Little White Lies
TABLE OF CONTENTS
To my parents, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to my agent, Dorie Simmonds, and my editor, Allison Dickens, for their inspiration, support, and wonderful ideas. Thanks to Maddy and Mark for reading (and listening) and saying all the right things. And thanks to the great shops in Notting Hill that I had to spend such a lot of time in, all in the name of research . . .
1
Let me ask you a question. A theoretical one, if you’ll bear with me. Would you ever open someone else’s mail? No? Of course not, I knew that.
Okay, but supposing there was this special letter. A really enticing-looking letter in a thick creamy envelope, handwritten, with no return address on it. And let’s suppose that this letter was sent to you. Kind of by mistake. And that you had no way of forwarding it on.
Still not tempted?
Fine. Well, let’s also say that the person to whom the letter is addressed was a member of one of the most exclusive private-member clubs in London and had a fabulous social life. While you were really bored, having just moved to a new city where your social life hadn’t exactly blossomed yet. And suppose you had to look at the letter day after day just sitting there on your mantelpiece.
Imagine, if you will, that this person had a stack of mail piling up in your flat and that you were looking after it for her, even though it was very doubtful she’d ever come and claim it.
And let’s just say that the intended recipient of the letter had moved out of your apartment over a month ago and she still got more phone calls than you did.
Now would you be tempted? Just a little bit?
No? No, of course not. Me neither.
Boom Boom. Huh, huh, yeah.
The ceiling is shaking, which would suggest that Alistair, the guy who lives upstairs from me, is having yet another party. I’ve been trying to read
Vanity Fair
—my mum’s favorite book—for the past hour, but each time I get to the end of a paragraph, I realize I haven’t taken any of it in and I have to go back and start over again. Which is a shame because it’s a great book, and I want to find out what happens next. So far, clever but wicked social-climbing Becky Sharp is manipulating everyone around her, and everything seems to hinge on money and virtue—the more a character has of either, the better off they are, although money without virtue is preferable to virtue without money. I guess some things never change.
I try reading again, but it’s no use—Becky Sharp cannot compete for my attention when hip-hop is booming through my head. Maybe a magazine is a better idea.
Trying to ignore the loud music and laughter coming from Alistair’s flat, I pick up a copy of
Elle
and alight upon an article on de-cluttering. “Clear out your wardrobe and create a new you!” it says. Now, there’s an idea. That would be a constructive way to spend an hour or so.
Although it isn’t quite how I imagined spending a Saturday night in London when I decided to move here. I felt delirious with excitement when I handed in my notice a month ago telling my boss that I was moving to London and there was nothing he could do about it. It felt so good, marching into his office with this little smile creeping over my face. I almost expected a standing ovation and film music to play when I told him—or possibly for Richard Gere to turn up and sweep me off my feet and out of the office. You see, I’m not the sort of person who ups, sticks, and moves. I’ve always been good, straightforward, and predictable. No one saw this coming—least of all me. But life has a funny way of changing on you, doesn’t it? Things weren’t going so well back in Bath, where I was working and living at home, and when I mentioned to my mum that I was thinking about moving to London, she was so excited, I kind of had to go through with it, even though I hadn’t been entirely serious.
But like my mum said, you only get one chance at life, so you’ve got to take every opportunity open to you. So I ended up leaving my friends, my family, my job . . . In a way, I felt I owed it to my mum to give it a go. She’s always wanted to move to London and live the life of “high society,” as she puts it, ever since she was a little girl. But she didn’t ever do it—she got married, had children, and before she knew it, she’d missed her chance. And since Dad hates being anywhere you can’t see a field, she doesn’t even get to visit London very often. I, on the other hand, know exactly what Dad means, though—cities can be scary places.
Anyway, the point is I’m doing it now. And I can’t just sit around listening to music being played at a party I’m not at. I’ve got to make a go of things. Mum would be so disappointed if she knew I’d spent a month staying in every night. I’ve got to at least try and let her enjoy a little bit of London life through me.
