Little White Lies

by Gemma Townley

  The girl looks at me strangely and looks at the book in front of her. “Surname?” she asks me. “You know that, right?”

  “Raglan,” I say, then realize that she’s looking for the booking name. That’ll be in Simon’s name. God, this is going so badly.

  “Rutherford,” I quickly correct myself, then clear my throat because my voice is almost inaudible. “Simon Rutherford. Although,” I continue garrulously, before I can stop myself, “I’m not actually meeting him I mean, my friend was going to, but she can’t. I’m just here to let him know. I could just tell you, if you want . . . ?”

  She peers at the list and turns over the page. “Ah, okay. Downstairs. Come with me.”

  Evidently she is not going to pass on the message for me. I’m going to have to do it myself. Which is fine. I mean, how hard can it be?

  I follow her through the restaurant and down a little flight of stairs that leads to a kind of Aladdin’s den with low tables and cool African beats playing. The girl nods toward the corner, and I follow the direction to see a figure sitting awkwardly at a table. His hair isn’t quite lying flat, and his intense brown eyes are studying something—I think it’s the menu. As I look at him, his eyes flicker upward and meet mine. For some strange reason, I don’t move immediately. I hear my heart beating and feel my hands go clammy. And then he smiles. It’s the sort of smile that takes up a whole face, that forces its way into every line and feature.

  “Simon Rutherford?” the maître d’ asks briskly.

  “Yes, yes, that’s me.” He looks up with a grin.

  “I’m afraid your date can’t . . .”

  “Simon, hi! I’m Cressida,” I say quickly, interrupting her. “How nice to meet you at last!”

  I quickly sit down and stare at the maître d’ meaningfully. She raises her eyebrows and walks off toward the stairs.

  “Cressida?” He smiles again. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  I can understand why he was studying the menu so intently. I mean, even the drinks menu is difficult to work out. Plus, I’m finding it hard to actually focus on the words. I keep looking at the lines of text that I know are in English and should be really easy to understand, but I can’t seem to spend long enough on any of the letters to make any sense of them.

  To my relief, when the waiter asks us what we’d like to drink, Simon says that he’d like a beer. A beer—what a great idea. I nod in agreement and manage to say, “Yes, me, too.” Then I clear my throat again—for some reason reading is not the only thing I’m finding a challenge right now.

  We sit in almost silence until the beers arrive, which isn’t that difficult because the music is pretty loud and we’re still trying to interpret the menu.

  “So, is this one of your regular haunts?” I ask, before realizing that what I have just said amounts to about the worst chat-up line of all time—I mean, “Do you come here often?” is up there with “Is that a canoe in your trousers or are you just pleased to see me?” It’s awful. Awful!

  “Actually, I’ve never been here before,” admits Simon. “I just thought it might be a nice idea—I only seem to know places in the City, really.”

  I smile. I still can’t think of anything to say.

  “And you? Where do you tend to go out in London?”

  I think quickly I don’t want to admit that I hardly know London at all.

  “I tend to stick to Notting Hill, where I live, actually,” I manage to say, going slightly red.

  “Notting Hill? Oh, well, you’re far too cool for me then,” Simon says with a grin. “I don’t think they let people like me off the tube at Notting Hill. So have you lived there long?”

  “Oh, you know, a while.” I shrug, trying to imagine what someone like Cressida would say. It’s hard to attempt an impersonation of someone you’ve never met.

  As Simon studies the menu, I study him, taking in his open, warm face, his formal shirt that looks like it’s constraining him, even though the top button is undone. The jumper he’s wearing over it looks much more like the sort of thing he’d be comfortable in. His hands don’t look like City hands at all—if there is such a thing. They’re large, and not in the least manicured.

  He’s frowning slightly, and I don’t think he’s particularly comfortable here. That makes me feel a lot better about feeling awkward myself. Maybe this isn’t going to be such a difficult evening after all—I can just relax and be myself.

