Little White Lies (62 page)

She looked over at where Adam was standing talking to Julian and that awful woman, Miranda Grayling. She’d insisted on an invitation and since she and Julian were partners in a whole host of other ventures, she’d found it impossible to say ‘no’. Miranda stood to one side, immaculate blonde hair carefully swept up into a chignon, wearing an Issa poppy-red, silk wrap dress, a pair of strappy navy-blue suede sandals that Tash recognised immediately as Miu-Miu and a navy-and-snakeskin clutch purse. Her entire ensemble was on the third page of that week’s
On Trend
,
[email protected]
’s weekly magazine. Tash smiled quietly to herself. She looked at Julian. Why was he behaving so oddly? He had dark patches of sweat under his arms –
most
unlike him – and the colour was up in his face. He’d been avoiding her all afternoon, she’d noticed. Rebecca too was acting strangely, though that might be to do with the fact that she was about to give birth. Possibly even here, in the church grounds.

She drained the last of her champagne, picked up another glass and a glass of sparkling water and made her way across the gravel path towards her. ‘Here, darling,’ she said, handing her the water. ‘You look as though you could do with a glass.’

‘Thanks,’ Rebecca said wanly. ‘I’d forgotten how miserable the last few weeks are.’

‘When’s the due date again?’

‘First week of July. Hottest week of the year.’

‘Same place?’

Rebecca nodded. ‘Next to some celebrity who’s too posh to push,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘And with paparazzi all around. Though you must be used to it,’ she adding, looking across the road.

‘Oh, they’re not here for me,’ Tash shrugged. ‘They’re just hoping for a glimpse of some of our customers.’

‘Don’t bet on it. You look lovely, by the way. I feel like an absolute whale. I can’t wait for it to be over.’

‘It’ll be over soon,’ Tash said soothingly. ‘Have you decided on a name, yet?’

‘Maryam,’ Rebecca said softly, a smile suddenly breaking out across her face. ‘Julian thinks it should be Miriam, not Maryam, but . . . I like it. It was the name of a . . . a childhood friend of mine.’ She stopped abruptly, her face clouding over.

‘What’s wrong?’

She shook her head. ‘N-nothing. I . . . I’d better go. I need the loo.’

‘Over there.’ Tash pointed in the direction from which she’d just come. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. Just . . . just tired.’

‘I’ll tell Julian you ought to be taken home.’

‘No, don’t . . . I’m fine, honestly. I’ll be back in a sec.’ She moved away, walking slowly across the path to the toilets. Tash watched her go. There was something definitely wrong. All afternoon she’d been aware of a streak of strain in Rebecca’s face, which rose to the surface whenever the chatter around her flagged, as though she’d just heard something that other people’s conversations had drowned. There was a look in her eyes that she hadn’t seen since . . . well, since that silly affair with her university lecturer, all those years ago. What the hell was his name? She couldn’t remember.

She looked across to where Julian stood, still chatting to Adam and Miranda. He’d clearly caught sight of Rebecca moving slowly towards the church but made no move towards her. Most odd, Tash thought to herself. Just then, Adam turned his head and caught her eye. He smiled and winked at her and Tash felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. How lucky I am, she thought to herself wonderingly. How fucking lucky. Then she saw his attention wander and she followed the direction of his glance. A young woman crossed in front of the three of them – it was Suzanne Gibson, one of the assistant style directors. In a lemon-yellow, knee-length dress and glossy, ridiculously high-heeled patent pumps that showed off her tanned and toned bare legs, she looked good enough to eat. Tash glanced back at Adam. He clearly thought so too. She felt a thin needle of fear rise within her. She quickly crossed over to them, hoping that the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach wasn’t written all over her face. She quickly downed the rest of her champagne and signalled to a passing waiter. Another, please.

JULIAN
Dubai

He stood at the bar, taking in the scene, one hand lying slackly on the cool marble surface, the other holding a sweating glass of beer. It was six o’clock and the evening was beginning to take shape. In the corner of the long, low-ceilinged room, Miranda sat with His Excellency Sheikh Mahmoud bin Talal Al-Soueif, one of the senior crown princes, and his three advisors, who accompanied him everywhere. He took a long hard swig of beer. He would move towards them in a minute. He was willing to be sociable but first he needed to steady his nerves. Fortunately, they were in an international hotel and alcohol was on hand. He took another mouthful. What happened next would depend on a number of things, not least his own ability to muster up the required charm. It all came down to the small matter of a clause, except that the clause in question was no small matter. His clients were in trouble: they needed cash and they needed it fast. The sheikhs had the cash and were willing to invest it, but on one condition. In return for the cash, the sheikh wanted the option to buy more shares, but at a fraction of their current value. If, at some point, he reasoned smoothly, Julian’s clients might require more money, then he ought to be amply rewarded. Cheaper share options seemed fair enough compensation all round.

