Little White Lies (11 page)

I hesitate. He’s from the West Country, too. Suddenly I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell him about my home in Bath. About going riding with Chloe on Sunday mornings when it’s icy cold but sunny and you can ride for miles without seeing another soul. About moving to London and not knowing anyone. About Laura the witch. But of course I can’t. I’m Cressida, aren’t I? So instead, I take a quick swig of wine, quickly figuring out a story that would fit with Cressida. One that doesn’t involve me having to pretend I’m a Reiki healer.

“Oh, you know,” I say gaily, trying to disguise the little hollow feeling that’s taken root in my stomach. “I live in Notting Hill—but I said that, right? I work in fashion. I eat out rather than cook. And I’ve always lived in London. I love it. I mean, there’s just so much to do, so much to see. You know what they say, if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life, right?”

I smile what I imagine to be a winning smile. I can feel myself being transported into Cressida mode. Carefree and fabulous.

But instead of smiling back, Simon frowns slightly.

“You really like London that much? It’s funny, you don’t come across as a real Londoner.”

“What do you mean?” I counter, defensively. His words feel like a stinging criticism. Like he can see right through my London persona. Well, I’ll show him. “I am absolutely a Londoner,” I continue. “It’s the country that’s overrated. I mean, it’s so boring.”

I could swear I see a look of disappointment cross Simon’s face.

“I find London tolerable, but that’s about it,” he says, pushing his hand through his hair. “I find most of the people very self-centered. Self-obsessed even. There’s more to life than the latest club, bar, or gallery opening. Concern for others, a love of nature, honesty . . .”

I look at him uncertainly. Does he know that I’m about as far from honesty now as I’ve ever been before? I blush, almost sensing Simon’s disapproval.

But then I realize I’m being ridiculous—he has no idea I’m not really Cressida. And anyway, why should I care what he thinks? He’s a stuffy banker who thinks that London is just “tolerable,” when everyone knows it’s the best place in the world. I mean, I hardly know it at all, and I think it’s wonderful.

We sit in silence for a while. Then Simon’s face crumples into another smile.

“I’m sorry. You’re right—London really isn’t that bad. I’m just pissed off with work, that’s all. I don’t know London well enough to dislike it. I do dislike the City, though.”

I smile in relief. “The country isn’t really boring, either,” I concede, falling out of Cressida mode and back into Natalie mode. “And you’re right—people are much more friendly in the country. You wouldn’t leave someone sitting in a doorway covered in a blanket without stopping, would you? But people do that all the time here.”

“And you wouldn’t go around looking like that, either,” says Simon, his eyes twinkling as he points to a couple entering the restaurant. I have to laugh. She’s got bright red hair and is wearing an orange minidress with silver tights. He’s got his hair styled like someone out of a boy band, and is wearing loads of Ice T–style heavy gold jewelry even though he’s scrawny and looks about eighteen.

We giggle as they walk past our table; then Simon tells me a bit more about the City. About the money being great, but how he never feels like he’s done anything to deserve it.

“You’re not anything like I thought you’d be, you know,” he says after a while.

“You’re not either,” I muse. Simon looks at me quizzically.

“Tell me,” he says, “what did you expect me to be like?”

I think back to the conversation I had with that woman in Tina T’s. The one with the investment-banker boyfriend. Simon doesn’t seem the type to hand out platinum cards. And actually he isn’t boring. Not at all.

“Like a typical investment banker,” I say with a shrug. “You know, arrogant, expecting people to do what you want and stuff.”

Simon looks serious for a minute, then smiles. “I see. Well, I’m glad to know you don’t think I’m arrogant.”

“What about me?” I ask. “What did you expect me to be like?”

“Oh, God, where do I start?” Simon says with a grin. I look at him awkwardly. I suddenly start worrying that I’ve given myself away. That he can tell that I’m not Cressida. Or, worse, that he doesn’t actually like me. Because if I’m absolutely honest, I think he’s really cute. So much so that I’m kind of tempted to tell him that my name’s actually Natalie.

