Little White Lies (14 page)

“Well, okay, if you insist.”

“Natalie! Julie, have you seen Natalie?” Laura and Simon are walking around the shop and heading my way. I crouch down further and maneuver myself round to the other side of the display unit, my heart pounding. How did he find out my real name?

“I think she might be on her break,” says Julie. “Can I help?”

“But she’s just had a break.”

“Yes, well, she’s on another one. How can I help?” Julie flashes a big smile at Simon, and Laura walks away, peering round the shop to see where I am. My heart’s beating so loudly I’m surprised she can’t hear it.

“Actually, you can help, if you don’t mind,” I hear Simon say. “I was looking for something for a present.”

“I see,” says Julie, winking at me. “What sort of present?”

“Clothes. I was thinking probably clothes.”

“Yes, well, you’ve come to the right place for that.” Julie smiles patiently.

Simon looks slightly sheepish. “Sorry,” he says bashfully. “I’ve never done this before. It’s just that the—uh—person I’m buying a present for is . . . well, she knows all about fashion. You know. Lives round here, actually. Girls at work told me this would be the place to come. You know. Apparently supermodels shop here or something?”

He trails off, obviously feeling incredibly awkward and out of place. I flush guiltily. Simon’s come all this way to buy me a present, and I wasn’t even planning to call him again.

“Yup, you’ve come to the right place,” Julie says, getting into her stride. “So, any idea what sort of item you’re looking for? Top, trousers, skirt . . . ?”

Simon looks unsure.

“Well, what size is she?”

Simon’s eyes fill with alarm. “The usual sort of size,” he says tentatively.

“Bigger or smaller than me?” Julie asks gently.

Simon appraises her for a moment, and I feel myself get a bit hot under the collar.

“Bigger,” Simon concludes. I squeak in indignation. How much bigger?

“Right, well I’m a size six-to-eight. So maybe a size ten? Twelve?”

I shoot Julie daggers from my uncomfortable crouching position. I am so not a size twelve.

“I don’t know,” says Simon. “She’s got lovely curves. Slim, but not . . . you know, too thin.”

Julie looks slightly put out for a minute, then looks thoughtful.

“Blond, is she?”

Simon looks surprised. “Yes . . . how did you . . . ?”

“Oh, just a guess,” says Julie with a wicked smile that I know is aimed at me.

“Hmmm. Well, there’s a lovely little vest top that’s just come in—Marc Jacobs. Very pretty. And we’ve got some nice skirts, too . . . Or . . . No, no, you’d never go for that. Far too expensive . . .”

“What?” asks Simon. I maneuver myself round a bit to get a better view. What is Julie playing at?

“Oh, nothing. No, it’s just that there’s the most beautiful dress that would look stunning on a slim, curvy blonde. But it’s a bit too much. No, I’ll show you the vest tops.”

“How much?” demands Simon.

“Well . . . shall I just show it to you?” Julie asks coyly. God, if she’s doing what I think she’s doing . . . But she couldn’t, surely?

Simon follows Julie toward the Alberta Ferretti rail. Quickly she whisks out my dress.

Simon stares at it.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

“Isn’t it,” agrees Julie. “Do you want me to try it on for you?”

I nearly fall back with alarm, but manage to hold on to the display rail in time to catch my balance. But Julie gives me another wink as Simon demurs. “I . . . I don’t think that will be necessary,” he stammers, obviously taken aback.

“Still want to see the vest tops?” Julie asks him. He’s still staring at the dress as if transfixed.

“No . . . no, I think this is probably the ticket . . .” he says vaguely. “It’s really very lovely, isn’t it?”

“She’ll look beautiful in it,” agrees Julie, bagging it up quickly and swiping Simon’s Amex card. “Whoever she is . . .”

I move onto my knees, then duck quickly as Simon’s eyes scan the shop. He looks slightly taken aback when he sees the amount he’s signing for—I have no doubt that he wasn’t expecting Julie to squeeze him for £800—but then smiles slightly.

“Thank you,” he says politely as Julie hands him the bag.

“Oh, you’re very welcome. You should come back!” she replies, and gives him her sweetest smile.

As Simon walks toward the door, I’m aware that I’m shaking, and I don’t think it’s entirely because my body is contorted on the floor. He bought me the Alberta Ferretti dress. He actually bought it for me. Lovely, sweet Simon. How could I think I’d be able to just not call?

“You don’t want to lose that one,” Julie whispers, as Laura corners Simon at the door—if anyone ever spends over £500, she always makes a point of smiling fatuously at them as they leave.

I grunt as I unravel my limbs to reach an upright position.

