Little White Lies (6 page)

“That,” Vix sighs, setting down her cutlery, “was delicious.”

“Lovely,” I lie, forcing a smile. I didn’t taste a single bite. The whole meal has been unbearable, with Vix tiptoeing on eggshells around me, and Kenny all secret smiles at being my knight in shining armor.

I suppose I should be grateful—he covered for me, after all—but I would never have dropped the stupid letter if it weren’t for him, if he hadn’t followed me here, if he didn’t make me so tense—he’s like a ticking time bomb.

“Glad you both enjoyed it.” Kenny beams. “Who’d like another drink? My treat.”

“No,
I’ll
get these,” I insist. “You’ve done enough.”

“You’re welcome.” He winks.

“I’ll come with you,” Vix says, looping her arm through mine as I hobble to the bar, which is still rammed. “Is he a catch or what?” She grins.

“What?” I turn.

“Kenny!” she hisses, her eyes sparkling. “Did you know he turned down
Oxford
? Cute, smart, and loaded. A triple threat, huh?”

I glance over at him tapping at his iPhone. He’s definitely a threat, but not in the way Vix means.

“He’s not really your type, though, is he?” I say quickly.

Her face falls. “Why? Because he’s cute and smart?”

“No, just... you like sporty guys and Kenny’s all... lanky, and kind of clingy,” I add. “I mean, we only met him yesterday and he just seems a bit full-on.”

“You mean because he actually asked me out instead of turning me down flat?” She glances pointedly at Christian.

“No, I just... think you could do better,” I tell her.

“Because he’s not going gray?”

I roll my eyes. “Vix—”

“Kenny’s been nothing but nice to you, Lou, trying to get you a job here, buying you drinks—and you nearly snapped his head off when he was worried about your ankle. What’s your problem? Why don’t you like him?”

“Vix, I...” I falter. I can’t tell her the truth.

“What?” she demands.

“I just... I guess I don’t trust him,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t trust
any
men,” she counters.

“
And
he seems to be flirting with everything that moves,” I add for good measure. “It wasn’t
me
trying it on with
him
yesterday, and it’s obviously not the first time he’s bought Heidi a coffee....”

She frowns.

“Just... play it cool for a bit, you know?” I suggest. “You’ve only just met him, after all.”

“What would you like?” Christian asks breathlessly as he finally gets to us.

“Three beers, please,” I say. “Make it four. I owe you one, and you look like you need it.”

“Thanks, but I’m teetotal.”

“Teetotal?” Vix stares at him. “How can you trust a barman who doesn’t drink?”

He grins. “I’ll have a lemonade, if that’s all right?”

“Course.” I smile. “Are you okay? Where’s Heidi?”

“She went to the loo ages ago.” He shrugs. “You couldn’t check on her, could you? I’m dying out here.”

“I’ll go,” Vix says.

“Why don’t you take down the Facebook offer?” I ask.

“I have, but apparently it’s on Twitter too, and every other social media site you can think of, but I don’t know the passwords, and Mike’s turned his phone off again,” he explains. “We’re just too technologi
cally advanced for our own good.”

“Bad news.” Vix rushes back into the bar. “Heidi’s ill.”

“What?” Christian says, looking alarmed.

“She’s locked herself in a cubicle and she doesn’t sound good at
all
.” Vix pulls a face.

“Does she need some medicine?” Christian asks. “A glass of water?”

“She’s well beyond that.” Vix shakes her head. “That girl needs to go
home
.”

“Shit!” Christian says. “She can’t—I can’t cope on my own. We’re swamped!”

“She can’t work,” Vix argues. “She can’t even leave the toilet at the moment. It isn’t pretty.”

“Bollocks!” Christian groans. “I’ll have to close the pub. I can’t manage alone. Mike won’t be happy, but I can’t even tell him cos he’s turned his bloody phone off.”

“I could help out,” I offer. “Like I said, I’ve got bar experience.”

“You’ve also got an injured ankle,” Christian reminds me.

“It’s fine,” I argue. “I might not be able to run around, but I can certainly sit on a stool and pour pints—that’s all anyone’s ordering anyway.”

He sighs. “But Heidi was right—only Mike can hire and fire people.”

“Well, it’s better than closing the pub,” I counter. “Call it a trial. If it doesn’t work out, then you can close up and Mike’ll never know. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

He sighs, then nods. “Thanks, Lou.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I smile. “Let’s see how it goes.”

It goes remarkably well. I pour a steady stream of pints while Christian handles all other orders, and even though Kenny manages to hack into the social networking sites and close down the beer offer, the punters remain, happily drinking and watching the football. By the time the next shift arrives the pub’s still nicely buzzing, but everything’s under control.

