Little White Lies (13 page)

A few more coffees and a pile of croissants later, Lucy arrives and I look at my watch—it’s already gone four, so she must have finished for the day.

“Hiya,” she trills in her singsong voice.

“Hi, Luce,” I say, trying to sound pleased to see her. “This is my friend Chloe.”

“Great name,” says Lucy, sitting on Alistair’s knee and bending over to give Michael a kiss on the cheek. “So, what’s new, pussycats?”

“I’m trying to read,” says Alistair.

“Correction. You were trying to read. Now I’m here and I want to play!”

Alistair pretends to look annoyed, but I don’t think he is really. I exchange a look with Chloe. I don’t get how Lucy can get away with behaving like that. I’d just never dare.

Chloe starts rummaging around in her bag and pulls out her mobile phone which is trembling furiously.

“Forgot I put it on vibrate,” she explains with a half smile as she lifts it to her ear.

I studiously ignore Lucy and Alistair’s antics, while Michael moves cups of coffee off the table so that Lucy doesn’t knock them over whilst tickling Alistair.

“Natalie, that was Dad—I’ve got to go I’m afraid. He said he’d pick me up from the tube in twenty minutes.”

“You’re joking! But you’ve only just got here!”

“I know . . . but I’ll definitely come back next weekend,” Chloe says, giving me a little hug.

“I’ll walk you up to the tube, if you like?” I offer, and Chloe nods and smiles.

“So, Tina T’s,” Chloe says as soon as we’re out the door.

Damn—I thought she might have forgotten about that.

“I . . . I do their marketing for them,” I find myself saying. “And sometimes shops offer discounts when you work on their campaigns . . .”

I feel terrible. I have no idea why I can’t just tell her the truth. Or rather, I do have an idea, and it’s called Pete. Chloe is the best friend ever, but she has never been able to keep a secret for more than five seconds, and I just can’t bear for Pete to find out I don’t have a job in advertising, after all.

“Why didn’t you tell me before? When I told you I wanted to go?” Chloe asks.

“Well . . .” I say hesitantly, “I didn’t want to stop you from going there, if you wanted to, that is, but for me it’s, you know, work . . .”

I can’t believe how good at massaging the truth I’ve become—it’s like it’s second nature to me now.

We walk up toward Notting Hill, and as we near the top of Kensington Park Road, I stop suddenly. I have to be honest with Chloe about one thing at least.

“Chloe, I need to tell you something.”

She looks at me curiously.

“I wasn’t ever going out with Alistair. I just said it because . . .”

“. . . because you knew I would be seeing Pete at Rebecca’s party?” Chloe asks.

I shrug.

“Well it worked,” she says with a grin. “I mean, he kept asking about him, which made Rebecca really pissed off. It was quite funny actually . . .”

I pause. “Rebecca?”

“Shit, sorry . . . I thought you knew. About Pete and Rebecca, I mean . . .” Chloe looks worried, and takes my hand.

I knew it. I bloody knew it. I feel vindicated, strengthened by the truth. And bitterly hurt. Any hope I might have had that he’d come to London to get me has finally been dashed.

“You’re well shot of him,” Chloe says tentatively. “You know I always thought you could do better.”

“So much better I had to make up a boyfriend,” I reply, my voice beginning to quiver. He was cheating on me. All along. And maybe that’s all I deserve.

“Well, Alistair may be made up, but at least he’s handsome. And stylish. But then I suppose he is gay,” Chloe says with a shrug.

I start slightly. “Excuse me?”

“What?”

“You think Alistair’s gay?”

“You don’t?”

I pause for a minute. I suppose I’d never really thought about it.

“Come on, Natalie. His legs were entwined with Michael’s. And Michael did stay with him last night, didn’t he? And wasn’t he looking at the Style section . . . ?”

He is a little bit camp, I suppose. Very well dressed. Pretty obsessed with his hair. And he is always with Michael . . . Oh, God. Oh, how embarrassing. I look up slowly and meet Chloe’s eyes.