In the scheme of things, it was a small request. The sheikh was about to buy a twenty per cent stake in a bank that was valued at 4 billion pounds. It was one of the biggest deals of its kind. Julian and Miranda stood to make 50 million pounds each on the transaction, more than either had ever made in a single deal. The problem was, Julian had already spent it. Or, more accurately,
Tash
had already spent it, not that Tash knew a damn thing about it. The opportunity on which he’d staked most of Tash’s spare cash had come via a tip from Miranda. A twenty per cent stake in Two Hyde Park, a new residential tower just going up on Hyde Park Corner.

‘Hyde Park, darling,’ Miranda had said to him over a drink at the Lanesborough one evening. ‘It doesn’t get better than that. This isn’t just prime real estate, Jules, it’s
premium
. Everyone’s in on it.’

‘Are you?’

‘D’you think for a second I’d put you onto something I wasn’t about to make money on?’

He’d thought about it for twenty-four hours, panicked when he realised he didn’t have enough himself to invest and then did something he’d never done before. He put up the capital using Tash’s money as collateral. It was preferable to asking Rebecca. He was amazed at how easy it was. Everyone knew he was Tash Bryce-Brudenell’s go-to man, her right-hander. He knew Tash’s signature almost as well as he knew his own. No one checked in any case. It was only temporary, he reasoned. He’d leverage just enough capital to stump up his share. When the Arabs bought their stake in FIB, he’d walk away with a cool 50 million, 30 million of which would replace Tash’s ‘loan’ to prop up his required twenty per cent share of Two Hyde Park. He’d shred paperwork as soon as it was done and no one would be any the wiser. He’d be holding onto forged papers for no more than a month, a fortnight if he were lucky.

Well, he hadn’t been lucky. What was that goddamn saying? If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. He hadn’t, but God sure as hell was laughing now. It had been three months since the deal was first mooted – three months in which he’d scarcely been able to meet Tash’s eye. It was only a matter of time before she, her accountants and lawyer and/or Adam found out. He was running out of options. FIB
had
to accept the clause the Arabs wanted. There was
no question
of the deal going south. He, Julian Lovell, had staked everything he had on it. His reputation, his cash, his future earnings . . . hell, his
life
. If Tash ever found out what he’d done, he’d be finished. If
Rebecca
ever found out . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. He felt the sudden weight of Lionel’s gaze. It made him feel nauseous, and old. He drained his beer, dabbed at his lips with a napkin and squared his shoulders. He moved through the now-crowded bar towards Miranda and the sheikh. It was time to turn on the charm.

Half an hour later, the four men he’d been desperately trying to woo stood up. Sheikh Al-Soueif adjusted his robes with an impatient, practised switch of his arm. His snowy-white
ghytra
was held firmly in place by a double band of thick, black rope; its long, tasselled corners fell in billowing waves over his shoulders. He wore the traditional white
thawb
, with a long overcoat of embroidered gold. He was a short man, perhaps a whole head shorter than Julian, but there was such power in his stance and his calm, slow gaze that Julian felt he should be looking up towards him, not the other way round. His nephew and the two advisors arranged themselves on either side as the party made their farewells. The nephew, a smooth-talking, smooth-faced young man of around thirty, had translated for his uncle throughout. Julian sat back, listening to the Arabic flowing over them, and was reminded yet again of how close the language was to Hebrew – despite not speaking a word of it, the rhythm and cadence was closer than he’d thought. He sneaked a quick look at Miranda; she understood more than she let on, he thought to himself. Once or twice their eyes caught and held.
Don’t panic
, she seemed to be signalling.
Let me handle this
. It was hard
not
to panic. He was sweating profusely again by the time they shook hands.

The four Arabs had started walking back slowly towards the exit when the sheikh turned round suddenly. The three younger men held back respectfully.

‘One last thing, Mr Lovell,’ the sheikh said in perfect English. ‘Just to satisfy my curiosity. Do you race?’

Julian gaped at him. Not only did the question take him by surprise – what sort of racing was the man referring to? – but he’d spoken English. Perfect English.

