Little White Lies (67 page)

From the lofty heights of whatever arguments, fights and private irritations they’d brought with them to Martha’s Vineyard, it took the three couples less than a day to climb down. Even Adam, arriving a day later than everyone else, succumbed. By Tuesday evening, six very different people had emerged, chrysalis-like, out of the tense guests who’d arrived. The children were splendidly and blissfully entertained by Clea and Adriana and spent almost every waking moment outside, either at the edge of the shimmering blue pool, or in the gardens leading to the beach. The beach itself was very firmly off-limits; after a solemn talking to by their godmother, each child understood that to venture down there where the adults sometimes went to sit and stare at the sea was a transgression worthy of an afternoon spent indoors – and none wanted that.

Rebecca and Annick were amused to see Didier bossily taking charge of the baby Maryam, possessively hugging her to him, waiting patiently beside her as she crawled, desperate to keep up. Here, in the wide openness of Tash’s home, their personalities emerged stronger than before. David and Joshua quickly made friends with the neighbour’s two grandchildren, Cliff and Dean, who, although a couple of years older, were quickly entranced by the four English children. From the minute they woke up until they were put to sleep after supper, they were inseparable. For Rebecca and Annick it was a return to pre-children days, to the long evenings of early summer and university days, sitting on patios and in bars with a glass of chilled white wine and the prospect of an evening spent doing nothing but talking. Within hours of their arrival, it was clear that a different sort of atmosphere had enveloped them. Under Tash’s generous, benevolent gaze, they found themselves slipping under her gentle spell.

‘Did you ever think this would happen?’ Annick asked Tash on their third evening. The women were sitting on the veranda facing the beach, glasses of wine in hand. The men had all gone off that afternoon to play a round of golf at the course just down the road and the children were upstairs being bathed, fed, soothed to sleep. Amid roars of delight, Cliff and Dean had been asked to sleep over. Poor Betty Lowenstein had hardly seen her grandsons but she’d reluctantly agreed. From upstairs came the occasional shriek of laughter.

Tash took a sip, considered the question for a moment and then smiled. ‘By “this”, I take it you mean the house?’

Annick shook her head at first, then nodded. ‘Well, yes, the house, of course, but all the rest. Your business, Adam . . . all of it.’

‘Not exactly. I mean, I always knew I would do
some
thing – I don’t mean be successful – but I knew there wasn’t going to be anything to fall back on after university.’

‘Not like us,’ Rebecca mused. ‘Well, not like
me
, at any rate.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Tash said quickly. ‘Just because you don’t work doesn’t mean you haven’t done anything.’

Rebecca looked at her hands. It was that time of the evening when the shadows had all but disappeared but the outdoor lights weren’t yet strong enough to assume the mantle of night. The low-lying clouds that had been hovering all day at the point where the horizon met the sea had all but disappeared and a hard blue sky, now slipping slowly towards night, was busy turning pink and orange at its edges. The housekeeper had thoughtfully placed a few citronella hurricane lamps on the steps just before the grass began; every now and then a whiff of lemon-scented wind touched their noses and tongues. She lit a cigarette and put her feet up on the cushion-covered ottoman. ‘Yes, I suppose I
have
done something,’ she said carefully, quietly.

‘Of course you have,’ Tash said automatically, reaching forward to top up their glasses.

Rebecca put out a hand to cover hers. ‘No, not yet. I don’t want to get drunk tonight. I overdid it last night. This morning was awful.’

‘Come on, you’re on holiday.’

‘I know, I know. But honestly, the hangovers aren’t worth it,’ Rebecca laughed a little shakily. ‘How come you never seem to have one?’

Tash grinned and lifted her full glass to her lips. ‘I’ve clearly had more practice. Anyhow, the boys won’t be back for hours. I know Adam. He’ll take them to the clubhouse, they’ll watch whatever boring match is on the box, have a few more brandies . . . it’ll be the wee hours of the morning before they come home, I promise you.’

‘We haven’t had a night like this in ages,’ Annick said suddenly. ‘Just the three of us . . . no kids, no husbands.’

‘No one to scold, no one to soothe, no arguments to settle. Bliss.’ Rebecca smiled, a wistful, almost sad smile. ‘Sometimes I think I’ve got four children instead of three.’