“No,” I say when I’m finally standing. “I think you’re right.”

I smile all the way home. It just shows—if I hadn’t opened that letter, where would I be? On my own, that’s where. Thank God I succumbed to temptation, that’s all I can say. I guess sometimes you just have to take a risk. It’s funny—everyone always talks about Adam and Eve as if eating that apple was the worst thing in the world. But if Eve hadn’t taken a bite out of that apple, we wouldn’t have the Internet, Marc Jacobs, or Shakespeare—or even sex, would we? No, I’m pleased I did it. I just have to figure out how I can get round the fact that Simon thinks I’m Cressida. It can’t be too hard, surely?

I turn round the corner to see a Tina T’s bag on my doorstep. Just sitting there, with enticing pink tissue paper peeking out of the top. It’s my dress! I look around uncertainly—what if someone had stolen it?—then pick it up and take out my keys. As my hand reaches up toward the lock, my mobile phone rings.

Irritated by the interruption, I pull it out of my bag and hit
OK.

“Don’t you want to look in the bag?”

It’s Simon! “I was just about to!” I say excitedly, and then start slightly. “Simon, how do you know I’ve got the bag?”

“I was hardly going to leave it for someone else to steal, was I?” says Simon.

“So you’re . . .”

“Across the road . . .”

I look around, and sure enough, there, in front of the Frog and Firkin is Simon, shirtsleeves rolled up, looking utterly gorgeous.

He wanders over the road as I open the bag and take out the dress. My dress.

“I thought you might like to try it on . . . take it out somewhere with me tonight . . .” Simon says with a smile as I stare at the dress, mesmerized.

“Or we could forget the going-out bit,” I say softly, turning off my phone and reaching up to kiss Simon.

He kisses me back urgently, pressing me against the front door. I manage to give him my key, and as he opens the door, I just about manage to avoid falling right through it. Wishing I didn’t have to share the hall and stairs with four other flats, I make my way up the stairs as quickly as I can, with Simon right behind me. And then, finally, we get into my flat and close the door behind us.

We don’t make it to the bed. Not right away. We start off right there in the entryway, but it’s not that comfortable, so as I take Simon’s shirt off, he carries me over to the sofa and then my jeans start to come off—I say start, because Simon tries to take them off without undoing them completely, which means that they get stuck halfway, and it isn’t the most flattering look, to be perfectly honest. But I wriggle out of them and then . . . well, then Simon is kissing me everywhere, and it’s so unlike anything, or anyone before, and I actually feel like the sexiest woman alive instead of worrying that my tummy’s too round or that I’m not inventive enough. We make love. On the sofa, on the rug and, finally, in my bed. And if he hadn’t called out “Cressida” at the pivotal moment, it would have been pretty near to perfect.

  10

You know those times when you wish someone could see you? The times when you think, yes, right now I would be happy for my life to appear on prime-time television because I would be proud to watch it, proud to have other people see me doing whatever I’m doing, looking however I’m looking. Do you have those times? Well, this is one of them. Picture the scene: I’m sitting in my Ladbroke Grove kitchen with the sun streaming in, wearing a light dressing gown with a little bit of smudged makeup left around my eyes, which actually looks better than the smudged look I try so desperately to create when I go out. And sitting opposite me, drinking tea, is a gorgeous man. He’s right here, with me—not watching the football on television over my shoulder or asking me to stop talking because he’s got a hangover, but talking about his day ahead and asking about mine. This must be as close to paradise as it gets. Hidden cameras, now is the time to start rolling.

“The thing is,” Simon says seriously as I butter some toast and boil the kettle again, “money may make money, but it’s not exactly fulfilling. I mean, lucrative, yes. But I’m not sure it really contributes to society in any way.”

“I guess it depends what you’re investing in,” I suggest.

“Anything that makes money,” Simon says flatly. “I think Leonora had the right idea, you know. Working with the missionary, I mean, really making a difference. Not many of us get the chance to do that, do we?”

I nod awkwardly. How many more conversations am I going to have to pretend to have about this woman Leonora? Maybe I could say I’ve had a huge falling out with her and say I never want to talk about her again. Although how do you pick an imaginary fight with a bloody missionary?

“You know, I was thinking about Leonora the day that you called, bizarrely enough,” Simon says, biting into a piece of toast. “It sort of seemed like fate when I got your message. I mean, any other day I probably would have just deleted it. Incredible, isn’t it . . . ?”

“You would’ve deleted it?” I say indignantly.

“You did sound a bit odd,” says Simon, grinning. “And you did call at three
A.M
. I mean, now I know that you’re a beautiful, gorgeous minx. But you could have been a complete fruitcake, couldn’t you . . . ?”

