Little White Lies (48 page)

A wave of profound, primitive despair flowed over Tash before she could stop it. She stared at her mother. All her life there’d been things she felt but couldn’t name, fears she couldn’t utter. Not having a father was one of them. Yes, she always trotted out the cheerful, well-worn phrase, ‘oh, you can’t miss what you never had’ and she repeated it so often it was almost true. Almost. Then there were the other fears. Worrying that she’d never blossom, the way Rebecca and Annick had. That she’d never be even remotely attractive. That she’d always be mouthy and smart but never, ever desirable. That she’d be successful but unloved, or that she’d always be alone. Looking down at her mother, it was the last fear that sent a tremor of despair running through her. Something was happening to Lyudmila – was she sick? No, that wasn’t it, unless it was some hidden, secret illness no one, not even Lyudmila – could see. It was more a letting go . . . it came to her now, that, in spite of Lyudmila’s inherent selfishness, especially when it came to choosing between a luxury for herself or something for Tash, her mother had always been
there
. She’d more than made up for the absence of a father. She was always there when Tash returned home, always there at night when she went to bed. She never once spent the night away from home, not even back then when she’d had every opportunity. No, her gentlemen friends always came to the house, never the other way round. The sudden, painful realisation opened out onto a deeper one. What would become of her when Lyudmila was gone?

Lyudmila’s eyes opened suddenly. She struggled to focus. ‘Oh.
Dushen’ka
. . . w-what time is it?’

Tash, for the first time in years, laid a hand on her mother’s hair. It felt soft to the touch. ‘Ma, it’s late. You’ve had a small . . . accident. You must’ve spilled something on your trousers. Come on, let’s get you into bed.’

Lyudmila looked down at herself, frowning. ‘Wh . . . what? Oh, oh,
nyet
.’ She struggled upright, brushing Tash’s hand aside. ‘
Nyet
. . . it must’ve—’

‘Must’ve been the tea,’ Tash interrupted briskly. ‘Come on, get up.’ She helped Lyudmila stand. Together, they made their way rather shakily to Lyudmila’s bedroom.

‘
Ya sama!
I manage,’ Lyudmila said impatiently as Tash tried to help her unbutton her shirt.

‘Fine. D’you want some water?’

‘
Nyet. Da
. Yes, bring me water.’ Lyudmila peeled her shirt off and unbuckled her trousers. There was a second’s hesitation as they looked at each other, mother and daughter, neither wishing to admit to what clearly couldn’t be said.

Then Tash turned and went into the kitchen. She filled a glass from the tap and took it back in. Lyudmila was already in bed. She took the glass over, setting it carefully down on the bedside table. She looked at her mother. Lyudmila’s eyes were closed. She stood there for a second, and then bent down to pick up her discarded clothes. ‘
Dushen’ka
,’ Lyudmila murmured suddenly.

‘What?’

Lyudmila’s hand went out, catching hold of Tash’s. She held it for a second, and then brought it gently towards her own head. Tash held her breath for a second, fighting down the ache in her chest. Then she began gently stroking her mother’s hair.

ANNICK
London

‘Someone from the IT department’ll be up shortly. He’ll sort you out with email access and all that. Oh, and he’ll programme your ID card so that you can get into the canteen and the library. I think that’s everything. I’m only down the hallway so shout if you’ve got any questions. Shall I take you to your office?’

‘Yes, please. Th-thanks,’ Annick stammered. Her hands went automatically to her sides, as though she were trying to smooth her hips away. The black skirt with its kick-flare hem at her knees felt uncomfortably wrong. Clinton Crabbe might be one of the biggest and most prestigious law firms in London but her Burberry suit felt all wrong. Too stylish. So far, she’d met approximately ten of her new colleagues, ten men and women in almost identical grey and black suits without even so much as a hint of colour between them. She’d worn the beige Chloé suit to her interview with the baby-blue shirt, of course and had been told kindly, but firmly, that ‘We generally stick to black at Clinton Crabbe. Sometimes grey. Maybe navy-blue.’ She’d immediately relayed the intelligence to Tash. ‘Bo-
ring
.’ Tash was unrepentant. ‘Get the job first, though. They can’t sack you for wearing nice clothes.’