‘What about you two?’ Annick asked Tash.

‘What about us?’

‘Don’t you want any?’

‘Any what?’

‘Children, you idiot. Or is that rude of me?’

Tash shook her head. ‘No, course not. It . . . it just hasn’t happened. I’m not sure I’m that bothered, to be honest. Besides, I’ve got your four. It’s hard work being a godmother, you know.’ She grinned at them and lifted her glass again.

Annick was about to say something but Rebecca quickly flashed her a warning glance. There was something slightly too determinedly cheerful about Tash’s response. ‘They adore you,’ Rebecca said, meaning it. ‘And not just because of this,’ she added, waving a hand to bring in their surroundings. ‘Though I’d have given anything to have a godmother with a house like this,’ she added impishly.

‘As if you don’t,’ Annick laughed.

‘I don’t!’

‘You’ve got that amazing place in Italy, can’t remember its name now. D’you remember that summer we all went out there? Just after our A-levels?’

Annick nodded. ‘I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. It was so beautiful. Your mother was amazing. So welcoming.’

‘Bit like me, then?’ Tash grinned.

‘Exactly.’

‘Funny, everything seemed so simple back then, didn’t it?’ Rebecca was suddenly gripped with anxiety again.

‘Everything
was
simple. We were . . . how old? Eighteen? Nineteen? Everything’s simple at that age.’

Annick shook her head. ‘No, things just seem that way from here, looking back. I’m happy just to be here, now, in this moment, y’know? No matter what’s happened or what’s gone on before.’

A long mass of creamy white cloud turned suddenly mauve, like a far-off landmass, hovering above the horizon. Rebecca slowly rubbed her toe along the arch of her other bare foot. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? So many things have happened. You can’t go back to that state of . . . of being. Not anymore.’ The unrest that had been churning within her for days, weeks, months, rose to the surface. She felt as she often did early in the mornings, when she woke before she’d completely moved out of her dream world into the present one, when time had no clear dimension – have I been awake for a minute or an hour? – and when it was possible, but only just, to imagine that the one terrible thought that dominated her waking moments might belong, after all, not to the present, but to her dream.
Maryam is not my husband’s child
. It seemed such a dreadful abomination of everything she, and everyone around her, held dear.
Maryam is not my husband’s child
. How would she ever explain it. To anyone?

‘Rebecca? Are you all right?’ Tash’s eyes were on her.

She nodded quickly and stood up. ‘I . . . I’ll be back in a moment,’ she stammered. Her hair fell forwards, shrouding her face. She hurried indoors, grateful for the momentary respite it provided. A searing hot flush of emotion had erupted over her entire body – shame, mixed with the most powerful desire to see Tariq again that she’d ever felt. She had to get away from the patio with its glasses of chilled Chardonnay and trays of biscuits and cheese, none of which she could force down her throat. She had to hear his voice again, if only for a second . . . if only for the bizarre satisfaction of hearing it on his answering phone. She slipped upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her husband, shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her face damp and flushed with that terrible mixture of conflicting emotions that had become her state of mind. She eyed the phone on the bedside table. One call. One more call. To tell him where she was, where Maryam was . . . and how much she loved him still.

‘D’you think she’s all right?’ Annick asked Tash carefully, watching as Rebecca practically ran from the patio.

Tash shrugged. ‘Are any of us?’ she asked after a moment.

‘What’s got into everyone? A few minutes ago, everything was fine,’ Annick said, surprised.

Tash reached for the bottle. She was drinking rather a lot, Annick noticed. ‘Life,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It turns out to be way more complicated than you think.’

‘Is everything okay with you . . . and Adam?’ Annick asked delicately.

Tash nodded. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know. I don’t have anything to compare it to, that’s the problem. What about you two? Did you ever get to the bottom of that whole mystery about his name?’

Annick felt a hot wave of embarrassment travel up through her chest and neck. She hated lying to anyone, most of all Tash. ‘Yeah,’ she said, as nonchalantly as she could. ‘It was nothing. Just a . . . a misunderstanding.’

‘I told you it was nothing to worry about,’ Tash said, draining her glass. ‘Silly thing. All that fuss. You’re such a worrier, Annie. I’d say you’ve done better out of this than any of us.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Tash stood up suddenly. She yawned widely, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Yves is a lovely man. I can’t imagine him doing anything to hurt you or Didi. Even unconsciously. I wish I could—’ She stopped abruptly, her expression clouding over. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve had too much to drink.’