“How do you know I’m not one?” I ask playfully. Actually, I should probably ask him to define
fruitcake
—for instance, does opening someone else’s mail and impersonating them count as fruitcake behavior?

“Fair point,” says Simon. “But seriously. I do think fate played a hand in this, don’t you?”

I look up at him uncomfortably. What if “fate” was actually trying to get him together with Cressida and I got in the way?

As I’m trying to think of what to say, the phone rings. I think quickly. Do I pick up and risk an hour-long conversation with my mum, or do I leave the answer phone on and risk Simon hearing a really embarrassing message from her? Oh God, what if it’s Pete? I dash to pick it up, but the answer phone kicks in before I can get to it.

“Hi, leave a message!” I hear myself say on tape.

“Oh, is this a machine? Was that the beep? Ah. Hello. This is a message for Cressida Langton. My name is Stanley Wickett. I understand that you offer Reiki healing, and was hoping to make an appointment. Perhaps you would be good enough to call me. My number is 020 7354 2667. Thank you very much.”

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Thank God, another Reiki call. I can’t believe how lucky I am!

I smile happily at Simon. I want to say something like, “Yes. A message for Cressida. Me. That’s who I am,” but instead I go back to the kitchen to finish my toast.

“So, Reiki healing, huh? You never mentioned that.”

Bollocks. I didn’t think of that. Still, it would make sense—you know, if my mother is supposed to be friends with Leonara who is a missionary and probably into all that stuff . . . “It’s just a sideline really,” I mumble. “To be honest, I don’t think I’m going to do it anymore. It was just something I was trying for a while.”

“Don’t say that,” says Simon, putting down his tea. “I think it’s fantastic that you try to heal people. You can’t give something like that up. Go on, call him back.”

I look up in shock. “Call him? Oh, no. No, really. I . . . I don’t think I’ve got any, um, healing powers anymore. So tell me more about the City,” I beg, desperate to change the subject, but Simon is having none of it.

He walks over to the phone and starts to dial. “Two-six-six-seven, wasn’t it? Right. Ah, hello, is that Mr. Wickett? Splendid. I’m calling on behalf of Cressida Langton regarding a Reiki healing session . . . yes, that’s right. Well, what time would suit you? I see, just one minute.” He winks at me and covers the phone. “This evening around seven okay with you?”

I glare at him and shake my head furiously.

“Seven o’clock it is. Yes, Flat 3, 127 Ladbroke Grove, that’s right. Superb. Cressida will see you then!”

I can’t quite believe what he’s done. I am not a Reiki healer. But then again, I’m not Cressida, either. If I kick up too much of a fuss, it might look a bit odd. I mean, Cressida would hardly be turning away clients, would she?

Simon walks back and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You don’t mind, do you? I just think it’s so cool being a Reiki healer. And he was so pleased to hear from you. Well, me, actually, but you know what I mean.”

I twist my lips into an awkward smile. “Of course I don’t mind,” I say weakly.

Simon leans down and kisses me. “Look, I’ve got to be in the country this weekend, but I’m back on Sunday. I don’t suppose you’re free, are you? Thought we could maybe have a picnic in Hyde Park or something?”

“Ginger ale and pork pies?” I say with a grin.

“Precisely. And strawberries. Cream. Let’s have an orgy of food, wine, and . . .”

He pinches my bottom firmly.

“They have park wardens, you know,” I say seriously. “So don’t get any ideas . . .”

“Too late,” says Simon, picking up his coat.

“Okay,” I say, grinning. “But look, let me bring the food, okay? I think I owe you . . .”

“I’d rather you pay me in sexual favors, but if you insist,” Simon says, kissing me tenderly on the lips.

And with that he walks out the door and goes to work. I, on the other hand, find myself unable to move from the spot for a good ten minutes, just leaning against the wall mulling over the evening, the night, and the morning after. Somehow this doesn’t feel like the other people I’ve been out with. Everything about him—the way he looks, the way he feels, the way he just is. It’s like I already know him, which is obviously impossible. But I think I like him. I think I really like him. And I think, perhaps, he really likes me. I’m going to tell him about the name thing on Sunday, we’ll laugh about it, and everything will be wonderful.

Finally, with a little smile, I grab my bag and leave for work.

The man waiting for me at the doorstep does not look like someone who is into Reiki healing. I mean, he isn’t wearing weird clothes, and he doesn’t have long hair. In fact, he looks pretty much the opposite of what you’d expect a Reiki patient to look like, if you had any preconceived ideas, which you probably don’t. I didn’t, until I saw this guy and realized that he wasn’t it. He’s about seventy. Maybe even older. And he’s wearing a tweed jacket. He looks like he should be sitting in his gentleman’s club, not hanging outside houses in Ladbroke Grove.

