Little White Lies (26 page)

Stanley looks a bit overcome.

Archie nods again, then smiles broadly. “Welcome to the world of business, Natalie. Very glad to be on board. So when can you get the builders in?”

“No, no, no,” says Giovanni, beaming from ear to ear. “First, we have champagne, yes?” He produces a bottle from his briefcase and some plastic cups.

“Definitely,” I say happily, then give Giovanni a little kiss on the cheek. “Was Laura very cross?” I ask him.

“She very crazy woman,” says Giovanni, grinning. “Crazy scary.”

I look around the little shop as my head goes fuzzy from the champagne. Everyone here—well, they’re like a sort of family to me, really. London is just as beautiful and welcoming as the country. Just in a different way. And although I thought I was coming to London to escape the whole community thing, I’ve realized that life can be pretty meaningless without it.

I guess things just aren’t black-and-white, after all. I thought that London was cool and wonderful; Simon thought it was full of poseurs. Then when things went wrong, I thought Bath was safe and that London was scary. But it isn’t true at all. The city has lots of little communities with great people—you just have to find them. And as for Bath . . . well, Pete was just as pretentious as Serge in his way. Even right and wrong isn’t that clear-cut. I mean opening that letter—was that right, or wrong? If I hadn’t, I’d never have met Simon. Or Stanley. None of us would be here. Maybe Chloe’s right—I don’t deserve a miserable end like Becky Sharp for opening those letters, after all. But for not telling Simon the truth . . . well, that’s a different matter.

After finishing the champagne, we pile into a café to discuss our plans and argue over decoration. Archie talks us through our ownership structure—we’re all going to be shareholders to differing degrees—and how we’re going to be managed. Stan’s going to oversee the builders; I’m in charge of buying and promotion; Julie and Lucy will manage the shop and do the books; and Giovanni’s got a team who will oversee the interior design. Julie immediately gets down to work, devising a clothing allowance for each of us.

“So that we can promote the clothes to customers,” she explains with a smile.

Finally Archie announces that he has to get back to Wiltshire, and we all get up to go.

As Archie leans down to give me a kiss good-bye, he whispers, “And Simon?”

“That’s where I’m going this afternoon,” I whisper back. He looks surprised, and I take his hand quickly.

“I wanted to prove to him that I could follow my dreams, too,” I say, trying to explain why I haven’t called Simon yet. I consider adding,
I’m too scared that he’s got some other girlfriend and that he’ll just reject me out of hand,
but decide to keep that sentiment to myself.

Archie nods seriously. “Don’t leave it too long,” he says with a little smile, and squeezes my hand.

When everyone else has gone, I have a quick cup of tea with Stanley, who offers to escort me home, but I tell him I’ll be all right on my own; then I make my way back in a daze. I can’t believe it’s happened. I’ve got a shop.

I walk up the stairs toward my flat slowly, lost in my own thoughts. So lost in fact that I bump smack into Alistair as he comes tearing down the stairs.

“So how did it go?” he asks me excitedly. I’m not surprised that he knows all about it—according to Julie, they haven’t been talking about anything else since I suggested the idea to her a couple of weeks ago.

I grin. “Well, Laura was pretty pissed off.”

“This is just so exciting,” he says, embracing me and kissing me on the cheek. “And as soon as you want some creative ideas on advertising, you know who to ask!”

“Alistair, you’re already at the top of our list. Although we’re not going to have much to spend, you understand?”

“Pay me in shoes,” he says seriously. “You know, or belts if money’s really tight. Now, look, are you coming down to Canvas? I’m in the mood to celebrate.”

I smile to myself. It wasn’t so long ago that all I wanted in the world was for Alistair to ask me out partying. I can’t believe how much things have changed.

“I’d love to, Alistair, but I’ve got to go to Shepherd’s Bush.”

“You poor thing!” Alistair looks aghast. “Well, don’t stay too long, will you? We don’t want you pulling a Bath trip again, do we?”