“Natalie . . . ?” she asks tentatively. But before I can say anything, my face involuntarily twists into a sort of half smile. And before I can twist it back again, Chloe has sort of snorted out this huge guffaw, and even though she tries to make out it was a cough, the damage is done. I start shaking very lightly with giggles, and before I know it we’re both standing on the street laughing hysterically. I mean, the whole thing is just ridiculous. Of course Alistair’s bloody gay. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.

“Chloe, I’ve really missed you,” I tell her, cringing inwardly at how ridiculous I’ve been.

That’s what happens when your best friend lives too far away—you miss the obvious things in life that they normally point out for you.

“God, me, too. Honestly, life is crap without you to have a laugh with. But I’ll see you next weekend, okay? And don’t get upset about Pete. He and Rebecca deserve each other. I like the sound of this Simon guy . . .”

With that, she gives me another hug. And as she disappears into the tube station, I burst into tears, then laugh and cry all the way home.

  9

“Cressida! Cressida!”

I’m waiting outside Langan’s, a Mayfair restaurant, not sure whether to go in. For one thing I’m over ten minutes early, and for another thing I’m just not sure the dinner is a good idea in the first place.

“Cressida!”

My eyes fix on a cab. There’s someone hanging out of it, shouting. It looks very much like . . . Oh God, it’s Simon . . . and he’s calling me. Has been for over a minute.

My heart flips slightly. He looks gorgeous.

“Sorry, Simon, I was miles away. I got here a bit early and thought I’d get a bit of air.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, getting out of the cab and leaning down to kiss me. “I’m so glad you’re early. It means I don’t have to spend ten minutes wondering if you’re really going to come.”

I look up in surprise.

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re so gorgeous and cool—you could have spent the past few days wondering if you really want to go out to dinner with a boring banker . . .”

“You’re not boring,” I say, linking my arms with his and wondering if Simon realizes how close to the truth he is about my nearly deciding not to come. I reach up to give him a hug.

“It’s really good to see you,” I say into his neck.

The restaurant is like something out of eighteenth-century France—gold and opulent with paintings everywhere and a delicious-sounding menu. The perfect place for a couple in love to dine. Except we’re not in love, I remind myself firmly. Simon certainly isn’t in love with me. He doesn’t even know my real name. Doesn’t know that I’m from Bath and work in a clothes shop. That the only reason we even met was because I opened up someone else’s mail. If he found out . . . well, that would be the end of that. He says he likes me because he thinks I’m genuine and honest. And to my shame, I seem to have lost all connection with those particular values.

“Would you care for an aperitif?”

I look up at the waiter hovering by our table.

“Great idea,” says Simon. “I’d like a gin and tonic please. Cressida?”

“Gin and tonic sounds good!” I can feel myself relaxing—Simon’s so easy to be around. I just wish I could get rid of the niggling doubts in my head. What am I worried about—that Simon will find out who I really am? Or am I more worried that he won’t?

“Cheers,” says Simon when the drinks arrive, lifting his glass to meet mine. As he does so, my fingers brush his, and I feel a frisson of excitement. Before I can move my hand away, his little finger links with mine.

“I think I’d like to drink a toast to Leonora,” he says with a smile. “What do you think?”

“Oh, most definitely.” I smile, and I mean it. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d never have met. “To Leonora.”

We order, and then we start talking and before we know it, we’ve eaten two courses and pudding has arrived.

Simon tells me about growing up in a small town in the county of Wiltshire, how he hated boarding school but never told his parents because it was so expensive; how everyone he went to Oxford with went into banking, fund management, or accountancy and he chose banking because his best friend got a job at the same company but then left six months later, leaving Simon on his own; how he’s had one serious relationship since university, and that it finished about six months ago.

“So how do you know Leonora?” he throws in at the end. Like it’s just a throwaway comment. Like he’s just curious.

Of course he’s just curious. I mean, he actually thinks I’m Cressida.