  As this thought crosses my head, I smile. Be myself? How can I, when he thinks I’m Cressida? It’s kind of ironic—at Canvas I pretended to be Cressida to give me confidence. Now I’m with someone who thinks I am Cressida, and I’m feeling more like myself? This goes way beyond irony.

  I wonder idly what Cressida’s doing now. Maybe she’s out on her own date. I realize guiltily that it should be her sitting opposite Simon. I opened her letter and stole her blind date from her.

  “Is everything okay?” Simon asks. I nod quickly and put Cressida out of my mind. I’m in the Big City now—you look after yourself here, right? It’s like Tina T’s. You don’t get your commission by worrying too much about other people.

  “I’m absolutely fine,” I say, smiling. “So have you decided what you’re going to have?”

  Simon opens his mouth to talk, but is interrupted by the waiter, who appears suddenly at his side.

  “What can I get you?” he asks as I desperately revisit the menu.

  “What would you recommend?” Simon asks him.

  “The mezze is very good,” says the waiter, smiling. “And the merguez is very good to share . . .”

  Simon raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod. “Sounds great!” I say, handing my menu back to the waiter.

  “And some wine,” continues Simon. “Red or white?” he asks me.

  “White, I think,” I say, then realize that merguez are sausages. They’d probably be better with red, wouldn’t they?

  “No, red,” I say quickly. Except red always makes me sleepy. So white might be a better idea.

  “Or white . . .”

  Simon looks at me oddly, then smiles. “Tell you what,” he says, “let’s get a bottle of each. That way you can have either—or both—and if we end up getting drunk, I shall consider it a bonus.”

  I smile at him gratefully. He didn’t get irritated by my indecision. Most people get exasperated, and the more cross they get, the less I’m able to make my mind up. I think I quite like Simon.

  He orders the wine, then turns around and looks me right in the eye.

  “I must say,” he says when the waiter has finally gone, “I do think you are incredibly brave. For calling me, I mean. It was really quite exciting to get your phone message. Not the usual sort of voice mail I get at the office. I wonder why Leonora thought of it?”

  His eyes are penetrating mine, and it feels like he could probably read my thoughts if he wanted to. Although if he could, he’d know that Leonora didn’t think of it at all.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I say softly. “Maybe she just thought we’d get on. So, tell me about yourself.”

  Simon sits back and smiles ruefully. “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. I work in the City in an incredibly dull job where I move money around in order to generate maximum profits for my bosses. I live in Chelsea in a flat that is hideously expensive but is near enough to the M4 for me to get out to Marlborough at the weekends whenever I’m not chained to my desk. That’s where my parents live. Where I grew up. What else? I can cook a great curry. I support Arsenal, and can’t hold a tune to save my life. And that’s about it. Simon Rutherford in a nutshell. So what about you, Cressida Langton?”

  I hesitate. He’s from the West Country, too. Suddenly I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell him about my home in Bath. About going riding with Chloe on Sunday mornings when it’s icy cold but sunny and you can ride for miles without seeing another soul. About moving to London and not knowing anyone. About Laura the witch. But of course I can’t. I’m Cressida, aren’t I? So instead,
I take a quick swig of wine, quickly figuring out a story that would fit with Cressida. One that doesn’t involve me having to pretend I’m a Reiki healer.

  “Oh, you know,” I say gaily, trying to disguise the little hollow feeling that’s taken root in my stomach. “I live in Notting Hill—but I said that, right? I work in fashion. I eat out rather than cook. And I’ve always lived in London. I love it. I mean, there’s just so much to do, so much to see. You know what they say, if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life, right?”

  I smile what I imagine to be a winning smile. I can feel myself being transported into Cressida mode. Carefree and fabulous.

  But instead of smiling back, Simon frowns slightly.

  “You really like London that much? It’s funny, you don’t come across as a real Londoner.”

