Little White Lies (4 page)

But my mouth seems to have taken on a life of its own.

“Um . . . well, maybe,” I say coyly. I wish I could see myself, because the look of indignation on my face would surely stop this storytelling in its tracks.

I move over to the mirror to frown at myself. Actually, I can look pretty scary when I want to.

“I knew it!” Chloe squeals. “Who is he? What’s his name?”

Shit. His name.
See?
I tell myself crossly.
See what happens? Now what are you going to do?

I look around the room desperately for inspiration. Somehow I don’t think Cressida’s letters can help me here. My eyes travel upward toward the ceiling.

“Alistair,” I say weakly. “He . . . um, lives upstairs from me.” Okay, good, so we’re moving back to reality. I accept that it may be a slight exaggeration to say that we’re sleeping with each other, but he does at least live upstairs. That’s got to count for something, surely?

“Your neighbor!” exclaims Chloe. “Natalie, you’re wicked!”

“You have no idea just how wicked,” I say glumly. The worst thing is that telling Chloe I’ve got a boyfriend actually feels quite good—it’s like those dressing room mirrors they have in shops that make you look about two sizes smaller than you actually are. You know it isn’t true, but you enjoy it all the same.

“That’s really cool,” continues Chloe wistfully. “So when are you going to invite me up to visit?”

“What, here?” I get a sudden jolt of alarm. She can’t come here. She’ll find out I’ve been, well, perhaps elaborating on the truth just a little bit. . . .

“Don’t you want me to come and stay?” Chloe sounds defensive.

“Of course. Oh, God, I’d love you to come and stay. Can we just make it in a few weeks’ time? I’m . . .” I quickly try to think of an excuse. “. . . I’m going away with Alistair next weekend and I’m going to be working the weekend after that,” I hear myself say. “But I’ll call you, okay?”

“You’re already going away for the weekend with him?” Chloe asks. “Wow. Does he have any eligible friends?”

I try to remember if I’ve seen Alistair with anyone good-looking, then remind myself that it doesn’t really matter, since Alistair is little more than an imaginary boyfriend, so whether or not he has eligible friends is really rather academic.

“I’m sure I can dig one out for you,” I promise.

“Fantastic! Well, let me know when and I’ll be down.”

“Okay. Have fun tonight!”

“And you . . . Bye!”

I put the phone down and sit still for a moment. I feel strangely elated.

It’s true that the facts are not good.

Fact number one:
I have a pretty shit job, really.

Fact number two:
I haven’t got any friends down here.

Fact number three:
It’s Saturday night and I am in watching TV.

Fact number four:
I have just lied to my best friend and felt good about it.

But maybe it’s like they say—appearances are what counts. What started out as a little white lie to stop my mum from being upset has turned into a made-up life complete with boyfriend. And if I’m honest, this is the best I’ve felt since moving to London. Chloe thinks I’m going to Soho House, and that I’m going out with Alistair. Which means Mum will be over the moon, and Pete . . . well, hopefully he’ll be less than happy. Maybe he’ll finally realize that I’m perfectly able to live my life without him. And then all I’ll need to do is find a way to move from appearances to reality.

I flick on the telly and feel a wave of pleasure wash over me when I see Hugh Grant offering Julia Roberts some apricots with honey. Channel 4 is showing
Notting Hill.
I feel a swell of pride as I see him walk down Portobello Road—my new home! I love this film. I watched it with Chloe when it first came out, and that’s when I decided I was going to move to Ladbroke Grove. I told everyone, and they all just went “yeah, yeah,” and no one really believed me. And now I’m here. Hah! I quickly put my Fresh ’n’ Wild pizza in the oven and pour myself a glass of wine.

I stare at the film credits. My bottle of wine is empty, and to tell the truth, I’m not feeling quite as buoyant as I did before. I mean, I always cry at the bit where the guy whose wife is in a wheelchair refuses to leave her behind when they go chasing after Julia Roberts. But I don’t usually cry this much. The film ended about ten minutes ago, and I’m still feeling weepy. The thing is, they’re all so incredibly sorted in that film. I mean, Hugh Grant meets Julia Roberts because she just walks into his shop. And they’re all really good friends, whereas I’ve got no friends at all in London. Maybe I was stupid to think I could start again. I certainly never thought I’d be lonely in a city that’s got so many people in it.

