Inside the spa, six of us stood in the dark, oak-panelled hall, looking through a menu of massages, manicures and facials. As well as Julia and Lizzie, there was Anna, and Sam’s friend from work, Beth. Everyone was wearing pale pink, and even Sam had stuck to the theme Lizzie had planned, by wearing a pink T-shirt from a breast cancer charity. The rest of us were in cotton summer dresses, looking a bit like a hen party.
We each had to pay for our own treatments. I’d already thought of a way to get out of it. Every penny of my salary was accounted for to pay our bills and it still wasn’t enough.
‘I’m going to skip the treatments. My eczema has flared up,’ I said.
I held up my scratched red hand as evidence.
‘Have some hot stone therapy,’ said Sam.
‘Or a pedicure,’ said Lizzie. ‘You can’t just sit here alone for hours while we bliss away!’
Julia was watching me. I felt my face flush, but at least no one could see it on my skin.
‘Better not risk it. I’m going to zone out in the relaxation room. That’s pretty blissful too!’
The rose-scented candles felt suffocating as I lay down on a chaise in the relaxation room. A therapist offered me a tall glass of water with ice and thin slivers of lime, and a tray with chilled face towels rolled up with symmetrical precision. Across the room I saw three women, in their fifties, maybe, all very tall, very thin and very blonde. Their fingers and toes were tipped with matching orange gel polish. I pulled the oversized white robe around me and closed my eyes.
I had to be careful not to slip up and mention HH in front of Julia. It made my heart race as I thought about the complex web of lies I was caught up in. I had to be on guard all the time. At work as Fi, at home with Tom, and even with my friends. I couldn’t tell anyone at school about HH as it was bound to get back to Julia.
Later, we all sat in the conservatory restaurant, at a round table with a starched linen tablecloth and views of a mature, landscaped garden. Outside the French windows, rabbits and squirrels bounced around as if putting on a show just for us. It wouldn’t have surprised me if that was true and the spa had trained the poor rabbits to prance around and add to the carefully curated ambience. I was desperate to leave.
As we ate the calorie-controlled meal that we’d paid so much for, with no comfort food in sight, the talk turned to the money-guzzling and time-consuming aspects of body maintenance.
‘Well, I’m lucky, I have good genes, so I haven’t really needed to do much since I first started dating Harry,’ said Julia, pushing shredded carrots around her plate.
Julia was forty-eight and it was clear that there had been more than just divine intervention on her face. Despite their zealous pursuit of youth, the women were still coy about their cosmetic enhancements. Botox and fillers were acceptable, but boob jobs and liposuction were never owned up to. There was always gossip though, about tummy tucks and thread lifts, in the perennial school-gate game of ‘spot the plastic surgery’.
All the women I knew were getting younger and looking better as the years passed. I wondered what it would be like for Tom to be the only man turning up with a wrinkled wife, when other women my age still looked as if they were in their mid-thirties. Sometimes it felt as if I was decomposing. Tom still told me I was beautiful, but I wondered if he was just being kind. He was like that.
I heard a groan from Sam.
‘I’m glad I don’t need to date any more,’ she said.
‘It was fun, though. The one-night stands, sex with different men, the excitement of what will happen next,’ said Anna.
A collective sigh went around the table like a Mexican wave.
‘The good old days,’ said Sam’s friend from work. ‘I could tell some stories that would make you blush!’
‘It was fun – but imagine having to do that now? No thanks!’ said Lizzie, her eyes widened in horror. ‘Can you imagine getting naked in front of a stranger and getting into funny positions?’
‘Oh yes! I imagine it quite often,’ said Anna, and the group exploded with laughter again.
I laughed too, grateful to forget my worries for a second.
‘Never say never. I still get hit on. I was at a wedding in Ireland last week and this very sexy man flirted outrageously with me,’ said Julia.
‘Well, we still need to feel we could if we wanted to!’ said Lizzie. ‘Stewart still tells other women they look beautiful. I don’t mind.’