“What can I get you?” I smile at a middle-aged balding man as he approaches the bar.

“A pair of glasses.”

“Wineglasses?” I ask.

“No.” He frowns. “Specs. Either my eyes are playing tricks on me, or you’re not Heidi.”

“No.” I smile. “I’m not, I—”

“Then where’s Heidi, and who the
hell
are you?”

“Mike!” Christian rushes to my side. “Heidi’s ill—she had to go home.”

“Then who’s this?”

“Louise,” Christian says. “She’s looking for part-time work.”

“I emailed you my CV yesterday,” I add.

“So I just thought I’d give her a trial—”

“Someone I’ve never even laid
eyes
on working behind
my
bar, selling
my
beer, opening
my
till?” Mike interrupts. “
I
decide who to hire.” He glares at Christian. “And who to fire.”

“She did us a favor,” Christian argues. “Heidi was sick and no one else was available. Lou saved our skins today—you should be thanking her.”

“Oh really?” I wince as Mike yanks open the cash register.

“Yes,” Christian says heatedly. “You turned off your phone, and if Lou hadn’t stepped up, the pub would’ve had to close.”

“And who made that decision? Heidi?” Mike demands, rifling through the till. “That’s a managerial decision.”

“No, I did,” Christian confesses. “Heidi had nothing to do with it. She didn’t even know.”

Mike looks at him. “
You
did, eh?”

Christian nods.

Mike sighs. “S’pose you’re due a promotion, then.”

I look up sharply as Christian blinks. “What?”

“The pub’s not taken this much money in a daytime in months,” he says, smiling at the wad of cash he’s taken from the till. “The Facebook mix-up’s been a blessing in disguise.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“Young man, you kept a cool head in a tough situation. You kept us staffed, kept us open, and kept us afloat. Well done.” He closes the till and tosses Christian a set of keys on a Bugs Bunny key ring. “So I’m making you deputy manager, and your first job can be to open up tomorrow.”

Christian just stares at him.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking—th
ere’s punters waiting, and I’ve got to stick this lot in the safe.”

“Actually, it’s the end of my shift....” Christian glances at the clock. “I’ve got to go—is that okay?”

Mike shrugs. “If Louise can stay.”

“What?” I look up.

“What time did you start serving today, young lady?”

“Um, about three-thirty.”

“Well, if you can stay and work till closing, and work tomorrow too, you’re hired. I could do with an extra pair of hands tonight—who knows when Heidi’ll be back on her feet—and we’ll need more weekend staff anyway if we’re doing more offers. I’ll even throw in a free dinner.”

I blink. “Sure. Thanks!”

“Great.” He winks. “Welcome to the team.”

“Congratul
ations, Lou!” Vix squeals as Mike walks into the back. “You got the job!”

“Knew you would, given half a chance.” Kenny winks.

“I can’t believe it,” Christian says. “I thought I was about to get fired!”

“Me too,” I admit.

“You’re a lifesaver.” He grins. “Thank you.”

“Sounds like you owe me a drink.” I smile.

“Definitely. Just... not tonight.”

“Smile, you two busy barpeople!” Vix cries. “This is a moment to remember!”

I turn as she points her camera phone at us.
Flash!

“NO!”
Christian jumps backwards like he’s been shot, his hands flying to his face.

Vix stares at him. “Sorry...”

“No, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just—I’m not... very photogenic.”

“Seriously?”
Vix raises an eyebrow.

“It’s true—you should see his driving license.” I smile uneasily.

“Anyway, I’ve... got to get going,” Christian says, heading for the coat hooks.

“You can stay for one drink, surely?” I protest. “At least wait till the rain eases off—it’s pissing it down outside.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got a jacket,” he says, grabbing it from the rack and slipping the pub keys into the pocket.

“How is your poor jacket?” I take it from him. “Wow, there isn’t even a mark.”

“Good as new.” Christian smiles. “It’s like it never even happened. No one would ever know.”

If only all stains were so easy to remove.

“Thanks again for your help today, guys,” Christian says, pulling on his jacket.

“You’re welcome, mate.” Kenny grabs him in a bear hug. “Any time.”

“Whoa, someone’s affectionate after a few drinks!” Christian laughs, patting Kenny on the back as he finally releases him. “Have a good night, everyone!”

“Come on, Christian, it’s still early!” Vix protests. “What’s so important about being home at six-thirty on a Saturday night?”

Christian sighs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she challenges.

I watch him closely.

“I can’t miss
Doctor Who
!”

Vix groans. “Nerd.”

“You got me.” Christian grins. “Bye!”

“Bye, mate!” Kenny waves.

“Lame,” Vix comments when he’s gone.