After mulling for a while I get up to get myself a drink of water. When I see my reflection in the mirror, I nearly start crying again—I look really dreadful, with makeup all down my face and the diamanté clip I bought today from Portobello market hanging desolately from a few strands of hair.

But of course this is just the red wine talking—or, you know, crying. I’m fine, really. I should just go to bed.

I start to clear up, picking up the empty pizza box and chocolate wrapper and shoving them in a bin bag; then I go round the rest of the flat chucking out all the debris. I have to admit it’s not particularly impressive—empty meal-for-one boxes, empty bottles of wine, copies of
Heat
and
Hello!
I’m going to get rid of all this crap, and I am going to sort my life out, I think determinedly. I’m going to do what the magazine article said—clear out my life, and create a new me. And that includes chucking out Cressida’s letters—to hell with the landlord. This is my flat now, and I don’t see why I should let her letters clutter it up. Maybe I’ll even get my number changed, after all.

But instead of picking up the letters I pause briefly. Chucking them out is certainly an option. But what if Cressida does come back? Or what if the landlord comes round to collect them?

I stare at them for a while, trying to work out whether keeping them would demonstrate strength or weakness. In my heart of hearts, I wonder if the reason I don’t want to throw them away is that I’m secretly desperate to know what’s inside.

But that’s ridiculous. There’s no way I’m going to open them. I’ve been bad enough this evening, telling Chloe that I have a super-glamorous social life when all I’m doing is sitting around eating pizza. There is no way I’m going to open someone else’s mail, as well.

I guess I could give them to the estate agent. He could probably redirect them to Cressida, wherever she lives now. But in reality he’d probably just throw them away—I mean, why would he care whether Cressida gets her letters or not?

I pick up the thick, creamy, handwritten envelope and hold it up against the light, but I can’t glean any more information from it. You’re only doing this because you’re bored, I remind myself. It’ll be some boring letter with nothing of interest inside. And anyway, opening someone else’s mail is just plain wrong. Like stealing. Or spying on someone. It could even be breaking the law.

Unless . . . unless by opening it I was able to find out who it came from, so I could return it with an explanatory note. The post office opens mail sometimes to return it to the sender, doesn’t it? So I could just do it for them. You know, save them the time . . .

No. Stupid idea.

Not wanting to give in to temptation, I look at the Soho House letter again instead. Okay, well, this one is more like business correspondence. It’s not like it’s from a friend, or a hospital or a bank or anything. It’s not personal.

Who am I kidding?—of course it’s personal. It’s got Cressida’s personal name on it.

But if I don’t open it, I’ll never know what’s inside. My mother dreamt all her life of being a Cressida-type who goes to all the best parties. You never know, if I open it I might even find out how to become like her myself. And if Cressida can’t be bothered to let people know she’s moved, that’s hardly my fault, is it?

Quickly, before my conscience can get the better of me, I rip open the envelope. Then I put it down again. What is happening to me? Why do I even care what’s inside the envelope? So it’s from Soho House—so what?

Although, now that I’ve opened it, I suppose I may as well look. The harm’s already done.

Right?

Slowly, my fingers close over the contents of the envelope, and I draw them out. Trying to convince myself this is an absolutely okay thing to be doing, I turn over the pages to find a Soho House program with a letter addressed to Cressida from someone called Podge inviting her to the private view of a film next week and a special dinner the week after that in honor of some film director I’ve never heard of before. So that’s what people do at Soho House.

I stare at the letter for a few minutes, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be Cressida, getting a letter like this for real. To be a member of Soho House, in with the in crowd. I glance at the program again, imagining I’m her. Hmmm, a couple of films, I might go to. Not sure about the dinner . . .

Then I notice a boxed item announcing that there’s a festival down at Soho House’s country outpost, Babington House. That’s where the glitterati go for weekend breaks in the country. Although it isn’t the country I know; according to
Heat
magazine the rooms have baths in them and huge entertainment systems, and the Cow Shed is actually a spa where you can have treatments like Raw Hide (exfoliation).

I stare at the other letter. My curiosity is aroused now and I’m desperate to open it. But I’m not going to. I may not be rich and fabulous like Cressida, but I have integrity. Kind of. I wonder if Alistair knew her. I bet she’d have been invited to his party—the difference is, she probably would have been too busy to go. Still, no matter. I live here now. And I’m going to have a great time, even if I don’t become a member of some private members club.

