Little White Lies (52 page)

‘That’s for me to decide, Annick. Not you.’

‘I . . . I
wanted
to explain. So many times, but I never found the right moment. I didn’t know how to even begin.’

‘Begin at the beginning; isn’t that what they always say?’

‘But I don’t know where the beginning is. When I first came to Paris, after it happened, my aunt told me a bit. About my father, and my grandfather. Where they’d come from, when they came over from Brazil, the war . . . all that stuff.’ She turned her face into the warmth of his neck. She could feel his pulse beating against her lips. ‘I didn’t know about
them,
though. No one ever told me.’

‘Didn’t you ask, though? Didn’t you ever wonder why you were different? Even your name’s not really Togolese.’

She shrugged. ‘No. I . . . I just didn’t. Lots of people don’t know much about where they’re from.’ She felt him stiffen slightly. ‘Do you?’ Yves was silent. His hand continued its slow, gentle caress but something had changed. She was aware of his attention in a different way. She tried to shift her body round so that she could look at him but the cover that lay between them shrouded his face. ‘Yves?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘No, it’s nothing.’

‘So why won’t you answer?’ She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him.

His eyes didn’t quite meet her gaze. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said finally.

‘But I’ve told you everything about
me
.’ She took a deep breath. Something wasn’t right. He was still touching her in that easy, proprietorial way that she’d only just realised she’d missed but behind the lazy caress she had the impression of a mind furiously at work.

‘I don’t know who my biological parents were.’ His hand had stopped moving. His whole body was tense with the effort of holding something in. ‘I don’t even know where they were from. There’s nothing to tell because I don’t
know
anything.’

A wave of tenderness and remorse flowed over her. She moved closer to him, putting her arms around him, comforting him in the only way she knew how. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’ She kissed his neck, the soft, vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat that sometimes tasted salty to her. ‘That’s the weird thing, you know.’

‘What is?’

‘You think you’re protecting people by not saying anything, by keeping it locked up inside you.’ She hesitated, unsure of her words.

‘But?’ She felt his attention on her now, like breath.

‘But the thing is, in the end, you wind up just pushing everyone away. Because you
can’t
keep it in, that’s the whole point. It eats at you, right here,’ she placed a hand on his stomach. ‘That’s why I used to . . . to eat so much.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘I was always hungry, always. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and my stomach would be so empty it hurt. I didn’t realise then that it wasn’t hunger at all.’

‘What was it?’

She swallowed. She could feel the salt of her own tears in her mouth. She pressed her hand into the hardness of his abdomen, so different from the softness of hers. ‘It was trying to keep everything in. It was eating
me
, just as I was eating
it
.’

He began to comfort her, desire standing in for sympathy. She had never been made love to with such intensity before. He thrust into her again and again, his body pushing and struggling against her the way she’d once seen a bird die wildly, its wings flapping frantically against a net she couldn’t see. When at last it was over and he’d found his own passionate release, he lay against her as though he were dead, the only sign of life the warm wetness she felt at her neck as he dazedly drew breath.

‘Shit!’ She suddenly sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet comically to her chest.

‘What is it?’ he asked drowsily.

‘What time is it?’

He lifted a hand to his face. ‘Ten past eleven.’

‘Oh,
God!
’ She scrambled out of bed.

‘Where the hell are you going?’

‘To work!’ She ran into the bathroom, grabbing at her discarded clothes as she went. Her heart was thumping, the blood pumping through her veins with fright.
How
could she have forgotten?

YVES

‘Fool,’ he thought to himself, sinking back into the pillows as the front door slammed shut behind her. ‘Fool.’ With every passing month, he was sinking deeper and deeper into a quagmire. Quitting Paris would involve so much more than a simple change of address. He had no idea what Big Jacques or any of the others would do but he certainly didn’t want to risk finding out. They were obsessed with finding Betancourt’s stash. He wasn’t about to tell any of them he’d decided to run off with his daughter. God knows what they’d think then – that he’d run off with the money himself? He shook his head. But he couldn’t stay. Not now. In all the time they’d been together, he’d only once spoken of her to someone else: Martin Duris, his closest – and only – friend. They’d met at university and whilst Martin was now a lecturer, married with two kids and content in a way Yves could never imagine himself to be, they’d somehow stayed in touch. When the urge to speak to someone frankly had finally overcome him, he’d rung Martin and suggested they meet for a drink. It was the only time he’d ever confided in anyone else.