“I won’t, I promise,” I say, smiling.

“Well, okay, then,” agrees Alistair, pretending to look doleful, but with a glint in his eye. “But as soon as you’re back, come straight out to play, won’t you!” And with that he waves and leaps down the stairs toward the front door.

  19

Standing outside the school gates, I’m amazed at the memories flooding back from my own time at school. Loitering by the bicycle shed with Chloe, tearing down corridors because I’m late for math.

And here I am, outside another school, not wanting to actually go in. Nothing changes, I think wryly.

I had hoped to track Simon down at the teacher-training college. Thought I would easily find him, go for a coffee, tell him everything.

But he wasn’t there—the lady at reception told me he was “on site.” It was only when I refused to go until she told me exactly where I could find him that she acquiesced and gave me the address of St. Luke’s, the school where Simon’s working for a few weeks to get practical experience.

Had it been farther away, I’d probably have convinced myself to come back another day. But it was just round the corner. A five-minute walk.

But an hour later I’m still no nearer to going in. Somewhere in that building, I think to myself, is Simon, teaching a bunch of noisy sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds. How is he bearing up? I wonder. Is he keeping control or are they making fun of him?

I suddenly feel incredibly protective. Simon is so brave, taking on something completely new, opening himself up to ridicule. I’d never dare do something like that.

Shoving my hands deep in my jacket pockets (after unbuttoning it so that Simon will be able to see that I’m wearing the Alberta Ferretti dress), I begin to move slowly toward the entrance.

It’s a huge school—much bigger than the one I went to in Bath. There must be over a thousand pupils here.

I open the door and approach a girl who can’t be more than fourteen, dawdling down the corridor.

“I’m . . . um . . . looking for Simon Rutherford,” I say hopefully. “I think he teaches economics.”

She looks at me blankly, then points up a flight of stairs. “Timetable’s on the wall up there,” she says, and wanders off.

Nervously I walk up the stairs. As promised, there at the top is a notice board with a laminated timetable, according to which the Lower Sixth are currently in an economics class in room B16.

I wander back downstairs and walk down the corridor, looking at the labels on the classroom doors. A12, A13 . . . where is B? I nip back up the corridor and up the stairs. Sure enough, the first room I come to is B1. That means that Simon could be just fifteen rooms away.

I can feel my hands are clammy. I wish I’d thought to find a washroom first to check if I look okay.

He loved me once, I say to myself as I walk down toward B16. Archie said he’d be so pleased to see me. There’s nothing to be worried about.

Suddenly I stop sharply. I can hear his voice. That is definitely Simon. I change my pace and tiptoe toward the voice, then hesitantly approach the door of B16. He’s at the front, wearing a cord jacket. God, he even looks like a teacher. There are about twenty students in the room, and they’re all listening. No one’s giggling, or passing messages around or anything.

I look at my watch. Ten minutes till the end of the lesson. I’ll just wait out here, and he’ll be out soon.

But as I turn to look down the corridor, I see another teacher coming up the stairs. What if she asks what I’m doing here? What if she makes me leave?

Before she notices me, I do a quick assessment of the situation and turn the handle of B16’s door.

Simon looks up, startled. Several of the students turn round and stare at me.

“Just, um, carry on,” I say, trying to sound authoritative, and sit down at the desk closest to the door.

Losing interest, the students turn back round and look at Simon expectantly.

“Yes, right, well,” he says, obviously confused and put off his stride.

He meets my eyes and I nod and smile as encouragingly as I can.

“So,” he continues, “it’s really a matter of confidence. Markets react not to information, but an interpretation of the information. Keynes argued that it was worth paying one man to dig a hole and another to fill it in, simply because the movement of money kept the economy going. Yes, Patrick?”

A boy at the front has his hand in the air. He puts it down and pushes his chair back a bit. “So, it’s like, if you’re really confident, yeah, the chicks are all over you. Like, y’know, even if you ain’t got no dough or nothing.”