‘Er, n-no, sir, your Highness,’ Julian stammered. ‘If you mean horse-racing?’

‘No other kind, I’m afraid.’ He looked up at Julian from under those deep, hooded eyes and then smiled. ‘I thought not.’ He turned to his aides and waved his hand imperiously. ‘
Ya’alla.
’ They moved off immediately, as one.

‘What the . . . ?’ Julian turned to Miranda, almost speechless with surprise. ‘He just spoke English!’

‘Eton,’ Miranda murmured. ‘Then Oxford. PPE, I believe. Or PPP . . . can never remember. Or tell the difference,’ she smiled. ‘Drink?’

Julian nodded vigorously. ‘Christ, I need one. What an afternoon.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get the clause put in. It’ll happen, Julian. I don’t know why you’re so worried. I’ve never seen you this tense,’ she said, stroking his arm lightly. ‘You need to relax, darling.’

The urge to confide in someone almost knocked him sideways but he steadied himself. Confiding in Miranda would be a mistake. No matter how chummily intimate Miranda might get, her first instinct was self-preservation. If the chips were down she’d use anything and everything to make sure she’d come out unscathed. Miranda would throw him to the dogs if she had to. ‘I’m fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Lot going on.’

‘Has Rebecca had the sprog yet?’

He winced. ‘It’s not a sprog, Miranda. It’s a little girl.’

‘You know what I mean.’

He glanced at her. In her grey business suit with the pink silk blouse and those oversized tortoiseshell glasses, she looked like the sort of sexy schoolteacher he’d have had a crush on, had there been a schoolteacher like Miranda at his all-boys’ prep school. His cock began to stir. ‘Join me in a drink?’ he motioned towards the bar.

Miranda shook her head. ‘Sorry, darling . . . I’ve got plans.’ She gave him a coy little smile, patted him condescendingly on the bottom in much the same way he’d have patted her if he’d had half the chance, and moved off. He was left alone in the bar of the Intercontinental in Dubai, surrounded by braying, semi-drunk ex-pats. He scratched his beard. His wife had just given birth, his business partners had no idea where he was, or what he was up to, or what he’d done . . . it wasn’t quite adding up. He was fifty-seven years of age and he was horribly over-extended. It wasn’t where he’d planned to be.
How d’you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans
.

‘Give me another,’ he signalled to the bartender. ‘And make it a double.’

TASH
London

The brochures were spread across the breakfast table, each one glossier, more beautifully photographed and styled than the next. She cleared away a space and fanned them out in front of her. She looked at the breakfast table and sighed deeply in pleasure. The saucers that were part of the beautiful porcelain set Embeth had given them for their wedding held the remnants of breakfast – a plain scone for her, jam and toast for Adam. Two months into their married life and it sometimes felt as though they’d been married for ever. Their routines were remarkably similar. They both got up around the same time, just after dawn, took it in turns to shower in the bathroom that was the size of an entire flat and met downstairs in the pretty kitchen on the ground floor, where the maid would have laid out the breakfast table before disappearing upstairs to restore order to the rooms they’d just vacated. An assortment of honeys and jams, sometimes the odd slice of ham or prosciutto that she’d chosen at the delicatessen around the corner or some cheese. A cafetière of freshly brewed coffee. They read the papers, checked emails and messages and then left the house separately, Tash in her chauffeur-driven car since they’d moved to the new King’s Cross offices, Adam to the office he shared with his business partners. Even after two months it was still a little unclear to Tash what Adam actually did: ‘investments’, he said airily, but she still had no idea what that meant. Whatever it meant, it kept him busy. He was gone from seven thirty in the morning until six or seven at night and seemed pleased enough with the progress.

She picked up the first brochure. She looked at the image on the cover and her heartbeat immediately quickened.
Oversea: set in an unbeatable location on Lincoln’s Circle, Nantucket’s premiere neighbourhood, this classic waterfront home exudes early Nantucket charm, with unobstructed views of the Sound and beyond. Oversea has been an island landmark for well over a hundred years
. Eight bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, private beach stairs, a bargain at 15 million dollars, according to the estate agents. She picked up another leaflet.
Tranquillity sets the stage for this striking new home, set on 3.6 acres in Sconset. Designed both for domestic comfort and gracious entertaining, this richly detailed property
. . . Six bedrooms, six bathrooms, black granite pool, a guesthouse . . . it looked divine. She picked up another. And another.