And actually it did feel good walking out of my job at Shannon’s, the advertising and marketing agency where I was working, knowing there’d be no more sitting in the pub every Friday night after work bitching about the new Brand Director who called everyone “sweetness” in this really irritating, patronizing tone. No more having to wear short skirts every time we did a pitch. And no more wondering whether a job in Bath that I didn’t really like was the best I could hope for. No, I was taking control of my life. I was getting out of the West Country and its super-relaxed-but-actually-pretty-small-minded-if-you-bother-to-dig-beneath-the-surface-a-little-bit attitude. And I was on top of the world.
Maybe I should have sorted out a few more practical details before I just moved here, but I got a bit carried away by the momentum and the romance of arriving in a big city with nothing but a suitcase. I was the heroine of my own little story. I wasn’t going to settle for “not quite what I was hoping for.” And I was going to prove to Mum that I could do it—she’s only got one daughter, so it was up to me to make her proud. Of course it does mean that I don’t really have much of a job right now—I do have a job, it’s just not quite what I anticipated. But working in a shop isn’t so bad. And I have been reading
The Guardian
and looking for suitable openings in advertising. At least I’ve been meaning to. I just need to deal with the little voice inside me that keeps reminding me that I never really wanted to work in advertising in the first place.
I look at the article more closely. Closets are a window to the soul, apparently. If yours isn’t in pristine condition, the author writes, how can you expect your life to be? Hmmm. I hope that’s not true. My wardrobe is in a terrible way. It’s small, cramped, and full of nasty wire hangers.
Wandering into the bedroom, it strikes me that chucking out everything and starting again might not be such a bad idea. I can really clear the place out—new life, new wardrobe. And once it’s all sorted out, maybe the rest of my life will start to fall into place a bit more.
Although . . . I stare at the wardrobe, wondering where to start. Maybe it isn’t such a great idea, after all. I have no money for new clothes, and what’s the point of clearing everything out if you can’t go shopping straightaway to get beautiful new clothes that miraculously reduce your waist and make your legs look longer?
After a few moments’ hesitation I wander back to the sofa. There’s no urgency—now is probably not the best time to be going through my wardrobe, anyway. It’s Saturday night, for heaven’s sake. I should be doing something fun.
Boom boom, huh huh huh, uh huh, huh, yeah.
I ditch the magazine—the music’s way too loud, and there’s no way I can concentrate. Maybe I should cook something. I could try out a great new recipe or something. I’m always saying I have no time to cook properly, and now’s my chance.
Having said that, my kitchen isn’t really the easiest place to cook in. I say kitchen—but what I really mean is a little area kind of adjoining my sitting room that has a sink, a fridge, and a cooker. Then there’s a little table that sits between the kitchen “area” and the sitting room “area” and . . . well, that’s about it, actually. There’s no cupboard space and I’ve had to line cereal boxes up on my bookshelves because there’s nowhere else to put them.
That’s the thing with London. You see a flat description in an estate agent’s window (“Hip Ladbroke Grove flat, one bedroom, perfect for entertaining”), and you think you’re going to get something like the place Monica has in
Friends.
And then you get there and the “perfect for entertaining” actually translates as “the kitchen is in the sitting room, so it’s only one step.”
I suppose I could do more with the place—it’s a bit bare, I know. But the thing is, I haven’t really got anything to “do more” with—I came up from Bath on the train, and I could barely carry any of my clothes, let alone anything like pictures or books. And anyway, I didn’t want to bring all my baggage—physical or metaphorical. Moving to a new city is the start of a new life, and bringing reminders of Bath would rather defeat the point. My old pieces of furniture are just that—old. They’re part of my old life with Pete. Pete’s my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, rather. He’s part of the reason I moved here. Like I said, I’m not ready to settle for “not quite what I was hoping for.”