My mind flipped to the man in the lift and the look of naked admiration in his eyes.
I had seen the playful flirtations at dinner parties, when usual marital constraints were loosened by good food and drink and an array of bare legs and décolleté. It was pretty innocent and never went further than sitting closer than normal or a slightly longer kiss or hug when saying goodnight.
My own experience of the attention from the other husbands at dinner parties was quite different. There were some who ignored me or kept a polite distance, as if wary of approaching me at all. Then there was the other group, who immediately picked me out. I didn’t get the usual teasing, funny double entendres or playful compliments, though. With me, they went straight for the jugular. The comments were more sexual – and always focussed on my ‘exotic’ appearance.
‘Your skin looks delicious. Like milk chocolate. De-lic-ious.’
‘Your hair is so thick, so luscious. I bet it would be incredible to grab at the right moment, if you get my drift!’
‘Your eyes are so beautiful. Very dusky. They’re almost black, aren’t they?’
‘I love eastern women. So elegant and gentle. And experts in the Kama Sutra, right?’
They probably thought they were complimenting me, but it made my skin crawl. I never told them they were being racist or inappropriate. Instead, I’d learnt to move away quickly, the minute I saw where the conversation was headed. Although it didn’t happen every time I was out, it was frequent enough that it would cause too many scenes if I called them out. These were the husbands of women who I’d see the next day at school pickup. I never told Tom either, not after the first few times. He was always furious when someone treated me like that and it would just have upset him.
Thankfully, there was also a third group, men who I knew well, such as my friends’ husbands like James and Stewart, Tom’s colleagues and our friends, and now Sergio and Ivan, who talked to me as if I was a person and not a walking, talking ethnicity.
‘It wasn’t all fun and games,’ said Lizzie. ‘I made some very questionable choices. I’m glad I’m an old married woman.’
She turned to me and asked, ‘You and Tom are so loved up. Did you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you found him?’
I’d been avoiding eye contact, hoping they’d forget about me. When the question came, I was unprepared. All my focus had been on avoiding any talk about work. I shook my head and tried to pitch my laugh at the appropriate level of amusement and horror.
‘Thankfully, no! Tom was actually one of my first serious boyfriends. I got lucky.’
‘So how many boyfriends did you have before Tom?’ asked Julia.
She always knew when to keep prodding.
There was no way I’d ever have told them that Tom had been my first and only boyfriend. It wasn’t just my embarrassment at this fact, I also knew that the shock of that confession would be something they’d discuss for months at dinner parties. Besides, my sex life was no one else’s business.
‘Just a couple at university.’
There was silence and all eyes were now fixed on me. I wished I’d been better prepared and invented a lengthier list of boyfriends. My face was hot and I just wanted someone to change the subject.
‘What?’ exclaimed Julia.
Her eyes widened.
‘You did get lucky,’ said Lizzie, cutting in.
I smiled.
‘Ugh, I had forgotten about all the creeps I had to go through. You and Tom are perfect together,’ said Sam. ‘Now, where’s my birthday cake?’
‘But how does she know that Tom’s perfect if she hasn’t got much to compare him with?’ said Julia.
I glared at her now, unable to hide my anger. On rare occasions in the past, when I’d mentioned my lack of romances pre-Tom, people had been surprised, but thought it was quaint and romantic in an old-fashioned way. No one had reacted like Julia.
‘No offence, Faiza, I’m just curious. I knew Harry was the best sex I’d ever had because I’d tried out plenty of others. I’m going to tell my girls to make sure they play the field before settling down!’
She winked at the others and laughed, as if she wasn’t taking a dig at me, but just an innocent trip down memory lane. Perhaps this wasn’t directed at me? But then she said, ‘To be honest, Faiza, it seems positively barbaric to marry your first serious boyfriend. It’s a little backwards, don’t you think, in this day and age?’
Julia and Anna exchanged horrified glances.
‘Well, clearly it’s worked out for me,’ I said.