I pin the Soho House program to my notice board, and put the Found catalog on my coffee table—they somehow brighten the place up and make me feel more sophisticated. Then, frustrated with myself, I pick them both up again and put them in a drawer. I wish I was more like Mum—she was so beautiful and sophisticated when she was younger. I’ve seen photos of her in her sixties minidress looking like a model. I bet if she’d moved to London when she was younger, she’d have ended up working on
Vogue
or something. Whereas I’m like Dad—I play it safe and like being with people I know well. Mum can flit round a party and meet everyone there, whereas I’ll always find my group of friends and stick with them. But I’m going to have to change if I’m going to make things work here. Mainly because I don’t have a group of friends to hang out with, which means I’m going to have to bite the bullet and make some new ones, however scary the prospect seems.

And in the meantime, there’s no point trying to be Cressida, wondering whether to buy a new cashmere blanket and which private views to go to with my celebrity friends, because I’m patently not her. Anyway, it’s gone midnight, I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.

As I get up to go to the bedroom, I pause slightly, then pick up the second letter. Without questioning my intentions, I take it with me to the bedroom, propping it up on my bedside table.

Not that I’m going to open it.

No way.

  2

I love working on Sundays. For a start, you get a whole day’s pay for less work; we don’t have to be in until eleven-thirty on Sunday. And also, it’s actually nice to have something to do. I mean, Sundays are great when you’re a couple—there’s nothing nicer than spending the whole day in bed or driving out to some pub for a slap-up lunch. Although, having said that, I usually spent Sunday mornings with Chloe while Pete nursed a hangover.

But right now I’m relieved to have something to do, even if that something is tidying hangers and selling ridiculously priced clothes. It may be mundane, but it keeps me busy.

I turn up at Tina T’s, the shop I work in, about five minutes early and find Laura staring at a rail of clothes with a vexed look on her face.

“Bugger,” she says distractedly, then starts muttering under her breath.

“Everything okay?” I ask hesitantly. As a general rule I don’t talk to Laura. She’s the most terrifying person I’ve ever met and she has this way of just staring at you when you say something, like you’re some sort of insect and she’s not sure whether to swat you or not. Laura’s my boss, and she has eyes in the back of her head, can sell anything to anyone, and she can see a spot of dust on your clothes at ten paces. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a coat made of dalmatians at home.

“Bloody morons sent me size fourteen Marni. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I told them size ten. This is Notting Hill, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell wears size fourteen here?”

That’s the other thing about Tina T’s. It’s like the land of the thin. Take Laura—size six maximum. There’s just nothing to her. I actually think she’s too thin—all bony and angular, plus she wears her hair pulled back off her face into this really tight ponytail, so her face looks stretched over her cheekbones.

And all the customers are thin, too. Once this woman walked in and she was normal size, if you know what I mean. Not huge, but not thin, either. Anyway, Laura gave her this look, and within about five minutes she was out the door. I’d love to take Laura down to the West Country. People have bottoms there. Proper ones that you can sit on for hours without getting uncomfortable.

“Maybe they’ll sell,” I say thoughtfully, looking at the clothes more closely. “I mean, they’re a nice loose fit, aren’t they? They’re probably really flattering for a size fourteen. And we do sometimes get normal-sized people in the shop.”

Laura stares at me for a moment, raises her left eyebrow, then turns back to her shipping order.

“I don’t see what’s normal about being size fourteen. Natalie, would you mind taking that pile of Missoni down to the stockroom and tagging them up? Julie’s down there, but I need her up here to help me with display.”

Grudgingly, I walk toward the stockroom door. Stockroom duty is always the task given to the most-recent recruit apparently. I certainly seem to be down there a lot. Sometimes I think wistfully of my desk back at Shannon’s, but I convinced myself that you sometimes have to take a step back to take two forward. And at least I won’t have anyone breathing down my neck down there. I’ve discovered that stockroom duty enables you to sit down for a bit and read the newspaper—it’s easy to hear Laura coming down because the stairs are so creaky.

Julie is standing in front of the stockroom mirror, cigarette in hand, admiring herself in a Vivienne Westwood dress. She looks amazing. Julie looks like a movie star, anyway—she has this perfect white-blond chignon that never falls out of place, the palest skin I’ve ever seen, and she always wears really red lipstick and fitted skirts with high heels. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in trousers; she looks like she’s stepped right out of the 1940s. She even smells like a diva—all cigarettes and heady perfume. And the dress she’s wearing looks incredible—nipped in at the waist, with a corset top and really tight skirt that must be hell to walk in but looks amazing. It’s a shame we’re not allowed to wear the clothes on the shop floor, because the customers—sorry, clients—wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off her. I bet these dresses would just walk out of the door.