  “What do you mean?” I counter, defensively. His words feel like a stinging criticism. Like he can see right through my London persona. Well, I’ll show him. “I am absolutely a Londoner,” I continue. “It’s the country that’s overrated. I mean, it’s so boring.”

  I could swear I see a look of disappointment cross Simon’s face.

  “I find London tolerable, but that’s about it,” he says, pushing his hand through his hair. “I find most of the people very self-centered. Self-obsessed even. There’s more to life than the latest club, bar, or gallery opening. Concern for others, a love of nature, honesty . . .”

  I look at him uncertainly. Does he know that I’m about as far from honesty now as I’ve ever been before? I blush, almost sensing Simon’s disapproval.

  But then I realize I’m being ridiculous—he has no idea I’m not really Cressida. And anyway, why should I care what he thinks? He’s a stuffy banker who thinks that London is just “tolerable,” when everyone knows it’s the best place in the world. I mean, I hardly know it at all, and I think it’s wonderful.

  We sit in silence for a while. Then Simon’s face crumples into another smile.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right—London really isn’t that bad. I’m just pissed off with work, that’s all. I don’t know London well enough to dislike it. I do dislike the City, though.”

  I smile in relief. “The country isn’t really boring, either,” I concede, falling out of Cressida mode and back into Natalie mode. “And you’re right—people are much more friendly in the country. You wouldn’t leave someone sitting in a doorway covered in a blanket without stopping, would you? But people do that all the time here.”

  “And you wouldn’t go around looking like that, either,” says Simon, his eyes twinkling as he points to a couple entering the restaurant. I have to laugh. She’s got bright red hair and is wearing an orange minidress with silver tights. He’s got his hair styled like someone out of a boy band, and is wearing loads of Ice T–style heavy gold jewelry even though he’s scrawny and looks about eighteen.

  We giggle as they walk past our table; then Simon tells me a bit more about the City. About the money being great, but how he never feels like he’s done anything to deserve it.

  “You’re not anything like I thought you’d be, you know,” he says after a while.

  “You’re not either,” I muse. Simon looks at me quizzically.

  “Tell me,” he says, “what did you expect me to be like?”

  I think back to the conversation I had with that woman in Tina T’s. The one with the investment-banker boyfriend. Simon doesn’t seem the type to hand out platinum cards. And actually he isn’t boring. Not at all.

  “Like a typical investment banker,” I say with a shrug. “You know, arrogant, expecting people to do what you want and stuff.”

  Simon looks serious for a minute, then smiles. “I see. Well, I’m glad to know you don’t think I’m arrogant.”

  “What about me?” I ask. “What did you expect me to be like?”

  “Oh, God, where do I start?” Simon says with a grin. I look at him awkwardly. I suddenly start worrying that I’ve given myself away. That he can tell that I’m not Cressida. Or, worse, that he doesn’t actually like me. Because if I’m absolutely honest, I think he’s really cute. So much so that I’m kind of tempted to tell him that my name’s actually Natalie.

  “For a start, you’re obviously much cooler than I was expecting. I mean, people like me don’t generally meet trendy types from Notting Hill, working in fashion . . . But you’re also not too cool, if you know what I mean. In a good way, I mean . . .”

  My eyes narrow. “Not cool?” I say crossly.

  Simon rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I didn’t mean . . . Look, can I be totally candid?”

  I nod.

  “What I mean is, you seem genuine, unlike so many people you meet in London. I’ve . . . well, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. And that was certainly unexpected.”

  His face breaks into a smile and his sparkly eyes make my stomach flip. He’s really enjoyed talking to me. Of course, I’m going to have to address this whole “seeming genuine” thing—somehow, admitting that I’m not actually Cressida might be a little bit tricky now. But that’s a detail, surely. He’s gorgeous, and he likes me.

  And to think I nearly didn’t open that letter.

  I find myself staring at Simon’s lips and wondering what they’d be like to kiss.