‘I wondered where you’d been hiding.’ Martin took a sip of his beer as Yves’s voice trailed off. ‘A woman, eh? Never known you to be confused about a woman.’

Yves smiled faintly. ‘She’s different.’

‘How?’

‘I . . . I’m not sure how to explain it,’ he began hesitantly.

‘Try.’

He was quiet for a moment. ‘D’you remember your mother spraying perfume in the air then walking through it?’

Martin looked puzzled. ‘I . . . I guess so. Yes, yes, she did.’

‘Well, she’s like that.’

‘Like perfume?’ Martin looked even more puzzled.

Yves nodded. ‘Yeah. Just like perfume. She’s still on your skin even when she’s gone. That’s what she’s like.’

Martin took another gulp of beer. ‘Better go after her then.’

So he did. And now here he was. He’d been honest with Martin and dishonest with Annick and halfway honest with himself. He no longer knew which was which. A mess. It was all one big, complicated mess.

ANNICK

It took eleven minutes to get from Marylebone High Street to Holborn. She galloped into the building, still tying up her hair as she went. She flashed her card at the security guard, who barely blinked. He was clearly quite used to the late-night comings and goings of Clinton Crabbe staff.

She punched the lift button impatiently, smoothed back the last few strands of her hair and tried to steady her breathing. All the lights were on; the building looked curiously the same as it did in daylight working hours. At the far end of the corridor, she could see the cleaners through the smoked glass, methodically lifting waste paper baskets, and the sound of the industrial hoovers echoing eerily down the hall.

She hurried down the corridor to her office and pushed open the door. Frances was sitting at her desk in pretty much the same position she’d been when Annick left. She looked up as Annick walked in. It was quarter to midnight. For a second the two women looked at each other without saying anything. Annick’s heart was in her mouth.

‘Good evening, I take it?’ Frances said quietly, her eyes returning to her computer screen.

Annick’s face was on fire as she slipped into her own chair. ‘Um, yes, thanks,’ she mumbled, switching on her screen. She pulled the first folder off the stack and opened it. There was silence for a few minutes.

‘Well done for coming back,’ Frances said. She lifted her eyes briefly. ‘Do me a favour, though,’ she murmured.

Annick’s hand stopped halfway through turning over the page. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Just don’t marry him.’

ANNICK
London

There was a hushed silence in the Yellow Room at the Old Marylebone Town Hall. Annick swallowed nervously. Her throat was completely parched. Yves was still holding onto her hand. She looked down at her third finger. The solitary diamond sparked brilliant flashes of rainbow-coloured light.

The registrar looked at them both, smiling widely. He cleared his throat. ‘And now,’ he intoned solemnly, ‘I pronounce you man and wife.’

‘Amen,’ Annick said fervently and then clapped a hand to her mouth. The word had slipped out incongruously before she could stop it. Everyone laughed. There was a stifled sob from the front row of chairs. It was Rebecca, of course – so heavily pregnant they weren’t sure she’d actually make it to the registry. Julian stood next to her, beaming as much with anticipation of the imminent birth as the ceremony in front of him. On the other side, Tash stood clutching a bottle of champagne, smiling dazedly, her face partly obscured by a large, rather wonderful hat. Martin, Yves’ best man, was standing next to her, and, surprising Annick at the very last minute by demanding an invitation, there was Frances, Annick’s boss, resplendent in grey Armani.

‘Amen,’ Yves whispered at her side. ‘Once a Catholic, always.’ He squeezed her hand and then bent his head to kiss her. It was done. They were now husband and wife.

Everyone suddenly surged forwards, shaking Yves by the hand, hugging Annick. Rebecca’s stomach got in the way of everything. She half-sobbed and laughed her way through her congratulations. Annick presented her cheek this way and that; even the registrar was kissed and hugged. They were discreetly but firmly shepherded out of the small room with its daffodil-coloured walls and cream-and-mahogany chairs. Another wedding party was waiting. Annick caught sight of the bride as they passed – yards and yards of white lace and tulle, complete with a tiara and a veil. Her own dress, a simple shift of ivory satin, couldn’t have been more different.

‘Vera Wang,’ Tash had said firmly as soon as Annick broke the news. ‘I’m not letting you go down the aisle in anything else.’