“Totally,” I agree miserably.

“You’re alive!” Vix cries as I answer my mobile the next morning. “Thank goodness! I was really worried when you didn’t answer your door last night—I thought you must’ve just been asleep—but when there was still no reply this morning I was starting to panic you’d been missing all night!”

“You knocked on my door last
night
?” I frown. “What time?”

“When I got back from clubbing, just after two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty?”
I cry. “Good thing I’m a deep sleeper—I would
not
have been a happy bunny to be woken at that hour!”

“Sorry. I was drunk and I just... I wanted to apologize for going clubbing without you. You’re my best friend here, and I shouldn’t just abandon you when you’ve got a bad ankle.”

“Vix.” I smile. “It’s fine. Really. Just cos I’m not up to dancing the night away, it shouldn’t stop you going out.”

“Thanks, Lou. You’re the best. Where are you, anyway? What’s that
noise
?”

“St. Augustine’s church clock.” From my bench I crane my neck to see the time. Ten o’clock. “I’m doing research. You know, for our creative writing assignment?”

I’ve actually been here since nine-thirty, hoping to bump into Christian and get some quality time alone with him, albeit in a public place. It’s impossible to talk to him properly when he’s working and there are so many people around, and if I invite him for a drink one more time, I’m going to look ridiculous. This way, hopefully we’ll get to spend some time together “accidenta
lly.”

Even if it is accidentally on purpose.

But there’s still no sign of him, so what started as an invented pretext for being here is now actually the truth.

“Research?” Vix says blankly. “What research? We’ve just got to write a ghost story, right?”

“Based on a real person,” I add.

“So, what, you’re trawling a graveyard checking out dead people?”

“Pretty much.”

“Hon, we live in the
online
age. We can do research without even getting out of bed! I’ve got my laptop here—I’ll
prove
it.”

I sigh. “It’s not the same.”

“Here we go. Online obituaries. Ooh, how about Rita ‘Margarita’ Chevalier: ‘She lived life like her cocktails—
bubbly and full to the brim!’ Sounds like my kind of lady! Or how about Gemma Fotherington. Born 1998— Shit. She was really young.”

I stop still. “How’d she die?”

Vix hesitates. “She was killed.”

My skin turns cold. “Killed?”

“Yup. House fire.”

“Oh!” I blink. “Oh, I thought you meant—”

“What?
Murdered?
” Vix says. “That’d make a
much
better ghost story—a spirit out for revenge on her killer.”

“Who else is there?” I ask quickly.

“Um... Harold Booth? Butcher killed by a runaway bull.” She laughs. “How ironic!”

“Vix, these are real people!” I snap suddenly, my temper flaring from nowhere. “They’re dead. It’s not a joke.”

“I know—sorry.” Vix sounds stricken. “I didn’t mean anything, Lou, I just—I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a call waiting,” I lie.

“Okay. Well, see you later, then?”

“I’m working till four,” I say. “Bye.”

I hang up swiftly, shocked by my outburst. I need to get a grip. Vix doesn’t know what happened, after all—at least, she doesn’t know it happened to my family. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. I could ruin everything.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm down as I glance at the gravestones rising like statues around me. My eyes flicker over the dates and names and inscriptions.

This is where we all end up, one way or another.

Some of the stones look new, their edges sharp and clean, almost shiny, while others have ancient dates which are barely visible, worn clean by time’s indiscriminate hand. Like everything else.

The gravel crunches behind me and I turn as an old lady walks slowly past. She stops by a headstone and I can just make out the inscription.
John Fielding, beloved husband, father, and grandfather.
Gently, she lays a bunch of flowers on the grave and arranges them carefully, lovingly.

Where are they now, these people who lived and loved? Are their souls up there somewhere, in heaven? Or floating around invisibly on earth?

Are Mum and Dad watching me right now?

I hug my jacket tighter round me, cold suddenly, despite the morning sunshine.

Would they be proud of me? Of the person I’ve become? Of what I’m doing? Or would they be disappointed?

I shiver as a breeze rustles through the trees; then I pull out my notebook. But instead of a ghost story, a letter pours out:

Dear Uncle Jim,

I miss you so much.

We’re writing ghost stories this week, and all I can think about is how we all used to lie out in the back garden together in the summer, the grass soft beneath our heads as we watched the stars prickle the darkening sky, our smiles sticky with ketchup and melted ice cream. Do you remember? You told me that stars were the holes in heaven where the angels look down on us. That Mum and Dad were up there watching over me. It made me feel safe.

But now everything’s changed—and I feel like it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.

I wish more than anything I could turn back the clock, that we could all be together again, go back to those summers—I thought they’d last forever. But now I know that nothing does.