Julia ignored me and started talking about how she had been right about Harry. She cited her evidence with a look of bashfulness mixed with pride.
‘He still,’ she began, and leaned forwards to whisper the rest of the gory details to everyone around the table. If I ever did meet Harry, it would be hard to forget these graphic details. Everyone was riveted and the attention shifted away from me. I wondered if anyone had noticed how Julia had used the words ‘barbaric’ and ‘backwards’? It seemed not.
I picked up my bag and waved to Sam.
‘Sorry, I need to dash off,’ I said.
‘Before you go, Faiza, just take a look at this,’ said Lizzie, handing out glossy booklets to everyone.
‘It’s a young Nigerian artist who’s just graduated. He’s a former scholarship student from my father’s foundation and I’ve organised for him to hold his first show at the art gallery in the Village. I’d love it if you can all come and support him. He’s so talented.’
I looked at the intricate paintings of bees, butterflies and trees. They were truly stunning.
‘Yes, sure,’ I said. ‘Oh, but it’s on Thursday; I’m so sorry, I’ll be at work.’
‘That’s a shame. Well, I’m asking everyone to pre-order any paintings you like. He’s in such a tight spot financially and unless he gets a boost from some sales, he’ll have to work full-time and won’t be able to paint.’
Julia put a cross against three paintings.
‘We invest in a lot of art and these are excellent. I’ll hang them up in my house so my guests can see them and maybe spread the word that way.’
‘Thank you, Julia. That’s incredibly kind of you,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’ll mean a lot to Adedayo, the artist.’
‘Not at all. It’s our duty, isn’t it, in our position.’ Julia looked around the table. ‘Let’s all help this artist.’
The paintings were priced between a thousand to five thousand pounds. I flicked through the booklet slowly. Luckily, Sam bought a painting too and called out the number she’d chosen.
‘Faiza? You better pick one before you leave,’ said Julia. ‘So far, ladies, we’ve raised ten thousand in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll look at this later, Lizzie,’ I said.
‘Sure, just text me,’ said Lizzie.
Julia cut in. ‘Come on, Faiza, pick something. It won’t take a second. I thought you of all people would like to support this artist. As he’s, you know,’ she paused before saying, ‘BAME.’
I ignored her, waved goodbye to everyone and left. I thought about the way Julia had singled me out. There were others on the table who hadn’t bought anything yet. I was afraid I might cry and I didn’t want to do it till I was in my car.
At least no one had asked me about work.
Thirty-Three
Sergio handed me a piece of paper.
‘Your first VIP client, Fi. Vladimir Omersky. Times Rich List.’
‘Why’s Fi getting this account? You know what happened last time. I have some bandwidth.’
Teresa no longer made any pretence of sisterhood. Ivan also looked displeased.
‘Because she is a Wimbledon Mummy and his twins go to school in Wimbledon and his wife lives there. Plus, her Russian background. It’s perfect for her. Right, Fi?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.
I smiled as broadly as I could. Despite my apparent enthusiasm, I agreed with Teresa. There was a high likelihood that I would mess this up. However, unless I showed some results soon, I wouldn’t pass my probation, which ended in two weeks. My sales board was still empty, and people commented every day as they walked past.
‘Still nothing, Fi?’
Later, outside the private members’ club in Piccadilly where I had my meeting with Vladimir, I saw a pale mauve, metallic Rolls-Royce with an Arabic number plate. As I went up some steps to the entrance, a doorman in a hat and a long green overcoat edged with pink opened the door for me. Just as I was about to go in, my phone buzzed. It was Alex’s school. I always panicked when they called. I shook my head at the doorman and stepped back outside to take the call.
‘It’s Mrs Williams here, the school nurse.’
All thoughts of Vladimir tipped out of my head.
‘Alex got hit in the privates when he was playing football and he’s got a groin injury. I think you should get him checked out at minor injuries, just as a precaution. Can you please come and pick him up?’
I had ten minutes before my meeting.
‘I’m afraid I’m at work, but I’ll ask my husband to get him. Could I please have a word with Alex?’
