of. She let her fingers fall. Some fearful aspect of herself was out there, between them, waiting to be filled.

ANNICK
Paris

‘Try this.’ Yves reached across the table and motioned to her to open her mouth. Annick glanced quickly to her left and right – what if someone was watching? – closed her eyes and did as he asked. Her mouth was flooded with the taste and scent of something that was simultaneously delicious and strange at the same time. She chewed slowly . . . what was it? Duck? Chicken? Fish? ‘How’s that?’ he grinned at her, waiting for her reaction.

‘Um . . . it’s . . . it’s lovely,’ she said, swallowing quickly. ‘What is it?’

‘Quail. With caviar. Good, eh?’

She nodded. ‘Good’ was an understatement. She took another quick look around her. Chez Vong was the sort of small, known-to-a-few-important-people restaurant that her father had loved. It was in the Les Halles district of the city, close to the river. She hadn’t been down here in years, she thought to herself, half-guiltily. She’d often strolled with Anouschka down the rue Saint-Honoré or the rue du Pont Neuf, stopping off at the shops and boutiques, sometimes even stopping off for
un café
and
petits-fours
before Anouschka had to return home for a fitting or a visitor, frequently both. A memory of sitting in the Café du Pont Neuf with her mother suddenly came back to her. It was spring, but still cold, and they’d stopped to have a coffee. Anouschka was wearing a beautiful black leather coat with a fox-fur collar. Her blonde hair was tucked under her dark grey trilby, a few strands floating prettily around her face. She fished in her handbag – a lovely, slouchy cream-coloured bag from Dior. She pulled out her cigarettes, tapped one out of the box, and looked around for the obligatory waiter to spring in front of her with a lighter.

‘Can I have one?’ Annick piped up suddenly.

Anouschka’s eyes widened. ‘You’re only fourteen,’ she protested.

‘
Fif
teen,’ Annick corrected her. ‘And I’ve been smoking for ages. Everyone smokes at school. It’s no big deal.’

For a second they stared at each other, Annick wondering if she’d gone a step too far. She was on the verge of blurting out something ridiculous like ‘only joking!’ or some such feeble retraction when she saw Anouschka smile suddenly. ‘Fifteen,’ she murmured, tapping out a second stick. ‘
Déjà?
’

Annick nodded, taking the cigarette she’d been offered. ‘But I don’t smoke every day,’ she added. For a few minutes they smoked in silence together, a smile still playing around the corners of Anouschka’s lips.

‘Better not tell Papa, eh?’ she said finally, conspiratorially. It was a rare moment: mother and daughter, enjoying a moment together that neither would share with Sylvan.

‘What’s wrong?’ Yves’s voice suddenly brought her back to the present. She blinked slowly, focusing her attention on him. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

She gave a small, wan smile, forcing herself to concentrate. ‘Oh, it’s nothing . . . I just . . . I was just thinking about something . . .’

‘Something sad?’

She hesitated. They were only halfway through their meal. So far, it had been the most enjoyable evening she’d spent in the past three years. He’d met her outside the hotel, as they’d arranged. There was a car waiting; not the fancy BMW or Mercedes in which he waited whilst his boss finished up whatever ‘business’ he had in the hotel, but a small, clearly second-hand hatchback. He’d apologised for the papers on the back seat – not that she’d have noticed or cared. He complimented her on her blouse and if he’d noticed that she was wearing the same long black skirt that she usually wore at work, he’d said nothing. He drove to Les Halles; they parked close to the restaurant and walked up the street together, not touching or anything, but in the manner of two people clearly getting to know one another. Annick felt as though she were wading through fog. At one level, the game was so familiar to her . . . the shy sideways glances, the awareness of another’s presence, the faint but pleasurable scent of male aftershave every time he turned towards her . . . she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and wallow in it. But at another level, it was as unfamiliar to her as her life now was – alien, unnatural and unreal. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d caught sight of herself in a shop window or in a mirror in one of the wardrobes at the hotel and stopped – was that really
her
? She who used to spend hours examining herself from all angles – back, front, sideways – how long had it been since she’d seen herself in anything other than a passing glance? The strangest thing was, Yves didn’t seem to notice her size. Or if he did, it didn’t seem to bother him. Was it possible that he just didn’t care? The temptation to talk came over her like the urge to laugh or cry. It was so strong she had to clamp down on her lips to stop them opening of their own accord, forming words, sentences, paragraphs, her whole life history spilling out before she had the chance to think.

‘I . . . I was just . . . it’s my . . . it’s a bit complicated,’ she stammered, embarrassment seeping up through her pores like sweat. ‘My . . . my life, I mean.’

‘How d’you mean?’ Yves’ eyes, darkly brilliant, watched her intently.

She looked down at her hands. If she did open up to him, he would immediately withdraw. Who would want to take on the burden of a girl whose parents had been murdered, whose life had been turned upside down, whose future was so murky and undetermined that it wasn’t possible to see a month ahead, let alone six. Who would want that? ‘I . . . you don’t know much about me, do you?’ she said at last.