On her first day she’d carefully chosen the only black suit in her wardrobe. At home, in front of the mirror, it seemed conservative enough but now, catching sight of herself in one of the mirrors as she followed her new colleague down the corridor, it struck her as a little too . . . well,
feminine
. There was nothing feminine about any of the other female solicitors she’d encountered thus far.

‘Ms Karol should be here soon. She comes in from Brussels on Mondays.’

‘Brussels?’

‘Yeah. Her husband lives there. He works for the European Commission. She flies over every other weekend. Right, well, if there’s nothing else?’ He seemed in a hurry to disappear.

‘No, no . . . that’s great. Thanks,’ Annick hastily assured him. She couldn’t remember his name. Neil? Nigel?

‘Good luck.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She can be a bit fierce sometimes, but don’t let that put you off. She’s brilliant.’

‘Oh. Th-thanks.’ The door closed behind him and she was alone. She looked around the office. It was a decent-sized room with two desks and a small adjoining room off to one side where the two secretaries sat. Neither was at her desk; one had gone out to fetch coffee and the other was busy photocopying files. Whilst the secretaries – whose names she’d also already forgotten – were technically hers as well, it was clear Frances Karol’s wishes would always come first. She was the most senior woman in Clinton Crabbe and Annick ought to consider herself lucky to be working with her. So everyone said.

A shadow fell across the carpet suddenly. She looked up. A young woman was standing in the doorway holding a large silver flask. ‘Oh, hello. You must be the new solicitor. I’m Louise. Ms Karol’s assistant.’

‘Hi. I’m Annick.’

‘Um, we don’t call the solicitors by their first names. Not in this department, anyway.’

‘Oh.’

‘So, you’ll be Miss Betancourt to us. That’s myself and Katie.’

‘Oh.’ Annick didn’t know what else to say. She was saved any further embarrassment by the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

‘Good morning, Ms Karol,’ Louise practically dropped into a curtsy.

‘Morning, Louise. Ah, you must be Annick Betancourt.’

Annick nodded. Frances Karol was a tall, flame-haired woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a grey pin-stripe trouser suit with a black silk shirt and a severe, no-nonsense look on her face. ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Good morning. I . . . Neil showed me—’

‘Coffee? How d’you take it?’

‘For me? Oh, er, milk and sugar.’

‘Sugar?’ Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘Coffee for Miss Betancourt, Louise. This side of Christmas, if you can manage it. Now, I assume someone’s shown you the peripheral stuff?’

‘Peripheral stuff?’

‘Toilets, canteen, that sort of thing?’

‘Oh, er, yes.’

‘Good. Then we can get started on the important stuff. Pull up a chair and grab a notebook. I’ve a list of things I’d like you to take care of. It’s going to be a tough week, I’m afraid. We’ve got several big cases coming up and I’ll be alongside the barristers in court for most of it. I’m told you’ve a fair bit of experience in wills and probate?’

Annick swallowed nervously. It had been over five years since she’d even looked at a legal document, let alone a will, but something told her it wasn’t the time to admit to it. ‘Um, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘That’s mostly what I worked on at . . . when I last worked here.’

‘Good. Not a million miles away from what I do. Patience is key. Hard work, attention to detail and patience. Let’s hope you’ve got at least one out of the three.’

Annick had no idea what to say. She struggled to keep up with the list of things Frances was rattling off. She’d only just managed to get over the shock of watching Tash at work. The brusque, no-nonsense manner that had characterised her personality for as long as Annick had known her had been transformed into a brisk professionalism that left Annick speechless. And now here was Frances Karol, several years older and several degrees frostier. The women Annick had either known or worked with before were of a much milder, more feminine disposition.

‘Annick?’ Frances’ voice interrupted her musings.

She looked up nervously. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve stopped writing. Unless you’ve got total recall, which I very much doubt, you’re going to miss something. I’m going to go back a point or two and I’d advise you to do the same. It’s all in the detail, Annick. But you should know that.’

Annick bent her head back to her notebook. Her cheeks were already reddening. Could she keep up?