I put the phone on speaker, so I could WhatsApp Tom at the same time.
He was crying.
‘When will you get here, Mum?’
‘As soon as I can, darling. Dad’s coming to pick you up.’
‘I don’t want Dad, I want you. My willy hurts.’
‘Dad will look after you, I promise. He knows about willies and goolies better than I do!’
I heard his small laugh.
The doorman, listening to my conversation, smiled at me.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes. I want you to come home.’
His voice sounded so far away. I just wanted to hold him close.
‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Dad’s on his way. Love you. I have to go.’
I hung up, and said, ‘Fuck!’
Then I remembered the doorman.
‘Sorry!’ I said.
He smiled, as if hearing a woman discuss her son’s genitalia with him and swear on the steps was nothing unusual.
Inside the club, an usher led me through corridors and up a staircase lined with cherrywood panelling and portraits of club presidents through the ages. The clothes had changed over the centuries but the faces staring down at me were interchangeable: male, middle-aged, white.
‘Dobray den,’ I said, shaking Vladimir Omersky’s hand and putting thoughts of anything but his portfolio out of my mind…
*
‘Go on then, Fi, write it up!’
Sergio stood by our desk, tie askew, sleeves rolled up, hair dishevelled. He looked like he’d just come out of a wrestling match. As I’d discovered, this was his natural state of being, not the perfect image I’d seen at the interview.
I couldn’t suppress my smile, as I went up to the whiteboard, picked up the marker and wrote up my sales figures for Vladimir – one million pounds – next to my name. My first deal.
I sat down, fizzing with excitement. I’d done it! Sergio pulled on his jacket.
‘Time to tell the directors. Come on!’
I wanted to ask him to wait a minute so I could brush my hair and check my make-up, but he was already walking towards the partition. I tucked my blouse into my grey pencil skirt and ran-walked while fluffing up my hair with my hands then smoothing my ring fingers under each eye to make sure my eyeliner hadn’t smudged. I was going to meet Julia’s husband and I had to be careful what I said. I clenched my teeth and
tried to calm my breathing as I followed Sergio.
‘Now they’ll see I was right to hire you!’ he said, rubbing his hands together as if he’d won a bet.
Thirty-Four
Behind the partition I saw a wide corridor with flush mahogany doors.
We started with Tilly, who I’d discovered was called ‘The Dragon’, though never to her face. She congratulated me and then said, ‘You win!’ to Sergio.
‘Now, Harry,’ said Sergio. ‘He’s the most important one for you to meet, because he covers a lot of the Russian clients too. He’s grown the market share more than the rest of us put together and he has kids too. You’ll love him.’
My heart was racing. I had to concentrate but the image of Julia’s husband pleasuring her, which she had described in such graphic detail, popped into my mind and I didn’t know how I’d be able to look him in the eyes.
Sergio pushed the door open slightly and we both looked in. A very tall man, well over six foot, was standing with his back to us, looking out of a wall of glass at London spread out below him, and speaking on the phone. The late afternoon sun streamed in around him, defining his outline as if drawing it in dark pen. He was dressed in starched white shirt and navy trousers.
I stepped back, mouthing, ‘Let’s go’ to Sergio, but he pushed the door open and cleared his throat.
I steeled myself as Julia’s husband turned around, showing salt-and-pepper hair and smiling hazel eyes. I forgot about Julia though as I realised that this was the man from the lift! The one who had stopped me stumbling when I’d dropped my papers. A wedding ring glinted on his hand which I hadn’t noticed last time. I wondered if he remembered me. Dressed like this, he looked more like the photograph I’d seen on the HH website, although he wasn’t wearing glasses now, but in the lift I hadn’t recognised him.
I arranged a neutral smile on my face. My mind jumped from the fact that I was standing in Julia’s husband’s office, to the feeling that he had flirted with me on my first day.
‘I’m sorry, can I call you back?’ he said into the phone.
Would I Lie to You? Page 14