“Oh, I’m so pleased,” says Chloe, sounding relieved, and I get a pang of guilt. She actually cares, and I’m making up ridiculous stories about having a great social life. “So where are you going?” she asks.
“Going?” I desperately try to think of somewhere. And then it comes to me. Or rather, the left-hand corner of one of Cressida’s letters draws my eyes over.
“Oh, Soho House, actually,” I say before I can stop myself, then wince. I can’t believe I said that.
“You’re not!” exclaims Chloe. “God, Natalie—that’s the hottest club in London. Who are you going with?”
Who am I going with? Shit—who on earth could I be going to bloody Soho House with?
“With . . .” I start to say, then pause. This is ridiculous. I’ve got to tell Chloe the truth. Just say it: I’m not really going. I made it up. But I know I can’t do that.
“Some . . . people?” I say hesitantly.
“Just some people? God, I wish I knew people who go to Soho House. So what’s it like—in London, I mean?”
What’s it like? How should I know? I want to say. I’ve been in pretty much every night since I got here. The view from my window is wonderful, and on my way to and from work I walk right through Portobello market, with all its great bars and restaurants, but I haven’t been into a single one.
But I don’t tell her that. Instead I take a deep breath, cross my fingers, and tell her about all the cool bars on Portobello Road that I’ve passed and longed to go into, using my imagination when it comes to what the insides are like; about all the great clothes stalls at the market where you can buy vintage shoes and cool T-shirts for £5; about the Spanish area at the top of Portobello, just where it joins Golborne Road, where you can get the best olive oil and custard tarts in the world.
“Then there’s Tom’s, the deli/café, which is the best place for breakfast, and Beach Blanket Babylon, which does the best cocktails ever,” I enthuse, not mentioning that I gleaned this information from Heat magazine rather than personal experience. As I speak, I think to myself that this is what London should be like. What London probably is like for people like Cressida. What I hope London will eventually turn out to be like for me.
“It’s great,” I conclude at the end of my description of this great mythical-for-me City where anything can happen, and where nothing has yet happened to me. “Really great.”
“It sounds amazing,” sighs Chloe. “I’m so pleased. Pete was saying just the other day that he thinks you’ll be back in a month, so it just shows how little he knows. And now you’re going to Soho House! Everyone’s going to be so impressed.”
Pete said that? God, the arrogance of that man. Well, I’ll show him. I’m going to make a success of things down here. In spite of the guilt that is flooding my veins, I feel a little rush of excitement at the thought of everyone back home thinking I’m having a great time. I know I’ve told some white lies. Maybe some not-so-white ones. But at least now everyone’s going to think my life is fabulous. That’s some consolation for the fact that the reality is rather different. Anyway, why shouldn’t I be going to Soho House? Cressida did, and she lived in the same flat as me. Anything’s possible.
“So,” I say, changing the subject before I get too carried away. “What about you, what are you up to tonight?”
“Well, everyone’s at The George, so I’ll probably go there for last orders. And Rebecca Williams is having a party, so we’ll probably end up there later.”
“Great—sounds really good,” I manage to say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Rebecca Williams is one of those teeny tiny passive-aggressive types with perfect hair and nails, and she’s always been a prime suspect where Pete’s late nights were concerned.
“And what about the shop?” Chloe asks, and I start slightly.
“Shop?” I haven’t told anyone back home that I’m working in a shop. I mean, I used to work in advertising. I was in line for a promotion. I’m hardly going to admit that I’m the one who has to fold and refold jumpers now, even if I do work in one of the most glamorous shops in Notting Hill. So I sort of fudged it, and told everyone back home that I was doing a similar sort of thing to the job I had before, and left it at that. I mean, I’m working in fashion, aren’t I? And I used to have some fashion clients at Shannon’s. So it’s sort of the same thing. Isn’t it?
“You know, your own little shop? Don’t tell me—you’ve changed your mind. I guess it wouldn’t be the first time . . .” Chloe’s giggling. I suddenly remember the drunken evening we spent together the day before I came down to London. I admitted to her that my real ambition in life was to have my own little shop full of beautiful things. Actually, when I told her about it, I was thinking about a shop with nice soaps and maybe a few clothes in it, but having looked at Cressida’s Found catalog, I’ve rather upped my expectations.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind,” I say indignantly. Chloe always teases me about never being able to make my mind up. And it’s really not true. Not about the big things, anyway. At least, not always.
“So you’re going to do it?” Chloe asks interestedly.
“Yeah right. Like I’m just going to open my own little shop. Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” I say with a sigh. “I think it should probably be classed as ’dream’ rather than ’ambition,’ if you know what I mean. You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“ ’Course not,” says Chloe. “I mean, I said my ambition was to be a catwalk model, so I’m hardly one to talk, am I? So, with all your glamorous antics in London is there any news on the romantic front?”
I pause. I mean, the obvious answer is no. No, I haven’t. So why am I thinking this and not saying it out loud? Why is the thought of Chloe going to Pete’s party and telling everyone I’m still single so difficult for me to handle?
“Natalie?” Chloe asks curiously when I fail to speak for a few seconds. “You have, haven’t you? Oh, my God, you’ve got a boyfriend!”
She sounds so excited. Would it really be so wrong to let her think that I’m going out with someone?
Bloody hell, what’s happening to me? Of course it would be wrong. And also incredibly sad. I stopped making up boyfriends when I was fifteen, and Chloe never believed in any of them, anyway.
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 lov
e 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, s
he 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.
Little White Lies Page 3