“For a start, you’re obviously much cooler than I was expecting. I mean, people like me don’t generally meet trendy types from Notting Hill, working in fashion . . . But you’re also not too cool, if you know what I mean. In a good way, I mean . . .”

My eyes narrow. “Not cool?” I say crossly.

Simon rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I didn’t mean . . . Look, can I be totally candid?”

I nod.

“What I mean is, you seem genuine, unlike so many people you meet in London. I’ve . . . well, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. And that was certainly unexpected.”

His face breaks into a smile and his sparkly eyes make my stomach flip. He’s really enjoyed talking to me. Of course, I’m going to have to address this whole “seeming genuine” thing—somehow, admitting that I’m not actually Cressida might be a little bit tricky now. But that’s a detail, surely. He’s gorgeous, and he likes me.

And to think I nearly didn’t open that letter.

I find myself staring at Simon’s lips and wondering what they’d be like to kiss.

But then I stop myself. For one thing, he thinks I’m Cressida. And for another thing, I moved to London for a new life. I can’t start going out with someone who obviously can’t wait to get back to the country.

“So, Cressida,” Simon asks, looking me straight in the eye. “Tell me more about yourself. What is it that you want out of life?”

Hmmm. Do I answer in Natalie or Cressida mode? I can’t decide—I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t think I’m ready to be completely honest, either.

So instead, I tell him what I usually tell friends of my parents and other people I don’t know very well. That I want to pursue a career in marketing. Eat organic food. Get fit and read more. I mean, what does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to see him again, is it?

I know I wasn’t going to stay longer than five minutes. I know I shouldn’t have made the phone call in the first place, let alone arrange to have dinner. But there was just something about Simon. And even though he is so far from the sort of person I thought I wanted to go out with, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and touching his hands, and immediately his fingers wrapped around mine, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I found out all about him, too. Like the fact that his mother left when he was three—disappeared just like that—and that he never got over it. That his father’s new wife is like a mother to him and that very few people know that she isn’t his real mother, even friends he went to school with. That his brother still lives near his parents, and that he envies the quality of life they all enjoy, even though they all see Simon as the big success story.

And he kept asking questions about me—not like most men who ask you one or two questions to be polite and then just talk about themselves. He actually seemed interested in me. I think I managed to convince him I was Cressida—born and bred in London. But I sneaked a few real things in, too—like the fact that I know my mum still misses James so much that she cries herself to sleep sometimes. That Chloe is sort of the sister I never had. And that the first two boyfriends I had were so crap at kissing, I nearly swore off men for good.

That last bit was probably the bit that got me into trouble. I mean, if I hadn’t said that, then he might not have asked me, on our way out of Momo, whether I was still refusing to entertain the idea of having a boyfriend. And then I might not have answered, “No, but I do make sure I kiss them first.” And then it’s unlikely he would have said, “I see. Well, shall we see if I pass the test?” And he probably wouldn’t have put his arms around me and kissed me really gently on the mouth, and then kissed me again, not quite so gently this time, and I probably wouldn’t have leaned into him and opened my mouth and kissed him right back, right there on Regent Street in front of the world. And I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to see him again next Wednesday. As I got out of the cab (about two seconds after Simon put me in it—you don’t travel in cabs on my salary), I did my best not to play and rewind that kiss again and again—and failed dismally. But what I’ve got to remember is that he kissed Cressida, not me. And it won’t happen again. At least I’m pretty sure it won’t.

  7

“So how was it then? Natalie? Hello, anyone at home?”

I look up, startled. Julie is peering at me.

“Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”

“I wanted to know how the date went. But I take it from your dreamy expression and inability to fold a jumper properly that it went well. Any juicy details you’d like to share?”

I go red and smile. “It was okay,” I say, trying to sound deadpan.