“She—uh—knew my mother,” I say. “So, was Oxford as hard as they say it is?”

“Not really,” says Simon with a smile. “So where did your mother meet her—Leonora, I mean. Did she spend some time in India, too?”

India? Fuck, is Leonora Indian? It doesn’t sound a very Indian name to me.

“Not in India exactly,” I say desperately. I don’t want to be having this conversation, but so far my attempts to divert Simon have failed abysmally.

“Where then?”

Why does Simon want to know so much? This is awful.

“Oh, you know, she traveled a lot, you know.” I think of my mother back in Bath, still living in the same square mile she was born in, and squirm slightly.

“How wonderful. But she didn’t join the missionary?”

Missionary?

“Uh, no. No, she didn’t do that.”

“I’m surprised Leonora let her out of her clutches!” Simon grins.

“Me, too!”

As Simon continues to press me on where exactly my mum met the mad-sounding Leonora, my heart sinks. Who am I kidding? This is never going to work. I can’t date someone who thinks my mum is friends with some Indian missionary and that I’m called Cressida bloody Langton.

I look at my watch. Ten-thirty
P.M.
Well, it’s been fun. Simon’s lovely. But there’s no future in this. I think it’s probably time for me to go home.

“Look, Simon, thanks so much for such a great evening,” I say breathlessly, trying to ignore the voice inside me telling me to stay. “The thing is, I—er—need to go now. Got a big project on at the moment at work—early start and all that . . .”

Simon looks disappointed, but smiles graciously. “Of course, I understand. Can I see you soon?” he asks hopefully.

“Definitely. I’ll call you, shall I?”

Simon nods. As I walk out I feel incredibly sad that I won’t be making the call.

So, Alistair is gay; so that foils my little “go out with Alistair” plan. That might also explain the fact that as hard as I try, I just don’t fancy him—maybe at a subconscious level I’ve been picking up “not-ever-going-to-be-interested-in-you” vibes. But Alistair being out of the picture doesn’t necessarily mean I should go out with Simon. Simon, who doesn’t even know my real name. I say the words to myself as I fold up jumpers at Tina T’s, but it doesn’t make them any easier to accept. At least it’s Wednesday, which means Chloe is coming up in a few days.

“Hi!”

There’s a woman standing in front of me, acting like she knows me. I realize I’ve been staring into thin air for a good five minutes. I study her face, and immediately remember—she’s the girlfriend of that investment banker.

“Hi!” I say, beaming, pleased to have something to focus on other than the fact that it’s still only a quarter to five and I won’t be out of here until six. “So how did the dress work out?”

“Just beautifully,” says the woman, smiling, obviously very pleased with herself.

“And today I need something more casual for a weekend away. I’m thinking maybe navy trousers or something. Something that won’t look awful after a few hours in a suitcase.”

“Dolce and Gabbana have some nice navy,” I say, thinking out loud. “But Chloe have got some lovely trousers that are slightly paler in color . . . or what about pastels? Then you’re into Michael Kors territory and they’re really easy to wear . . .”

I wander around the shop picking up clothes as my client, whose name I discover is Angela, trots after me telling me her plans for the weekend. “We’re staying at his parents, so I can’t look too flirty . . . of course, I’ve known them for years and they love me, so I don’t have to try too hard, but you know . . .”

As I pick up clothes, Angela tells me that she will also be needing some new underwear, as he saw all her best stuff the other night.

“And he loves black lace. Can’t get enough of it . . .” she tells me. She is still talking as she walks into the changing room—I’m not sure anymore if she’s talking to me or to herself. “I mean, we’re perfect for each other. All going well, I think next weekend . . . ah, yes, these trousers are absolutely spot on . . .”

She walks out of the changing room in the pistachio Michael Kors pants and a sweet Prada top revealing a snippet of toned stomach underneath. She studies herself hard in the mirror, tossing her golden hair and moving her hips from side to side. I imagine what it would feel like buying clothes for a weekend away with Simon. Feeling that rush of excitement. Then I push the thought from my mind.

