Little White Lies

by Gemma Townley

  The woman behind the cash desk smiles at me. I know that smile. It’s the same smile I dish out to people who come into Tina T’s all the time and obviously don’t have the money to buy anything. But I don’t care—at least it means she won’t ask me if I need any help. Twenty minutes later, purged of my anger I’m ready to go home.

  As soon as I get back, I pour myself a glass of wine and run a bath. Then, while it’s running, I rummage through my drawers to find the Found catalog. The Soho House program is with it, and my fingers rest on it for a couple of seconds. Maybe it wouldn’t be so ridiculous to pin it up on my notice board again. I mean, it’s just a program. Is it so wrong to want to appear to have a social life? Before I can change my mind, I quickly pin it up, then take the Found catalog to my bedroom, where I flick through it, imagining myself surrounded by the beautiful things on its pages. After my restoration in Graham & Green, I honestly think that a silk kimono would improve my life immeasurably. As well as some super-expensive bubble bath.

  The unopened letter is still on my bedside table, and every so often I stare at it, trying to pretend I don’t care what’s inside.

  But I can’t help it—I do care. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was almost looking forward to coming home this evening because of that damned letter. I’m sure it’s just the anticipation of what might be inside—it’s probably just a boring letter from Cressida’s granny or something. But I can’t help thinking that that letter and the Soho House program somehow link me with a world that I’d never be able to touch normally; if I open it, I might discover the door to a world that includes Nobu, Soho House, and great parties and doesn’t include Laura or Pete or anything else that gets me down. I’m not expecting an Alice-in-Wonderland-style “Eat This” pill or “Drink This” bottle, but it’s like a birthday present—however much you know it’s going to be another set of handkerchiefs, you still can’t wait to open it up, just in case.

  I really must just throw it away and be done with it.

  Although I did promise I’d hold on to it.

  Suddenly I have an idea, and pick the letter up, running my fingers along the thick, creamy paper. Then I take it into the bathroom with me and prop it up next to the taps. The bath is nearly full, and as I lower myself into the hot, steamy water, I glance at the letter furtively. If it gets steamed open by accident, that’s hardly my fault, is it? It could happen to anyone.

  An hour later, I’m red and wrinkly. The letter, on the other hand, is still infuriatingly smooth, creamy, and perfectly sealed. Annoyed, I get out of the bath and dry myself, slathering on body lotion.

  Body lotion. Now, there’s an idea.

  I pick up the letter again, and accidentally-on-purpose smother the back of it with lotion. It’s grease, right? That should open up a letter, shouldn’t it?

  The envelope doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I stare at the bottle of lotion as if it were failing me on purpose. There on the front, as if it’s mocking me, is written “Non-greasy, Non-stick.” Bloody stupid lotion—that’s the last time I buy that brand.

  Well, sod it. I don’t need to read the stupid letter, anyway. I have much better things to do with my time.

  Like . . . I look at my feet. Of course—like, paint my toenails. Purposefully I put on a toweling robe, pick up the letter and some red nail polish, and plonk myself down on the sofa. As I carefully vamp up my feet, I studiously ignore the letter, which is now propped up against the arm of the sofa.

  I wonder what I should wear to Canvas. I know Julie will be wearing some stunning Westwood creation, and Lucy is probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever been in the same room as, so I’m going to have to find something pretty spectacular in my (still cluttered) wardrobe. Well, at least I will have pretty toes to show off, so that means sandals.

  I stretch out my legs to admire my work, and notice with irritation that there’s a smudge on my big toe. Leaning over to dab at it with a tissue, I knock over the nail varnish and in a flash it starts seeping out all over the sofa. And all over the letter. Shit—I knew I shouldn’t have left it there.

  Cursing myself for being so clumsy, I pick up the bottle quickly and try to scoop as much of the polish back in, but in doing so I manage to spread it all over my hands. This is a bloody disaster.