“Just okay? Come on, you can do better than that. What’s his name, anyway?”

“Simon. Simon Rutherford.”

“Nice. Sounds posh, but nice. And what does he do again?”

“Investment banker,” I say quietly. It doesn’t sound right when I say it. Simon is about as far from my image of an investment banker as it’s possible to be. He’s so warm and engaging. But I don’t want
warm and engaging,
I remind myself. I want
cool and urban.
Like Alistair.

For some reason, the thought of Alistair doesn’t make me smile or blush the way it does usually.

“Ooh, check you. So, Simon the investment banker takes you to Momo. And then what?”

“Then?”

“Well, did you take him home? Or did you go back to his luxury pad on the river? I assume he’s got one, has he?”

I look up, pretending to be shocked. “There was none of that,” I say firmly, then grin. “We did kiss,” I concede. “He’s a very good kisser.”

“Ah. Kissing. I remember that,” says Julie dreamily as she wanders off to hang up some Pucci dresses.

I try to focus back on the jumpers, but find myself comparing Alistair and Simon. You couldn’t choose two more different people if you tried. Alistair lives in bars and cafés, wears cashmere and denim and thinks going for a walk means going shopping on foot instead of taking a cab. He’s so utterly different from the guys back home—and very good-looking in a chiseled kind of way. Whereas Simon . . . well, he confessed never to have gone to a gig, said the only time he dances these days is at weddings, and he’s utterly clueless about clothes. But he felt so comfortable, like I’d known him for ages.

The thing is, though, I’m not sure I want to feel at home. I want to feel thrilled and excited. It’s just that “thrilling and exciting” isn’t quite as . . . comfortable, if you know what I mean.

I hear the door go and look up—it’s Michael. He’s looking amazing in a stripy shirt and oversized tie with drainpipe black trousers. I try to imagine what Simon would look like in a getup like that and smile at the ridiculous spectacle. No, Simon and trendy just don’t go together.

“Coming out tonight?” Michael asks, hanging round the door rather than actually coming in.

“Alistair and Lucy are coming. Thought we’d go to the Market Bar and maybe wander up to Woody’s. Wanna come?”

“Definitely.” I grin as Julie wanders over.

“Did I hear someone say Woody’s?” she asks.

“Maybe. You interested?”

“Ooh, I might be,” she says. “Jason’s working tonight, and I’m not hanging round bloody Canvas again.”

“No, I can see why you wouldn’t want to do that,” says Michael with a cheeky grin as Julie shoots daggers at him.

“I hear you had a hot date last night,” Michael says, turning to me.

I look at Julie, who tries to look all innocent.

“Was it a secret?” she asks.

“Alistair told me.” Michael grins. “He wants me to find out if you’ve got yourself a rich boyfriend we can all live off.”

“You tell him it’s none of his business,” I retort, and turn back to the jumpers, secretly pleased.

“Suit yourself. Anyway, we’ll be in the bar in about ten minutes. I need a drink.” Michael puts up his hand in a wave.

“Okay, see you soon.”

The Market Bar is heaving by the time Julie and I get there. We had to go via her place because she was desperate to change, and then she couldn’t decide what she wanted to change into. I couldn’t believe the state of Julie’s flat. I have never seen so many clothes heaped on the floor. They were even hanging off the walls like pictures. There were more bags in her flat than in the entire bag department at Selfridges. And the smell . . . perfume mixed with cigarette smoke mixed with sex. Quite a heady concoction. She finally decided on a gold sparkly dress that she dug out from under the wardrobe. As she did up the zip and pinned her white-blond hair into its permanent beehive form, I thought, not for the first time, that she is wasted as a shop assistant. I mean, she really does look like a film star—all perfume, red lipstick, and seamed stockings.