The brain, Annick soon discovered, was like any other muscle.
Was
it a muscle? No matter. Whatever it was – muscle, organ,
thing
– it needed exercise, fresh air, and exertion. In other words, it needed to be
used
. Her brain, unused to doing anything more taxing than working out room rates or adding up the night’s takings, refused at first to step up to the plate. Her first few days at Clinton Crabbe passed in a haze of panic. She felt as though she was sleepwalking and with each passing hour, the feeling intensified. She couldn’t manage the simplest of tasks, like remembering where her office was. Fourth floor, exit lift, turn left (not right), second corridor on the left, fifth office down. She whispered the directions to herself like a mantra and
still
managed to take the wrong corridor, wrong turn, wrong office. She’d lost count of the times someone on the fourth floor had seen her coming, rolled his eyes and pointed her back in the direction from which she’d come. Of the six pairs of shoes Tash had thrust upon her, none had anything less than a four-inch heel
and
they clacked. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Frances wore low-heeled sensible black court shoes, not stilettoes, and she approached in silence. Annick came down the corridors sounding like the Charge of the Light Brigade.

Every morning, a pile of legal briefs would appear on her desk threatening to topple over. Her job was to go through them with a magnifying glass, checking facts, figures, dates, conflicting accounts . . . making sure, in other words, that whatever landed on Frances’ desk was watertight and in perfect order. ‘If you can survive six months with her, you can survive anyone,’ someone helpfully told her as they both stood waiting for their coffees one morning. Annick nodded uncertainly. At this rate, she thought to herself, she wasn’t sure she’d survive another six days. She went to bed after midnight every night, woke up at five, usually in a cold sweat worrying if she’d forgotten something or misspelt something or omitted something, and was at her desk by seven thirty each morning, long before Louise and Katie. There was so much to learn. ‘Experience is everything,’ Frances tossed out over her shoulder one afternoon. ‘A tax lawyer who doesn’t know her taxation is useless, so you’ve got to be committed to acquiring that knowledge.’ Annick could only nod. Her first few months were crucial, she knew. She had to establish herself not only as credible in Frances’ eyes, but as a team player, someone who could roll up her (Chloé) sleeves and get down to business alongside everyone else. She felt as though she’d suddenly been thrown a lifeline and she was determined not to let it slip.

Compared to what she’d been earning in Paris, her new salary was an absolute fortune. Tash wouldn’t hear of her contributing to her rent or her clothing. ‘Pay me back later, darling. When you’re properly on your feet.’ And that was the end of that conversation.

Six months, Annick vowed to herself. In six months’ time, she’d move out of the lovely little flat on Queen Anne Street and into something that, as a junior solicitor, she could properly afford. In the meantime, there were so many other things to worry about. At the end of her first week she walked into Lewin’s, the shirt-makers on the corner, and bought three plain white shirts. One more raised eyebrow from Ms Karol and she’d
die
.

REBECCA
London

It was their third argument in as many weeks, and, as usual, it was conducted over the phone. Where was Julian? Vancouver. No, Toronto. Ottawa? She struggled to remember.

‘I don’t understand,’ Julian said tetchily. ‘It’s all organised. What’s the problem?’

‘But you said you’d be in Israel next week. And I . . . I made
arrangements
.’

‘What sort of
arrangements
? Cancel them.’

‘I . . . I can’t. It was just going to be the three of us. It’ll be the first time we’re—’

‘Rebecca.’ Julian’s voice was dangerously quiet. She could feel a storm coming on. ‘You need to make up your mind here.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’re married to
me
, Rebecca, not those damned girlfriends of yours. Now, I’ve got two clients coming over with me, and Jeff and Miranda, of course. I’ve already spoken to your mother. We’re going down to Brockhurst. She’ll have the place ready for us; the servants will organise lunch and dinner. Jeff and I will take the clients out for a round of golf on the Saturday morning and I’m sure you can find something to do with Miranda and—’

Rebecca slammed down the phone. Her hands were shaking. She’d been so looking forward to spending the bank holiday weekend in Cavezzana with Tash and Annick. It was to be a surprise for Annick’s birthday. They’d planned to show up at Annick’s flat early on the Saturday morning with presents. Embeth’s driver would wait for them downstairs. They wouldn’t tell Annick where they were going until they’d reached Heathrow. First-class tickets, a driver waiting for them in Genoa, the drive down to Cavezzana . . . it had all been organised, right down to the last detail. And now Julian had gone and ruined everything . . . and the worst thing was, he wasn’t even apologetic! He seemed to regard it as his
right
! And her mother seemed to be in on it, too. She’d known for
weeks
what she and Tash had planned . . . how dare she just give into Julian’s demands without saying a word?