  Why am I such a klutz? Grabbing some tissue and nail polish remover from the bathroom, I do what I can to clear up, then stand back to survey the damage. The sofa cushion is only ruined on one side, so I turn it over quickly, then sit back down heavily. My poor toes are now a kind of stained pink—they look raw and injured, not glossy and groomed. And as for the letter, well there’s no way I could give it to the landlord now, with the name and most of the address completely smothered in glossy red gunk.

  Although . . . I look at it more closely. Covered in nail varnish, you wouldn’t actually know who the letter was for. I mean, you can’t see the “Cressida Langton” bit at all. It could be for anyone. It could even be for me . . .

  My fingers start to scratch away at the polish. Maybe my knocking over the polish was fate’s way of telling me to open the letter. Like it’s my destiny or something.

  Except it isn’t, I remind myself firmly. If it’s anyone’s destiny, it’s Cressida’s, and unfortunately she’s missed out. And I am not interested in someone else’s mail, even if it has really nice handwriting on it. I purposefully walk over to the bin and place it firmly inside.

  But then I get to wondering whether I’ve made the right decision. By throwing away the letter, am I throwing away an opportunity? All her life my mother has dreamt of being one of the glitterati. From what I’ve read of Vanity Fair, Becky Sharp would have opened a letter like that in a shot, and she’s doing all right for herself as far as I can see.

  Five minutes later I retrieve it. God, this is agonizing. It’s like having a bar of chocolate in the fridge when you’ve just given it up for a month. And I’ve never been able to give chocolate up for more than a day. Half a day, actually. As soon as I think about giving it up, all I can think about is the delicious sweet taste melting in my mouth.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to succumb this time.

  I put on a CD and walk into the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. My hips start to sway slightly as Kylie gets into her stride on my stereo. “I just can’t get you out of my head,” I sing softly along to the music. Then my hips start to sway a bit more and I put my glass of wine down so that I can move my arms around a bit. “Ha na na,” I sing, as I dance around my living room floor. Jesus, I really must get out more.

  I wonder what sort of music they play at Canvas. Not Kylie, I’m sure of that. God, I hope it isn’t too obscure and impossible to dance to. I want to let my hair down and have fun, and I’ll never be able to if it’s too cool—I just can’t imagine Julie doing the YMCA routine. Oh, God, I’ll probably make a total fool of myself, and they will all realize I’m not really a city slicker like them—I’m just a country bumpkin who sings “I Will Survive” whenever the karaoke machine gets wheeled out.

  I wish I was more confident. Chloe doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and I’ve always really admired her for that. But I do care what people think of me. Particularly in London.

  Still, at least I’m going out finally. And I can handle a cool Notting Hill club, no problem. My eyes rest on the Soho House program again. I just need to be more like Cressida, I tell myself. Cool and sophisticated.

  Feeling much better, I turn up the music and dance my socks off for the rest of the evening.

  3

  Monday goes by without any major incidents. Laura decides not to come in, so we’re all a bit more relaxed, although Julie does get me to clear out the stockoom. I guess you need those little protocols that establish the pecking order—back at Shannon’s it was making the tea that determined whether you were junior or “going somewhere”; here it’s clearing out the stockroom. Still, in many ways I’m enjoying the lack of responsibility.

  I manage
to make a couple of sales, too, though most of my commission is going to go toward that bloody Missoni dress Laura accused me of ruining, and before I know it, Julie’s cashing up.

  “So, you coming out?” she asks me. I nod, relieved that she remembers she invited me. You just never know with Julie.

  “Great. I’ll call Lucy.”

  She picks up the phone and as she dials I can hear her long red talons tapping. “Lucy? Yeah, it’s me. We’re just finishing off here, so d’you wanna come over and get your glad rags on?”

  She puts the phone down and looks at me. “So what do you fancy wearing tonight? A bit of Prada? Maybe a cheeky Moschino number? Anything but Westwood—I’m wearing that dress and I’m not having anyone steal my limelight!”

  “Are you serious? Laura would skin me alive!” I say, unenthusiastically.

  “Oh, forget about Laura,” Julie says dismissively. “She’s just a sad, bitter woman. Find yourself something nice and come out and get pissed. So long as you get to the dry cleaners by Tuesday afternoon, Laura’ll never twig. Come on—she bloody well owes us.”