Her flat—or rather, studio apartment—is at the top of a modern building on Pembridge Crescent with a lovely little balcony that looks out over Portobello. But I couldn’t even get out there because of all her records and clothes and piles of rubbish. It’s actually pretty cool—I mean, it just screams, “I’m too busy having an amazing life to worry about keeping things tidy.” But I can just imagine Mum’s reaction if she saw it; she’d have her marigold gloves on in an instant. For a second I get a huge stab of affection for Mum and her passion for cleaning.

“You enjoying London, then?” Julie asked as she rummages around looking for lipstick.

“Oh, definitely,” I said, looking through her record collection.

“I know it can be pretty tough at first,” she continued, pulling a face at the mirror as she expertly applies lip liner. “Moved here from Sussex when I was sixteen myself. Bloody hated the place for the first week; then I started partying and I’ve never really stopped, if you know what I mean.”

Did I know what she means? I’m not sure I do. I thought I was brave moving here at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Will I be like Julie in ten years’ time, I wonder, out every night, always looking for the next party? Do I even want that? I’m not sure that I do. But then, why am I here?

“Right, I’m done,” says Julie, interrupting my thoughts just in time. “Let’s go!”

“Well, aren’t you both looking ravishing tonight,” Alistair greets us with as we walk into the bar, and he puts his arms around us. “We’re drinking cocktails tonight. So what will it be?”

I suddenly can’t think of a single cocktail. Apart from a gin and tonic, and that doesn’t count, does it? I scan my brain for reference points and remember Carrie from
Sex in the City
just in time.

“Uh, a cosmopolitan please,” I say with a grin.

“Sex on the beach for me,” says Julie with a wink.

“What about a cosmopolitan sex on the beach? I wonder what that would taste like?” says Alistair wickedly. His arms are around my waist and I lean against his shoulder slightly. But I don’t feel anything—no frisson of excitement at all. What’s wrong with me?

“You behave, you rude boy,” says Julie, laughing. “Just get us our drinks, will you? We’ll be with the others, won’t we, Natalie?”

I pull myself away from Alistair and follow Julie to a couple of leather sofas where Michael, Lucy, and a couple of strangers are sitting. One of them is a young girl with bright pink hair, and the other is a skinny guy with messy-looking mousy hair. He looks moody and doesn’t return my smile.

“Hiya!” says Lucy brightly. “Guys, this is my friend Richard and this is Marie from university.”

Marie smiles and when she says hello, I hear a thick French accent. Richard appears to be doing everything he can to avoid all human contact and is staring into the middle distance.

“Do excuse him,” says Lucy. “He’s just pissed off because of a major setback in his career as a catwalk model.”

I shoot Richard a sideways look, and stop giggling immediately. He’s a model? Oh, my God! I have to make sure that the fact I spent an evening with a male model filters back to Pete. I might have to embellish very slightly, turning him into a six-foot-five Adonis, but still.

He shoots Lucy a death look. “Not da catwalk,” he says in the strangest Eastern-European-meets-cockney tones that I have ever heard. Somewhere between Bjork and Michael Caine.

“Is for a campaign. Helmut Lang.”

I find myself wondering what Simon would make of Richard, and giggle to myself.

“Someone saw Richard in the street and wanted him to go to Paris for a photo shoot. But he doesn’t have a passport, so he can’t go,” explains Lucy.

“I’m sure you can get a passport in time,” I say reassuringly. “Once I only realized the day before I was going on holiday that my passport was out of date, but if you’re prepared to queue, you can get one in a couple of hours. Just go to—”

“No, he doesn’t have one. Like, at all,” says Lucy, raising her eyebrows at me.

“But . . .” I’m about to interject, then realize what she means. He isn’t legal. He can’t leave the country.

“I’m sorry. That’s a real bummer,” I say awkwardly, but Richard doesn’t even look up. Still, he’s a model. I’ll forgive him his lack of social niceties.

“So what do you do at university?” I ask, turning to Marie.

“
Quoi? Qu’est ce que je fais?
Uh, I , I do feelm study,” she manages to say, and smiles vaguely, in a rather bored way.