‘You’re drinking rather a lot,’ Annick began hesitantly.

‘Are you keeping tabs on me as well?’ Tash asked.

‘No, no . . . of course not,’ Annick hastened to assure her but it was too late. Tash had already turned away. She watched her walk across the polished, gleaming expanse of floorboards, her back very straight but her balance betrayed her once or twice.

The door at the far end of the living room closed behind her and Annick was alone. Rebecca hadn’t come back downstairs. Everything was quiet. She ran her hand slowly around the sharp rim of her wine glass. Was Tash right, she wondered? Was there really nothing to worry about and was it, as she’d been roused to say, all a silly misunderstanding? She stroked the glass back and forth. They were leaving for New York on Friday night – her, Yves, Julian and Rebecca. Tash had insisted. The couples ought to have at least a weekend together alone. Adam and Julian had some business to attend to in the city and she would spend the weekend with her godchildren, alone. It was the least they could do, she’d said laughingly, making it sound as though they were doing her a favour by leaving the children with her, not the other way round. Having brought them all this way out, surely their parents wouldn’t begrudge her a couple of days on her own with them? And she’d have plenty of help, she pointed out. Clea, Adriana and a housekeeper at the very least. Four adults to look after four children. What could possibly go wrong?

ANNICK
Manhattan

The lobby of the Crosby Street Hotel in SoHo was unlike any hotel lobby she’d ever set foot in. From the giant delicate white wire sculpture of a human head standing in front of the reception desk to the recycled plastic dogs seated docilely at the foot of a grey velvet sofa with beautiful thick purple and yellow cushions that complemented the wild streaks of colour in the paintings surrounding them, this was a hotel with a difference. It was Tash, of course, who’d recommended it. Julian and Rebecca were staying further uptown, in the sort of old-world elegance that Julian favoured but
this
. . . Annick looked around her, pinching herself hard every few moments to make sure it was all true, all real and that she was experiencing it, just as her eyes seemed to be telling her.

They were shown into the bar area as their bags were taken upstairs – a riot of colourful, striped banquettes, polished silver tables and the most exquisite collection of African-inspired artworks and sculptures on the walls. Annick gasped as they walked in and clutched Yves’ arm in delight. ‘Oh, look!’ she squealed, pointing to a large carved mask behind the bar. ‘They’re like the ones at home,’ she said excitedly.

‘Home?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We don’t have one of those over the fireplace, if I remember rightly.’

She smiled. ‘You know what I mean. In Togo.’

‘Ah. In Togo. You’ve never called it “home” before,’ he noted amusedly.

‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

They looked at each other, faces less a collection of well-known features than a concentration of emotion that both tried to suppress. The knowledge of who they both were came up between them. She could see it in his eyes. He put out a hand; it came to rest on her forearm. She looked at it, and then back up at him, and although there was the wonderful reassurance of his sameness and familiarity, there was something profoundly different in the air between them. It was as if, in turning to look at the artwork over the bar together, a private, deeply intimate space had opened up in which whatever previously couldn’t be said, now was. ‘Let’s go,’ he said quietly, giving her arm a little shake. ‘Upstairs.’

She followed him mutely, aware of the quickening of her heartbeat as the sleeping giant of desire woke in her. It had been months since she’d felt such desire. They almost ran into the elevator, ignoring the amused but tolerant glances of the hotel staff. Theirs wasn’t the illicit passion of the Mr-and-Mrs-Smith variety for which the hotel was a suitably exotic and erotic backdrop. But the staff were not to know and probably couldn’t have cared less. By the time the lift doors opened on the fifth floor and Yves had impatiently fumbled the key-card out of his pocket, Annick was beyond thinking – or caring – what others thought.

The room was shrouded in darkness by the time either of them was seeing again. Yves’ hand lay across her stomach; every now and then, his fingers moved lightly across her skin, touching her with infinite tenderness. It had been months since they’d made love in the middle of the day like this – and years since it had taken place in a hotel. He was both rough and gentle with her, sensing the unspoken question that had been gnawing at her was about to be brought into the open, and with it, a kind of healing that they’d never dared express.