Still, that’s no excuse for not making the place look more lived in, more personal—I’ve been here a month now, after all. The trouble is, I can never seem to decide what look constitutes “personal.” Do I go for modern and clean with leather sofas and furry rugs? Pete would have sold his grandmother (or me, if I’m honest) for a modern, light apartment complete with leather sofa, huge plasma-screen television, and one of those showers with glass bricks. At one point we even set up a savings account, thinking we could buy somewhere. But we never saved much—there were always more important things like football season tickets (him) and shoes (me). Maybe neither of us actually wanted the flat. Not really.
So anyway, there’s modern, but I’m not sure that’s really me. Then there’s the whole shabby-chic look, which, let’s get real here, is probably more suited to my budget, anyway. Since I moved here what savings I had managed to claw together have been dwindling rapidly. Vintage would certainly work in this flat. Plus, I’m living on my own for the first time in a long while, and I rather like the idea of going incredibly girly, just because I can. There’s no PlayStation to find room for, no one insisting that anything with flowers on it belongs in an old people’s home. I could create a pretty haven, all of my own.
But am I actually a girly sort of girl? I’m not entirely convinced. I never wear pink, and never really did the whole cashmere sweater thing at school. I was more of a tomboy, always a complete mess. Actually, I only really twigged about the whole grooming thing in my first term at university. It was so simple I don’t know why I didn’t get it before—spend an hour on your hair and put some makeup on, and boys take more notice of you. It also helps if you laugh at their jokes rather than take the piss out of them—I learned that in my second term. Duh! By the time I came back home I knew all the tricks of the trade. And that’s when Pete finally noticed me. For the first time ever, he actually came over to talk to me as a girl, rather than as “one of the lads.” All my life pretty much (well, since I was about thirteen), I had been crazy in love with him and he’d never seen me as more than a friend. And all along, all I needed to do to get his attention was put on some lip gloss and get my hair to do that glossy swingy thing. I’d have been unbelievably pissed off if I hadn’t been so happy I was finally getting him to notice me.
Of course the other decorating option is that whole Indian/ethnic look—teak tables, deep red patterned rugs, and incense stick. Again, I don’t know if it’s me, but I’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t I? There’s a shop on the Portobello Road that sells loads of little tables and rugs and they aren’t even too expensive.
I sigh. Making big decisions like that is too much for me right now. Still, I can surely do something with what I’ve already got.
I look around the room for inspiration. There are two books on the arm of the sofa. My stereo, which has seen better days, is on the floor, surrounded by CDs and tapes. A dodgy mirror the landlord left is hanging desolately on the wall, reflecting the empty wall opposite with its cracking paint and holes suggesting where pictures might go. And then there’s a pile of letters cluttering up my mantelpiece, none of which are even for me. When I took this place for a six-month lease, the landlord asked me to keep hold of any mail for Cressida, the previous tenant, “just in case she comes back.” Which was a little disconcerting really—it feels like it isn’t quite my flat, like I’m just looking after it for the previous incumbent. But what’s worse is that she gets way more mail than I do.
Maybe what I need are some photographs on the wall. Some throws over the sofa. Then I could take up the carpets and sand the floor. Or I could buy a huge big rug and make it really cozy . . .
I really don’t know how people make big decisions about things like decorating so easily. It’s like they have this incredible confidence that there is one way of doing things and that their way is it. Take my parents. Dad likes classical music and can’t stand loud bars or pubs. He likes going on holiday but only if he can drive—he hates planes. He likes traditional English food and reads biographies rather than fiction. Mum, on the other hand, likes Italian food, glamorous restaurants, chintzy furniture and fabrics, holidays in Europe, and films with Michael Caine in them. I know if they’ll like something because they are so clear-cut, so decided. Mum always says, “I know what I like and I like what I know,” and it’s true, she does. But I always want to ask her “How? How do you know? How can you be so sure?”