“That sounds great.”

“Great. Yes.”

“So who are your favorite directors?” I continue, aware that Marie’s body language is not particularly inviting, but preferring to try my chances with her rather than attempting to talk to Richard again.

“Oh, lots,” says Marie. “But you won’t have heard of any of them.”

I can hear Simon’s voice in my head, saying, “up their own arses,” but shut it out quickly. So they aren’t particularly friendly, but maybe it’s a language thing.

Still, I’m relieved when Alistair reappears. “One cosmopolitan for our little cosmopolitan lady,” he says with a grin, “and one sex on the beach for . . . well . . .”

“Just give me that, you adolescent,” says Julie, taking her drink out of Alistair’s hand.

“Honestly, I don’t know why we even allow you out with us sometimes.”

“Because of my boyish good looks, I believe,” says Alistair seriously.

“And what’s going to happen when they fade?” asks Julie.

“Well, then I’ll sell my soul to the devil to get them back. So, Natalie,” Alistair says, turning to me, “how have you been getting on? Any nice dates lately?”

“Maybe.” I smile slightly, enjoying the attention.

“Just maybe? So who is this guy? When are we going to meet him? Is he very rich?”

I grin. “You aren’t going to meet him. And I don’t know if he’s very rich.”

“Don’t know? Dearest, you spent an entire evening with him and you don’t know how rich he is? Come on, you can do better than that. Did he have a platinum card? Was he wearing bespoke or off-the-peg? And what do you mean we’re not going to meet him? How rude.”

Alistair pretends to turn away in a huff. I think he’s a bit drunk.

“Maybe I meant he wasn’t going to meet you. You know, until I think he deserves to,” I say, prodding him.

“Ah, I see,” he says, turning back to face me. Alistair’s energy and animation is infectious. Just telling him about Simon makes me feel more excited about the whole thing. Even though I know that I could never introduce them—they inhabit different worlds. And in Simon’s world, I’m called Cressida.

“Well, yes, I can see that you’d want to keep us for your very special boyfriends,” Alistair says, grinning. “But really, there’s no need. If he’s rich, we’ll welcome him with open arms.”

“You’d welcome anyone with open arms,” quips Michael.

“Lucy, I notice you are not exactly springing to my defense,” Alistair says loudly, but Lucy pretends to ignore him. She’s talking animatedly to Julie about something and just gives Alistair a little smile.

“So what’s with all the cocktails?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Ah, well,” says Alistair, “it’s for a pitch I’m doing next week. New chain of cocktail bars that are very big in the States and are opening up over here. I need to immerse myself in cocktail culture so that I can come up with the perfect slogan and advertising concept. Which means that tonight is all on my company expenses, too.”

“You work in advertising?” I say excitedly. “That’s what I used to do. And I did loads of slogan writing. How about ’drinks to mix with’ or ’mixing it up’ or something . . .”

But Alistair has seen someone he knows on the other side of the bar and has jumped up to greet him.

I pick up my cocktail and look around the table. Lucy and Julie are still engrossed in their conversation and Michael has hopped up to join Alistair. That leaves me, Marie, and Richard. I turn reluctantly back to Richard.

“So do you do a lot of modeling?”

He has sunken eyes and thick hair that has obviously been colored, although why someone would actually choose to color their hair a mousy brown is beyond me.

“I done some, yes. I could be da best, but fuckin’ passport means I carn go fuckin’ Paris. Fuckin’ sucks, man.”

I’m not sure what to say. I opt for “Sounds like you need a drink,” but this doesn’t go down well.

“I don’t drink alchohol. Make you fat, you know? Don’t drink, don’t eat, neither. See dis?”

He lifts up his T-shirt to reveal a flat, skinny stomach.

“I ain’t fat.”

I nod in agreement. “No, you’re not fat.”

I’m not sure where to go with this conversation. I’m certainly not showing him my stomach, if that’s what he expects.