What if Mum and Dad aren’t watching over me? What if there are no ghosts? Or heaven, or hell, or judgment day or reincarnation or anything else?

What if there’s just nothing?

What if this is all we get—a few years to live our lives the best we can, whether young or old, saint or murderer...

“Louise?”

I whip round, startled, dropping my notebook in the mud.

“I’m so sorry!” Christian cries, bending to pick it up, but I snatch it hurriedly, brushing the dirt off with my sleeve.
How long has he been there?

His eyes darken. “Are you okay?”

“Fine—I’m fine.” I look away. The old lady who brought the flowers has gone, but people are milling around the church entrance. The service must have ended.

“What are you doing hanging out in a graveyard?” I ask him.

“Oh”—he shrugs—“pi
cking up chicks.”

I blink and he nods, straight-faced.

“You’d be surprised how many girls wander through looking for Edward or Stefan or whoever. Total pulling hot spot.”

I smile despite myself, and he grins.

“Not really. I play the organ every Sunday morning here.”

“Really?” So
that’s
what the note on his calendar referred to. “You’re religious?”

He looks around at the swarm of people leaving the church, then lowers his voice. “Not particularly, but don’t tell anyone,” he confides. “But it fits in with my shifts at the pub, it’s an extra thirty quid in my pocket each week, and it’s such a beautiful instrument—I used to have a piano at home, but...” He trails off, shuffles his feet. “So what are you doing here, anyway?”

“We’re meant to write a ghost story about a real person,” I tell him. “So I came here for research. But I got sidetracked. Sketching.”

“You sketch?” His eyes light up as he sits down beside me, taking the bait.

“Oh, they’re just doodles, really,” I bluff, sliding my notebook swiftly back into my bag and clutching it tightly. “They’re not very good.”

“They can’t be worse than mine.” He smiles.

“You sketch too?” I feign surprise.

“It’s a bit of an obsession of mine.” He grins wryly. “Whenever I see an interesting face I want to draw it, so I carry a sketchbook everywhere I go.” He pats his bag.

“How wonderful! Can I see?”

“Well, I’d show you, but then, you know...” He shrugs. “I’d have to kill you.”

I flinch despite myself. “That bad, huh?” I say quickly.

He laughs. “Yup. That bad. I’m no Lucien Freud.”

“You like Freud? Really?” I say eagerly—he’s one of the painters I researched after spotting his book in Christian’s lounge.

He nods. “He’s my favorite painter.”

“No way—me too!” I cry.

“Really?” Christian looks at me and something flickers in his eyes.

Shit. Have I gone too far? Is he suspicious?

“What’s your favorite painting?” he asks.

“Oh, I... It’s hard to choose....” I panic, racking my brains trying to remember what I read on Wikipedia. “
The Brigadier,
I think. But the paintings of his mother are wonderful—you know he spent four thousand hours painting her?”

He smiles and relief sweeps through me. If that was a test, I think I passed...

“I read that,” Christian says. “I love them too. He’s just so... honest, you know? I really admire how he doesn’t try to cover anything up or make his art pretty, because he’s more interested in stripping away the layers, finding the truth of a person—the wrinkles, the flaws, the humanity....”

I wince. I certainly hope he doesn’t succeed in stripping away
my
layers to find the truth.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly. “I could prattle on all day. So you came here to write a ghost story?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I blink. “It’s meant to be about a real person, so I thought I might get inspiration from the gravestones.”

“I’m not sure you get the true sense of a person from a gravestone.” He frowns. “They’re all the same. Dearly beloved so-and-so, fondly remembered, sorely missed etcetera, etcetera. If you love someone, you should say these things to them when they’re alive, when they can hear you, when it can make a difference.” He sighs. “Before it’s too late.”

My heart twists. “You’re right.”

“Do you know anyone who died?” he asks.

I hesitate, unsure how much to tell him.

“Actually, yes. My parents died in a car crash when I was little.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He frowns. “You think your parents will always be there no matter what. You don’t realize how much you need them, how much you’ll miss them, till they’re out of your life forever.”

I frown.

“But I’m sure they’re still watching over you.” He smiles.

“What, as ghosts?” I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

I shake my head. “People just make them up to scare each other.”

“Ghosts aren’t scary,” Christian says quietly. “They’re sad.”

I look up, surprised.

“Their life is over, and yet they’re still here, barely existing, doomed to watch over what they once had, knowing they can never go back, however much they want to, and yet they’re unable to move forward.”

“In stories ghosts have usually done something terrible—t
hat’s why they’re stuck here,” I tell him, my insides tight. “Maybe some things you shouldn’t be able to just forget and move on from. Maybe that’s the point.”