“What about from behind?” she says seriously. “Do you have a mirror, so I can see how it looks?”

I duly fetch a long mirror and hold it up for her.

“Great. Yes, these will do perfectly. Let me just try on the other trousers.”

She walks back into the changing room. I look at my watch. Five-thirty
P.M
.

“Ooh, these are lovely,” I hear Angela breathe as she comes out again, this time in the Chloe trousers and a Clements Ribeiro top. “A bit pricey, but what the hell, eh?”

She looks at me for approval and I grin right back.

“It’s an investment buy,” she says, smiling, looking at her side profile in the mirror. “Yes, I’ll definitely take the lot.”

A few minutes later she goes back into the changing room and reemerges after a short while with a pile of clothes over her arm. To my relief Julie wanders over to help wrap them up.

“Ooh, you’ve done well getting the Michael Kors,” Julie says, winking at Angela. “Nearly out of those already and they only came in yesterday.”

As predicted, Angela glows with pleasure.

“Well,” she says, when everything is bagged up and paid for, “if this little lot doesn’t work, nothing will!”

“Got a seduction plan, have you?” Julie asks knowingly.

“Just a little project,” Angela says with a smile. “A marriage project, actually. Got to get that ring, know what I mean?”

Julie nods and rolls her eyes in sympathy.

“So Michael Kors and Chloe will have him down on one knee?” she asks, handing Angela her bag.

Angela’s eyes visibly brighten. “Exactly. Or at least that’s the plan. Wish me luck!”

We both wish her luck and I walk her to the door. I never want to have a “marriage project.” It sounds so manipulative, so unromantic. I wonder if there are any women chasing Simon around like that, and am surprised at the pang of jealousy I feel at the very thought.

As I walk back to the cash desk, Julie and I exchange looks. “So, Natalie, you going to buy a thousand pounds’ worth of clothes for Canvas tonight?” she asks me with a deadpan face.

“Absolutely,” I reply. “I thought I’d buy a couple of different outfits—you know, in case I change my mind halfway through the evening.”

“Good plan,” agrees Julie. “I mean, it’s an investment, isn’t it?”

“Precisely,” I say, giggling.

“So what would you buy—you know, if money wasn’t an issue?”

I look at Julie uncertainly. “Not an issue at all?”

She nods.

“Well, probably this.” I pull out the Alberta Ferretti dress I tried on before. It’s the most beautiful floaty black number that’s made of this lovely whispy chiffon material and hangs beautifully around your every curve. I almost didn’t recognize myself in it.

“Hmmmm. It’s nice,” agrees Julie. “Not as sexy as the Gucci, though.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m really a Gucci kind of person. I haven’t got the cleavage.”

“Fair enough. I’d go for Westwood every time,” Julie says. “Good on bottoms, Westwood.”

I wander off back to fold up some more jumpers and look up idly when I hear the door open again. There’s a tall man in a suit peering in, obviously unsure whether he’s in the right place.

With a start, I realize it’s Simon. What the hell is he doing here?

As Laura walks over to him, I duck down behind a display unit and hiss to Julie.

Maybe he’s found out who I am. Maybe he called Leonora. God, this is awful!

Julie looks at me oddly. “All right down there?” she asks.

“Julie! You’ve got to help me. That’s Simon. That’s the guy I went out with!”

“So why are you hiding? Nice of him to come and see you at work, isn’t it?”

I suppose it would be nice—if I knew how on earth Simon tracked me down. I pull Julie down so she’s at my level. She looks very unhappy—her clothes don’t lend themselves very well to crouching.

“He doesn’t know I work here,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know what he’s doing here. But he can’t know I’m here. Okay?”

Julie looks at me uncertainly. “You sure you don’t want to see him?”

I shake my head furiously. It’s one thing not calling Simon, but it’s another thing completely to be rumbled like this.