Simon nods seriously. “Very good example,” he says, and Patrick tries to hide his pleasure.

Suddenly I think of something, and put my hand up.

Simon looks over at me uncertainly. “Yes?” he asks.

“I was just wondering,” I say hesitantly, trying to work out what to say. “Are you saying that facts can be less important than appearances?”

“That depends,” says Simon, still looking a bit shocked and uncomfortable. “Sometimes economic bubbles are created—where, like the dot-com bubble, things are really based on nothing but hot air. Generally speaking, chickens do come home to roost if there’s nothing solid supporting a boom.”

He sounds so authoritative, so serious, I think proudly. He’s actually getting these kids interested in economics. If I’d had a teacher like him, I might have actually learned something about market forces. But right now I’m the one who’s got to get his interest.

“Take the housing market,” I persist. “I mean, a house is worth what someone will pay for it, right?”

“Right . . .” says Simon, looking at me curiously.

“And the blurb written by estate agents—well, it’s not always strictly true, is it? You know, like when they describe a cupboard as a bijou pied-à-terre or something . . .” I hear a snigger from a couple of the kids. Simon, looking like he’s trying to keep a straight face, nods solemnly.

“And your point?” he asks gently.

“My point . . .” I say as authoritatively as I can. Come on, I tell myself. You can make your point . . . can’t you?

“My point is that sometimes you need to talk things up. You know, even tell white lies, just to get the people through the door. Then, if they hate the place, well, they won’t buy it, will they? But if they do . . . well, then it’s sort of a good thing you talked it up in the first place, because otherwise they’d never have gone to see it . . .”

“What’s that got to do with economics, sir?” a girl near the back asks Simon. Hmm. She’s onto something there. I shoot her a look.

“It’s not so much to do with economics . . .” I begin to say, but before I can finish, the bell goes and suddenly the room is filled with the sound of scraping chairs and the chatter of teenagers as they get up to leave. A couple of them look at me strangely as they pass me, but I stare back, defiantly, and they soon lose interest.

“Read chapter ten of your textbooks before next lesson,” Simon manages to call out to them before they disappear, leaving us alone.

“It wasn’t really anything to do with economics,” I say, slightly defensively.

“I rather gathered that,” Simon says.

“I just wanted to explain. I know I lied to you, and I really hate myself for it. But I only did it because I didn’t know what else to do. I mean, if I hadn’t lied, I’d never have met you. And I kept wanting to tell you, but something always seemed to get in the way. But I never lied about anything serious. Just . . . you know . . . my name . . .”

“So Dad tells me,” says Simon, obviously bemused. “He told me I should hear you out. I . . . er . . . hear you’re called Natalie . . . ?”

I nod sheepishly. “Natalie Raglan.”

“Nice name. Suits you.”

“Simon,” I say quickly. I need to get this out before anything else. “Are you . . . seeing anyone else. I mean, if you are, just tell me, and I’ll go . . .”

“I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says softly, then half grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean you should necessarily get any ideas. You have no idea what you put me through. You just disappeared. No one knew what to think. I didn’t know what to think . . .”

I hang my head. “Not one of my best decisions,” I admit. “But at the time I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you all hated me.”

“Hated you?” Simon says incredulously. “I’ve never hated you. But, Jesus, I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks!”

“I know.” I stand awkwardly for a moment. He looks so hurt, and it’s my fault. But all I can do is explain. Explain, and hope that he can somehow forgive me. And if he doesn’t, then at least I’ll have tried.

I take a deep breath. “Cressida used to live in my flat before me,” I explain. “And she got this really interesting-looking letter from Leonora, telling her about you. Except it wasn’t, really—apparently it was about your dad. But I didn’t know that . . . and I know I shouldn’t have opened her letter when it wasn’t addressed to me. But I did. And then I shouldn’t have called you . . .”