  I look around the shop. Since I started working here, I’ve spent loads of boring hours looking at all the amazing clothes in the shop and imagining what they’d look like on me. But they seem to belong to another world—a world of City bonuses where £400 for a pair of trousers seems normal.

  As Julie cashes up, I wander round the shop pulling out dresses and skirts and staring at them in a new light. I wonder what I’d look like in these Chloe trousers? Or in this Alberta Ferretti dress? I bet if I’d been wearing this when I saw Alistair on the stairs last time, he’d have invited me to his party! I grab a handful of clothes and take them to the dressing room, then try each piece on slowly, preening in front of the mirror. The trouble is they’re all so beautiful there’s no way I can choose between them. The Alberta Ferretti dress is out of this world—but far too delicate for a night out in a bar. The Chloe trousers are sublime, the Gucci skirt squeezes my bottom into half its usual size, and I also try on an amazing backless Dolce and Gabbana dress that I’m sure I’ve seen Carrie wearing in Sex and the City—it has a built-in bra that shows, like you can’t be bothered to buy a backless bra to go with the dress or something. It doesn’t even look like me in the mirror—it looks like some cool woman who goes out dancing every night.

  But I’m just not sure I can do it. I mean, I know it would only be borrowing, but it still doesn’t feel right. I’d be nervous all night in case something happened to it. Julie and Lucy may do it all the time, but I’m not sure I can. Maybe I’m not quite Natalie from Ladbroke Grove yet.

  “What’s wrong? Couldn’t you find anything?” Julie asks as I walk back onto the shop floor, in my jeans, black T-shirt, and high heels. “Look, I’ll find you something, if you want. Something super-sexy!”

  “Actually, I think I’m okay like this,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as I can. I’m guessing that Julie doesn’t think I look “super-sexy” like this.

  She looks at me strangely, and for a moment I think she’s going to go into bossy mode and force me to wear something else, but luckily there’s a loud knocking on the door before she can say anything. It’s Lucy. Lucy used to be a university student and work here as a Saturday girl, but she ended up spending so much money on clothes that she had to go full-time to pay off all her debts. So now tries to do both and is always trying to get on stockroom duty so she can catch up on essays and stuff. The thing is, clothes look so good on her I can completely understand why she spends so much money on them—she looks like Helena Christensen or something with these amazingly long legs and skin that always looks like she’s just got back from holiday. Julie says she uses fake tan, but I’ve never managed to look like that even with the help of some St. Tropez.

  “Hiya,” she trills as Julie unlocks the door for her. “Give me five minutes; I know exactly what I’m wearing.”

  Julie walks over to the shop stereo and puts on some loud hip-hop. She disappears into the stockroom with Lucy and emerges a few minutes later looking utterly amazing in the Vivienne Westwood dress that makes her waist look almost nonexistent. I look down at my own outfit and wonder if I made the right decision. But the truth is I could never look like Julie, anyway—or Lucy for that matter. I mean, I scrub up okay, don’t get me wrong—back home I’m even considered pretty attractive. But the stakes are higher down here. Unfortunately I’m not size six and I don’t look like I’ve just walked off a film set.

  “At least let me put some makeup on you,” says Julie, tut-tutting, and I acquiesce. She pulls out a bag and is soon rubbing creams into my face. When I look in the mirror my eyes have doubled in size and my lips have formed a bright red pout. I grin. I wish Chloe could see me now. And Pete, too.

  Ten minutes later Lucy emerges from the stockroom in a cloud of perfume and powder.

  “I like your jeans,” she says generously, then links arms with me.

  “Ready girls?” she asks.

  Julie winks at me. “Ready!”

  There are no queues outside Canvas when we get there, but there’s still a bouncer at the top of the stairs looking a bit bored. He winks at Julie and Lucy as we walk in, then looks me up and down slowly. I immediately feel my paranoia surfacing—is he going to turn me away? What will Julie and Lucy think? But he quickly looks past me—which I assume means that I should go in. Trying to contain my excitement, I follow after Lucy.