“Good evening. Stanley Wickett,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake. “It’s so very good of you to give me an appointment at such short notice. I used to go to the healing center up the road, but their therapist has left, and they gave me your name and number.”

I smile thinly. “Oh, no, it’s no trouble, really.”

“You’re very kind. And, um, one thing I did forget to ask on the telephone is your rate.”

“My rate?”

“For treatments. How much do you charge?”

“Oh, right. I guess forty pounds.” Like I’m going to charge him for nothing. But I had to say something, didn’t I?

“Good-oh. I was paying forty-five pounds at the healing center, so that’s great news. A little more money for the good things in life,” says Stanley cheerfully as I lead him up to my flat.

It’s only when I open the door that my stomach starts to flip-flop. The thing is, all day I’ve been in denial about this whole Reiki thing. I mean, it was so surreal—the phone call, Simon thinking it was so cool that I was a healer—that I sort of blocked it out of my head, focusing instead on the bigger problem of how I tell Simon about the slight mix-up in names (I’ve convinced myself that it’s the sort of thing that can just happen sometimes. Like, “Ooops, did I say I was called Cressida? I meant to say Natalie . . .”).

And now I’ve got a real live man in my house, expecting to be healed. This isn’t like lying about my name—I’ve actually got to do stuff this time.

“So, would you like a cup of tea?” I ask in a faux cheerful voice, trying to delay the inevitable moment. Where am I going to put him? On the sofa? On my bed? No, not my bed. No way.

“Love one, thank you. Milk, no sugar, if it’s not too much bother.”

Too much bother? God, I’d make him tea all evening if it would get me out of having to “heal” him. And this guy gets Reikied, or whatever you’d call it, regularly. I mean, there’s no way I can make it up as I go along.

“It’s no bother at all,” I say briskly. “Actually, I find for the first session, it’s often best to have a really good old chat. You know, about the problems you’re having, what you want me to focus on. That way I can really make sure I’m, um, channeling energy in the right direction.”

Channeling energy? Where did I get that from? But it seems to work. Stanley sits back with a smile.

“Yes, yes, I think you’re absolutely right. Well, let me see now. I suppose it’s the headaches, and the general feeling of tiredness. I just don’t feel myself, if you know what I mean. Haven’t felt myself for a while now.”

“How long exactly?” I hand Stanley his tea and he smiles gratefully. This is much more like it. I mean, I love a good chat. It certainly beats watching television on my own. To be honest, much as I like living on my own, I sort of miss having someone there at the end of the day to talk to. And Stanley seems a sweetie.

“How long?” Stanley asks. “Oh, one maybe two years.”

“Years? God, that’s awful. So what do you think is causing them?”

“My doctor says stress.”

“And are you stressed?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t work anymore. I don’t have financial worries. No, no, I wouldn’t say I’m stressed. But my doctor is quite certain. My last therapist, too. She thought I needed to relax more.”

I stir my tea. It’s funny—just asking these questions makes me feel like I’m a bona fide counselor or something. Like I actually know what I’m talking about. “So what happened one or two years ago. You know, to start your headaches off?” I ask, giving my best you-can-talk-to-me look.

“Nothing really kicked them off,” Stanley says matter-of-factly. “They started gradually, you see. I’m afraid, my dear, there have been no major events that I can blame them on. After my wife died, I picked up a routine that I very rarely change from day to day.”

“I’m sorry your wife died.”

“So was I. So am I,” Stanley corrects himself. “She was a great woman. Very feisty. I like feisty women, you know. Not those docile creatures who just smile at you. Ugh, can’t bear them. No, Bess didn’t take any prisoners. Terrified of her, I was. Whole family was. Loved her, though. Are you married?”

“No,” I say, a little too quickly. That’s another thing Pete and I used to talk about. Something else we never quite managed to save up for.

Stanley smiles at me. “Chap on the phone not the one, then?”

I blush slightly. “He’s, well, I’ve only just met . . . I mean . . .”

“I see. Well, take it from me—when you do meet the one, you make sure you work at it, won’t you? It’s so very important. I’m so happy to have had so many great years with my wife. So very happy . . .”

Stanley trails off and stares into the middle distance. He’s right, of course. Being happy . . . well, nothing beats it, does it? And I think I am happy now. Anything is better than the dissatisfaction, the insecurity mixed with simmering anger I felt with Pete.