‘There won’t
be
an aisle,’ Annick pointed out. ‘We’re doing it at the town hall.’

‘Even more reason to wear Wang. Trust me. You’ll wear the dress again and again.’

Annick laughed. ‘I’m only planning on getting married once,’ she giggled.

‘You never know,’ Tash said darkly. ‘Trust me.’

‘I do,’ Annick said simply, spreading her hands. ‘I’ll wear whatever you tell me.’

‘Good girl.’

‘Smile, for God’s sake! It’s your wedding day,’ Tash hissed in her ear as they clattered down the steps and emerged, blinking, into the light and noise of the Marylebone Road. There was a photographer waiting, shouting instructions. ‘This way, please, all together now . . . yes, you, too, darling. Great, that’s absolutely fantastic. Fan-
tas
-tic!’ One of Tash’s many assistants was standing at the bottom of the steps with a gigantic bouquet of white roses. A restaurant had been booked; there were cars waiting to whisk them off . . . Tash, as usual, had left nothing out. Annick climbed into the front car with Yves, holding tightly onto his hand.

‘We’ll meet you at the restaurant,’ Tash shouted through the open window. ‘The driver knows where it is. They’re expecting us. Here, have a glass before we get there,’ she laughed, thrusting the bottle she’d been carrying through the window. ‘And darling,
smile!
At least for the photographer’s sake!’

‘She’s quite something,’ Yves murmured against her ear as the driver pulled smoothly out into the traffic. ‘She thinks of everything.’

‘Yep, that’s Tash for you,’ Annick said, leaning into him. She smoothed the pale silk of her skirt. ‘She’s even got a change of clothes waiting for me at the restaurant.’ She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this’ll all be gone, that I’ll have dreamt it all.’

Yves looked at her. ‘Sometimes,
chérie,
’ he said, sliding an arm round her shoulders, ‘you say the strangest things.’

‘But it’s
true
,’ Annick protested, smiling. ‘None of this seems real. Even
you
don’t seem quite real sometimes.’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’ There was a sudden catch in his voice.

She turned to look at him in surprise. He wasn’t the type to openly show what he felt but earlier that afternoon, just after they’d finished signing the registry, she’d excused herself and gone to the bathroom, alone. She sat down in the cubicle, aware of a great pressure building up in her chest and she’d cried a little, relieving herself of some of the unspoken sadness mixed in with the high emotion of the day. She’d waited a few moments until the storm passed, then came out, still dabbing her eyes and composing herself. Tash and Martin had been dragged off somewhere to sign something as witnesses. Yves was waiting for her by the window, looking down over the street. The sheer curtain rose and fell in front of him like a veil in the breeze; he hadn’t seen her yet. She hesitated. There was something in his stance that made her stop. She looked past the face she knew so well to a face she’d never seen on him before, the face of man so deep in himself he was no longer aware of what he might have to conceal. She backed away very quietly, not wishing to be seen. That same expression, she realised now, was on his face again.

She said nothing but held onto his hand tightly. Weddings, like births and funerals, she thought to herself, were family occasions. Just as the absence of her own family produced an ache below her ribs, the same must have been true for him, she realised. They were alone in the world but they had each other. It was more than she’d dared hope for and a poignant reminder of just how far she’d come.

‘Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.’
Edna Ferber

TASH
London

She picked up the colour wheel that Niall, the interior designer, had left out for her and quickly flicked through it.
Jasmine White. White Chiffon. Lemon White. Frosted Dawn. Timeless. Handkerchief White
. She paused and frowned.
Handkerchief
white? Was that before or after someone had blown their nose? She wrinkled her own nose and put the wheel back down. Her office was the last to be decided upon and under normal circumstances the thought of it alone was enough to make her smile. Not tonight. It was seven thirty in the evening on the last Friday in June. The weather was lovely: blue skies all afternoon, not a cloud in sight. In half an hour’s time, she’d go downstairs with Edith, Colin and James – her most senior staff – and they’d repair to the Orrery for the very last time.
[email protected]
was moving. After five years, they were moving from their rather cramped premises off Marylebone High Street to a brand-new enormous warehouse of an office in Regent’s Quarter, a new district sandwiched between York Way and the Euston Road. She’d had her doubts when the estate agents first took her there but as soon as the architects Julian had recommended had taken over, she began to see it the way they did – as the most exciting thing to happen in King’s Cross in decades.