  “Just smile at the nice man,” she says with a laugh, winking at the doorman. “He’s useful to know.”

  Downstairs, the bar is smaller than I imagined. There are a few benches covered with cushions, a small dance floor, and a long bar. In the corner, a DJ is playing cool ambient music.

  Julie walks straight over to the bar.

  “What’ll it be, gorgeous?” asks the barman.

  “Three vodka tonics please,” says Julie tartly, then turns to whisper in my ear. “I slept with this prick last week, can you believe it? Never bloody called, of course. I don’t think I’m going to be coming back to the bar tonight if that’s all right with you.”

  She walks off toward one of the benches and Lucy follows her.

  “Leaving you to pay, are they?” says the barman, grinning. “I’m Jason, by the way. Tell you what, you can have these on the house if you can convince your friend Julie to give me her phone number.”

  “But I thought you had it?” As I speak, I wonder if I’m betraying a confidence, admitting that I know he hasn’t called. Nice one, Natalie, I chastise myself.

  But I’m okay. “I have an instruction to call her, but not the number,” Jason explains, pouring bottles of tonic into three glasses. “She likes to play games.”

  I nod nervously as if I understand. God, I haven’t got a chance of getting a date, let alone a boyfriend, if I have to follow rules like that. Back home, you give people your number and either they call . . . or they don’t.

  I thank Jason and promise I’ll do what I can on the number front; then clutching the glasses, I make my way over to Julie and Lucy.

  “Thanks, Natalie, you’re a mate. Now, how much do we owe you?”

  “A phone number. Yours, actually—for Jason. He said he’d love to have it.”

  Julie’s face twists into a smile. “Hmmm. I bet he would.”

  Lucy moves up to make room for me and I sit down. Already the place is filling up. There’s a girl wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen, with cutoff hot-pink tights and some blue glitter sandals, and another with bright pink hair and a boiler suit open to below the waist revealing a taut stomach and orange bra. I wonder what Pete would make of it, then kick myself for even thinking about him.

  “So what about you and men?” asks Lucy. “Got anyone on the go?”

  “Well,” I start uncertainly, remembering the stack of lies I told Chloe, “I’ve just split up with someone actually . . .”

  “Good for you,” says Julie. “Bloody nightmare, men, aren’t they?” Her eyes wander
over to the bar.

  “I rather like them myself,” says Lucy playfully. Then she drains her glass. “Right, time for another,” she says. “Same again?”

  Julie and I nod, and Lucy walks up to the bar. Jason appears at our table and quickly sits down next to Julie. “All right, lover girl?”

  Julie turns round and stares at him. “Don’t you ’lover girl’ me, you user and abuser. No fucking flowers, no dinner date . . . if you think I’m ever sleeping with you again, you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree, mate.”

  Her tone is angry, but her eyes are smiling, and Jason leans over to give her a kiss on the mouth. “Right you are, gorgeous,” he grins, and saunters back toward the bar.

  “He seems nice,” I venture. “Are you going to give him your number?”

  “Dunno,” says Julie. “But I definitely think I’m going to take him home tonight. Nice ass, don’t you think?”

  Lucy arrives with the drinks. “Alistair and Michael are here,” she says, plonking the vodka and tonics in front of us. “They’re going on to Woody’s in a bit, so I said we might join them. Thought doubles might get us in the mood . . .”

  “Alistair?” I say interestedly.

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “Um, not really—if he’s the Alistair I’m thinking of. There’s an Alistair who lives upstairs from me, that’s all.”

  “Dark hair, glasses, always wears the same bloody denim jacket?”

  “Bingo,” I say, and grin. Ever since I told Chloe that I was going out with Alistair, it’s begun to strike me as rather a good idea. If you think about it, he’s perfect. He’s cool, very good-looking, and completely different from anyone else I’ve ever been out with. I would get a great deal of pleasure out of turning up in Bath with Alistair on my arm, seeing Pete’s reaction . . .

  “Well, he’s coming over in a sec, so you can introduce yourself properly,” says Lucy. “Jules, did I just see Jason kiss you? Cheeky git.”