Mind you, we’re also not allowed to smoke in the stockroom. Or anywhere near Tina T’s clothes. Not that it ever stops Julie.

“Looks nice,” I say appreciatively. “Laura wants you upstairs on display.”

“Fuck’s sake,” says Julie, stubbing out her cigarette. “Don’t get a bloody moment’s peace round here. You tagging up the Missoni?”

I nod.

“Do me a favor and lose this dress somewhere, will you? I want to wear it tonight and I guarantee if it goes back on the shop floor, someone will buy it. I’ll have it back on Tuesday, okay?”

Julie has already taken the dress off and handed it to me and I can smell traces of smoke on it. I look at her uncertainly. I’m pretty sure there’s also a rule about not hiding dresses from Laura.

“I’ll . . . see what I can do,” I say unenthusiastically.

“Thanks, Natalie. Look, don’t worry; we do it all the time. Just leave a pile of stuff on top of it or something—there’s only a size ten left upstairs and if someone wants a smaller size, I don’t want them getting this one, okay?” Julie raises her eyebrows at me as she pulls on her own (equally glamorous) silver dress, then looks away as if she’s just thought of something. “You doing anything tomorrow night, by the way?”

“Nothing special.” Unless you count doing laundry, I think to myself. Opening other people’s junk mail. Having an existential crisis about the meaning of life—mine in particular . . .

“Well, if you fancy it, me and Lucy are going to Canvas.”

If I fancy it? Julie is actually asking if I fancy going out? God, next thing you know, Hugh Grant is going to wander into the shop and ask me out.

“Sounds good,” I say calmly. I know Julie’s probably just asking me because I’m doing her a favor with the Westwood dress, but I couldn’t care less. I’m going to Canvas, the coolest bar in Notting Hill, with Julie and Lucy, who are both pretty much the personification of “fabulous.” If Chloe were here, I’d be tempted to go for a high five.

“Okay. Well, as soon as Laura’s gone, we’ll go, okay? She always buggers off early on Mondays.”

And with that, Julie turns and walks up the stairs toward the shop floor.

I put the dress on a rail that has winter Marc Jacobs on it. It’s behind the Dolce and Gabbana rail, so Laura’s unlikely to find it unless she’s really looking, then turn back to the Missoni clothes and start to tag them. It’s not as easy as you’d think, particularly with knitted Missoni dresses and trousers—one mistake and a dress can unravel in front of your very eyes. If the person who worked here before me had been more careful, I wouldn’t have got this job, a fact which Laura reminds me of pretty much daily. I always want to reply, “Yeah, well if I hadn’t suspected my ex-boyfriend of cheating and left my job in a great advertising agency, I wouldn’t be here, either,” but I don’t. I’m not that stupid.

By one
P.M.
I’ve got everything tagged and ready to go, so I take the bundle of clothes up to the shop floor. It’s humming with activity—Sunday is couples day in shopping terms. There are sofas for men to sit on, and they can order cups of tea and coffee, so they have a great time chilling out while their wives and girlfriends try on item after item. I’m not sure that would have been enough to tempt Pete out shopping, though. He would develop this hunched back and slow walk whenever I took him anywhere near a clothes shop, and as soon as I said I might try something on, he’d tell me he’d wait outside the shop. And of course the guilt of having him wait in the freezing cold for me was too much to bear, so I’d forget it and come back later on my own. It’s memories like this that make me so angry now. Not with Pete so much, but with myself for putting up with it. What was I thinking?

Laura motions me to hang the Missoni next to the shop entrance, the most prominent display rack. The sun is shining through the windows, making the shop feel warm and summery, despite the subzero temperatures outside, and as disco beats play on the shop stereo, shoppers are ignoring our warmer ranges in favor of linens and light cottons. Laura is right on the money, because no sooner have I hung the clothes up than two women take dresses off the rack and ask me if they can try them on.

I smile my new “shop assistant smile” (I’ve been practicing) and take the dresses to the dressing room.

“Ooh, they’re gorgeous,” sighs one of the women, running her hand over the fabric as we walk into the cubicle.

“I know; they’re just in today, too,” I say. “You’re lucky to get your hands on one—in Harvey Nichols they’ve got a waiting list!”