‘I know enough,’ he said carefully. She looked up. His expression was hard to read.

His answer caught her off-guard. ‘It’s just . . . I’m probably not who you think I am,’ she said slowly. She picked up her chopsticks and began to fiddle with them. ‘I’m . . . well, the thing is . . .’ She stopped again, unsure of how to go on.

He made a sudden, oddly familiar movement with his hand – a gentle flick of the wrist, fingers splayed outwards, as though chasing something off. It was a gesture she’d seen her father make, many times before. ‘What does it matter?’ he said slowly. ‘You’re a bit of an enigma, Annick, but I like that. You’re interesting, you’re kind. You have a good heart. Those are the things that count. That’s all I need to know.’

Interesting, kind, good-hearted . . . they weren’t the sort of compliments she was used to hearing, but then again it had been so long since she’d actually received a compliment, who was she to argue? She bent her head back down to her food, hoping the blush staining her cheeks didn’t show.

REBECCA
London

‘But you can’t
not
have a launch,’ Rebecca said, quickly scanning the menu. ‘I’ll have the Caesar salad,’ she said to the hovering waiter. ‘And a sparkling water.’

‘Same here, but I’ll have glass of the Sauvignon Blanc,’ Tash said, folding her menu with a snap. She turned back to Rebecca. ‘We’ll be going live at midnight the night before. I don’t think we need a launch.’

‘It’s not about what you need, darling,’ Rebecca said mildly. She waited until their drinks had been carefully put down and the waiter had disappeared. She looked at Tash closely. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair, whilst never exactly glossy or full, was lank. She watched her pick up the glass of wine and down it in one gulp. ‘Tash,’ Rebecca murmured. ‘Go easy.’

‘What?’

‘The wine, darling. You’re meant to
sip
it, not swill it.’

Tash rolled her eyes and signalled to the waiter. ‘I’ll sip the second one,’ she grinned.

Rebecca bit her lip. It was the third time in as many weeks that she’d had dinner with Tash and she’d been shocked by Tash’s ability to knock back one glass of wine after another. The last time they’d eaten together, Tash had barely touched her food. She’d always been slim; now she was positively scrawny. ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked hesitantly.

Tash paused, the glass already on its way to her lips. ‘Yes, of course. Why d’you ask?’

‘No particular reason. You just look . . . well, a bit tired.’

‘Of course I’m tired. I’ve hardly slept all week. Fuck, I’ve hardly slept since March. But we’re close . . . we’re nearly there.’

‘Don’t you think you ought to . . . I don’t know . . . get some rest?’

‘I’ll rest when we’re ready to go,’ Tash said firmly. The waiter interrupted them again. Their salads had arrived.

Rebecca watched Tash chase a piece of limp lettuce leaf halfway round her plate before putting it reluctantly in her mouth. ‘So . . . what else needs to be done?’ she asked hesitantly.

Tash looked up and grinned. ‘Everything. God, it just never seems to end.’ She rattled off a list of things that left Rebecca reeling. IT, finance, merchandising, packaging, logistics – words that Rebecca had barely heard of, let alone imagined that her best friend had a handle on. Despite her appearance, Tash was formidable when she was in full flow. ‘Packaging’s one of our biggest costs right now and Julian thinks I’m going overboard, but I think it’s crucial. Every box has to seem like a gift, d’you know what I mean?’

Rebecca nodded hurriedly. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘And then there’s the bloody designers. They’re a complete pain in the arse. Edith’s great – she does most of the pitching – my contacts are mostly editorial, you know, not the designers, but still . . . this one wants to know who’s signed up before she makes a decision, that one doesn’t want this one on board . . . Christ, they’re worse than schoolchildren. They just can’t seem to get it through their heads that the more they sign up for it, the more we all win.’

Rebecca nodded again, this time uncertainly. The truth was, she couldn’t imagine shopping for
anything
online, much less designer clothes. She’d bought the occasional book from Amazon but that was about it. Embeth was more of an internet user than she was, much to Embeth’s amusement. She thought Tash’s idea was absolutely genius, as did Julian, though he had reservations of a different kind. He thought that Tash herself was a terrible advert for an online fashion business. ‘She’s got to do something about those damned teeth,’ he’d said to her on more than one occasion. ‘And that awful hair. Why can’t she just go to a hairdresser like everyone else?’

‘That’s just Tash,’ Rebecca said, sighing. ‘She’s not interested in herself.’

‘She ought to be. She’s selling beauty and glamour and sex . . . and she’s the bloody polar opposite of it all. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Julian!’ Rebecca said, shocked at his vehemence. ‘Tash is lovely, you’ve said so yourself.’

‘Lovely person, yes, but hardly lovely to look at. Come on, admit it. Not everyone’s as beautiful as you, darling, but she really ought to make more of an effort.’