  But then I stop myself. For one thing, he thinks I’m Cressida. And for another thing, I moved to London for a new life. I can’t start going out with someone who obviously can’t wait to get back to the country.

  “So, Cressida,” Simon asks, looking me straight in the eye. “Tell me more about yourself. What is it that you want out of life?”

  Hmmm. Do I answer in Natalie or Cressida mode? I can’t decide—I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t think I’m ready to be completely honest, either.

  So instead, I tell him what I usually tell friends of my parents and other people I don’t know very well. That I want to pursue a career in marketing. Eat organic food. Get fit and read more. I mean, what does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to see him again, is it?

  I know I wasn’t going to stay longer than five minutes. I know I shouldn’t have made the phone call in the first place, let alone arrange to have dinner. But there was just something about Simon. And even though he is so far from the sort of person I thought I wanted to go out with, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and touching his hands, and immediately his fingers wrapped around mine, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  I found out all about him, too. Like the fact that his mother left when he was three—disappeared just like that—and that he never got over it. That his father’s new wife is like a mother to him and that very few people know that she isn’t his real mother, even friends he went to school with. That his brother still lives near his parents, and that he envies the quality of life they all enjoy, even though they all see Simon as the big success story.

  And he kept asking questions about me—not like most men who ask you one or two questions to be polite and then just talk about themselves. He actually seemed interested in me. I think I managed to convince him I was Cressida—born and bred in London. But I sneaked a few real things in, too—like the fact that I know my mum still misses James so much that she cries herself to sleep sometimes. That Chloe is sort of the sister I never had. And that the first two boyfriends I had were so crap at kissing, I nearly swore off men for good.

  That last bit was probably the bit that got me into trouble. I mean, if I hadn’t said that, then he might not have asked me, on our way out of Momo, whether I was still refusing to entertain the idea of having a boyfriend. And then I might not have answered, “No, but I do make sure I kiss them first.” And then it’s unlikely he would have said, “I see. Well, shall we see if I pass the test?” And he probably wouldn’t have put his arms around me and kissed me really gently on the mouth, and then kissed me again, not quite so gently this time, and I probably wouldn’t have leaned into him and opened my mouth and kissed him right back, right ther
e on Regent Street in front of the world. And I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to see him again next Wednesday. As I got out of the cab (about two seconds after Simon put me in it—you don’t travel in cabs on my salary), I did my best not to play and rewind that kiss again and again—and failed dismally. But what I’ve got to remember is that he kissed Cressida, not me. And it won’t happen again. At least I’m pretty sure it won’t.

  7

  “So how was it then? Natalie? Hello, anyone at home?”

  I look up, startled. Julie is peering at me.

  “Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”

  “I wanted to know how the date went. But I take it from your dreamy expression and inability to fold a jumper properly that it went well. Any juicy details you’d like to share?”

  I go red and smile. “It was okay,” I say, trying to sound deadpan.

  “Just okay? Come on, you can do better than that. What’s his name, anyway?”

  “Simon. Simon Rutherford.”

  “Nice. Sounds posh, but nice. And what does he do again?”

  “Investment banker,” I say quietly. It doesn’t sound right when I say it. Simon is about as far from my image of an investment banker as it’s possible to be. He’s so warm and engaging. But I don’t want warm and engaging, I remind myself. I want cool and urban. Like Alistair.

  For some reason, the thought of Alistair doesn’t make me smile or blush the way it does usually.

  “Ooh, check you. So, Simon the investment banker takes you to Momo. And then what?”

  “Then?”

  “Well, did you take him home? Or did you go back to his luxury pad on the river? I assume he’s got one, has he?”

  I look up, pretending to be shocked. “There was none of that,” I say firmly, then grin. “We did kiss,” I concede. “He’s a very good kisser.”

  “Ah. Kissing. I remember that,” says Julie dreamily as she wanders off to hang up some Pucci dresses.