I’m not sure if that’s strictly true, but I heard Julie say that to someone yesterday about some Alexander McQueen jeans, and they ended up buying two pairs.

The girls go into the cubicle excitedly. It turns out they’re sisters. Although why they’d want to buy the same dress is beyond me. Surely the point of getting something really expensive is that you don’t see someone else walking down the street in it?

It’s only when they come out of the cubicle that I realize who they are. One’s a film actress, and the other’s a film director—there was a huge article about them in
The Times
because they’re both up for Oscars for their latest project. I guess wearing identical dresses is likely to get them a lot more press coverage.

The only problem is that one of them looks really good, and the other one . . . well, I wouldn’t go out looking like that.

They look up at me and I wrinkle my nose slightly.

“What do you think?” says the taller sister, the one who looks stunning with the Missoni draped over her delicate frame. “Oh, really wonderful,” I say. “I mean, that dress really suits you.”

“I’m not sure,” says the other sister (the director), craning her neck round to see her back view in the mirror. “I’m not sure this dress is really me.”

Too right it isn’t. “Do you really need the same dress?” I ask.

“Yeah—our publicist wants us photographed tonight outside the Ivy, and we’ve been everywhere looking for something.”

“Have you tried Joseph?” I suggest. I saw some really lovely backless dresses in there the other day. They’d be perfect.

Suddenly Julie appears out of nowhere. “Oh. My. God. Will you look at that. You look sensational!” she says dramatically, and shoots me a look. “These dresses are just gorgeous on you both. It’s so lucky you’ve managed to find them in your size, too—Harvey Nicks has got a waiting list on these.”

“Yeah, I know,” says the dumpier sister. “But I’m not sure it’s really me. Does my bum look big?”

“Are you kidding? It looks fabulous! We have a lovely wrap that will go with them, too,” says Julie, staring at the sisters with utter admiration.

“Ooh, that might work,” says the sister whose hips have been widened terribly by the unforgiving Missoni stripes.

“Natalie, why don’t you get a couple of the wraps?” suggests Julie. As I walk over to the accessories area, she grabs me.

“Do you not want to make any money?” she hisses in my ear. “For God’s sake—you’ve got a sale here. Don’t start telling them to go to fucking Joseph!”

I redden and walk toward the wraps. Wrap schwrap. The dress will look terrible whatever you drape over it.

I dig some out and hand them to the sisters, who are still preening in front of the mirror.

Then I take a deep breath. “Wow!” I say with as much feeling as I can muster. “That looks . . . really great—the wraps are just perfect. Do you want to try on some shoes? We’ve got some fabulous Prada heels that would look lovely with that dress.”

The sisters nod in glee, and I go down to the stockroom and pick up a couple of pairs of the most expensive shoes Tina T’s stocks. “You can do this,” I mutter to myself. “Sell, sell, sell.”

The sisters love them. “Come on, let’s get them,” says the lanky sister.

“Fine,” agrees the larger sister, who then turns to me. “You’re sure the dress doesn’t make me look too . . . wide?”

I stare at her. She’s looking at me so trustingly—can I really let her go out with her sister looking like that when she could look so much better? But I’m never going to keep this job if I send great customers away. God, I never thought a job in a clothes shop would pose such a moral dilemma.

Trying not to think too hard about what I’m doing, and managing to not actually look the sister in the eye, I smile as brightly as I can. “Too wide? You must be joking—it looks gorgeous!”

She smiles in relief and ten minutes later I’m putting through a sale for £2,000. That’ll be another £100 in my pay packet this month. Laura gives me a look that for once doesn’t make me break out in goose bumps, Julie winks at me, and I feel pretty good. And, in the pit of my stomach, guilty as hell. At least I’m in London. It’s not like I’m ever going to see that woman again. And if I’m going to make a go of this job, which frankly I need to, I think I need to toughen up.

At three
P.M.
I take my tea break. We only get fifteen minutes, but I always go out. At lunchtime I take a quick wander up to Hyde Park and watch the ducks swimming in the pond, and even with fifteen minutes I go for a little wander—unlike Julie, who spends the whole time down in the stockroom drinking coffee and smoking. I love London, but I do sometimes miss the open stretches of countryside I grew up with. Not that Julie would understand that—she thinks I’m mad going anywhere near green open spaces, which for her represents a nightmare of muddy grass and dogs. But I suppose if you always wear four-inch heels, muddy grass would be a liability.