“But you did.” Simon finishes the sentence for me. “Dad kind of told me as much. Look, I don’t care if you’re called Cressida, or Natalie, or . . .”

“But that’s just it, you must care,” I interrupt. “I care. I hated you calling me Cressida. I thought I liked it—thought that being Cressida was better than being Natalie Raglan. It felt so exciting and stuff. But I’m not Cressida. And I don’t want you to love her. I want you to love me.”

Simon smiles tenderly at me.

“Okay,” he says softly. “So I won’t call you Cressida ever again. But why did you run away like that? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks so hurt. “I thought . . . I thought I heard you talking about me. I thought your parents didn’t think I was good enough for you.”

It sounds so stupid now.

“Not good enough? How on earth would you think that . . . they actually adored you . . .”

“I know. Simon, I was really stupid. And scared. And I took the easy way out. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you and . . . I was hoping you might forgive me.”

Simon looks down at his feet. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I thought . . . I thought you’d run out on me. And from past experience, that suggested to me that I wouldn’t see you again.”

Oh God. His mother. I suddenly realize how hurt Simon must have been. I left like she did. Without a word. I look into Simon’s eyes, and for the first time, I feel like I can really see him properly. As if seeing him hurt and confused has made me understand him. And made me realize that I don’t care if we live in Notting Hill, Wiltshire, or Outer Mongolia, so long as we’re together.

“Please take me back,” I whisper. “I was stupid and selfish and I should never have gone. I’ll never do anything like that again, I promise. And I’ll make it up to you . . . somehow . . .”

Simon grimaces, and puts his hands through his hair. We stand there silently for a minute, as I say silent prayers that things will work out, that he’ll forgive me.

“So, anything else you want to tell me while you’re at it?” he asks eventually. “I mean, if you used to be a man, I think I deserve to know, don’t you?”

I smile nervously. He still looks serious, but I think I can see a little glint in his eye. Just a little one. “Everything else is true,” I say hesitantly, not wanting the glint to go, and then pause.

“Everything except the Reiki healing bit,” I say after a few seconds. “I’m not actually a Reiki healer.”

Simon looks slightly stunned. “But Stanley Wickett . . . does he know you’re not qualified? Natalie, that’s incredibly unethical.”

I go red. Oh God, the glint’s gone. He’s back to looking confused and slightly hurt. It’s a combination that tugs at my heartstrings and makes me want to throw my arms around him and stroke his head. But I can’t. And if I carry on telling him all the things I’ve done wrong, I may never be able to again.

“He does . . .” I say cautiously. “The thing is, I didn’t ever actually do any Reiki on Stanley. We . . . well, if you must know, I introduced him to
EastEnders
instead.”

I look up at Simon to gauge his reaction. He looks utterly bemused.

“He comes round most nights now,” I continue with a shrug. “You know. And . . .” I take a deep breath. May as well get it all out now. “. . . he’s the one who convinced me that I should open a shop.”

“A shop,” Simon says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I nod.

“My very own shop,” I say, a little bit of pride evident in my voice. “Your dad’s one of the backers, and we’re stocking the most beautiful bags you’ve ever seen . . .”

Simon raises his eyebrows at me and looks like he’s about to ask me a question, then thinks better of it.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says seriously.

“I thought you’d never want to see me again.”

“How can you think that?” asks Simon softly, walking closer to me. “You are the maddest, most infuriating and unpredictable woman I think I’ve ever met. But you make me feel alive.”

“But I lied to you about so much,” I say falteringly. “And I didn’t even know you wanted to be a teacher . . .”

“Well, it would seem we’re both pretty crap at communicating, then, because I thought you wanted to give it all up to become a Reiki healer.”

Simon is laughing now, and I inch forward until I’m almost touching him. I want to reach out and hold his hand, but I still feel a bit awkward. Like I don’t quite deserve it yet.

“Dad also told me that you found the whole investment-banker thing a turnoff,” he says sternly.