What the hell does the little voice know, though, I think suddenly. I’m in Notting Hill, I’m single, and I should bloody well go clubbing.
Alistair is now super-drunk and keeps starting little fights with strangers in the street. He walks over to me and puts his arm round me.
“So, Natalie, you coming out partying with me?”
“ ’Course I am,” I say, grinning.
“So, what d’you think of Serge, then?” he asks as we walk up the road.
“Serge? Oh, he’s great,” I say determinedly. There’s no way I’m admitting that I think he’s very odd indeed.
“So you think he might be your cup of tea? Or are you more of a coffee girl?” Alistair is swaying quite heavily now, so I grip a bit firmer to keep him steady.
“Alistair, what are you talking about?” I say, laughing.
“I mean, do you fancy him?” he says, pulling away. “Only, he fancies you. Don’t you, Serge?”
Alistair looks for Serge, who is walking behind with Lucy. “D’you fancy Natalie?” he calls out.
“Alistair!” I shout crossly. “He doesn’t, and I don’t. You’re pissed.” Actually, I thought Serge was gay.
“I certainly think I could be persuaded,” says Serge, coming up close beside me. “I think you’re fucking awesome. Not many chicks really dig music like you do, you know.” His eyes have taken on a different look—not one of admiration, but one of stone-drunkenness. I’ve seen that look before—there was this guy Steve I used to know who went completely off the rails after he split up with his girlfriend and he almost became an alcoholic. He would binge-drink every weekend and turn up pissed to our flat at an ungodly hour. As soon as he’d drunk a certain amount, his whole personality would shift, starting with his eyes. You could see the moment they changed—they would become, like Serge’s, slightly dead. And from that minute, you were dealing with Steve the drunk, not Steve the perfectly nice bloke.
I can tell there isn’t much point having a proper conversation. “Um, Serge, look, you seem really nice, but . . .”
Before I can finish my sentence, Alistair has joined us again, putting his arms around us both.
“Got to contend with her rich boyfriend,” he attempts to whisper, and ends up shouting, in Serge’s ear.
Serge looks at me accusingly.
“And what’s he got that I haven’t?” he says, affronted. “Really, gorgeous, I thought you had more taste than to go after vulgar wealth.” His fake cockney tones have completely disappeared now and he sounds quite like Rupert Everett.
“I don’t have a rich boyfriend,” I say crossly. I can’t believe that Alistair is actually trying to set me up with Serge.
“Then who sent a whole load of flowers to you this morning?”
“Flowers?” What is Alistair talking about?
“Yeah. Huge bunch of them arrived this morning. You weren’t in, so they buzzed me. Bloody woke me up.”
“Alistair, why didn’t you tell her before, you idiot?” Lucy scolds him as she pulls him out of the way of a lamppost.
“Sorry, I forgot,” Alistair says with a grin, dancing around and pretending to punch Serge. “I left them outside your door, though. They’re in one of those bags of water. Lovely touch.”
Serge shoots me a slightly wounded look, and I try to work out why I feel a whoosh of happiness spreading around my body. It’s flowers, that’s all. So why am I suddenly so desperate to get home?
“Look, I think I might head off home, actually,” I say to Julie.
“Don’t blame you. I think tonight’s going to be a bit messy, judging by Alistair’s current state. You okay walking back by yourself?”
“Yeah, fine,” I reassure her, and dart off down a side street before Alistair or Serge notice. As soon as I’m out of view, I start running as fast as I can back to my building. I scrabble for my front door key in my handbag and race up the stairs to find the largest bouquet of roses that I’ve ever seen. It’s beautiful. And on the envelope it just says, “The beautiful fashionista, Flat 3, 127 Ladbroke Grove.”
It suddenly dawns on me—what would have happened if Simon had put “Cressida Langton” on the envelope? Would Alistair have told the delivery man that she didn’t live here anymore? Would he have accepted the flowers and then kept them for himself? I shudder at the thought. Then opening my front door, I pull out the greeting card.
“Darling Cressida, Thank you for a wonderful evening. Until Tuesday! Simon xx.”
As I brush my teeth, I wonder how difficult it would be to change my name legally.
8
I’m woken by an incessant ringing. I look at my alarm clock—it’s just nine A.M. Nine A.M. on a Sunday—who on earth would make so much noise at this time? It sounds like a fire bell, and my instinctive reaction is to throw on some clothes and move in an orderly fashion down the stairs to a meeting point somewhere on Ladbroke Grove, but this isn’t school or work and I don’t think they have fire alarms in stucco-fronted residential houses.
I drag myself out of bed, put on my dressing gown, and try to think clearly.
Brrrrriiinnnnnnng! Brrrrriiiinnnnnng! It’s giving me a headache and I didn’t even have that many cocktails last night. I open my front door to see if the noise is just inside my flat or more generally in the building, but the corridor is relatively quiet. Suddenly I hear Alistair’s door open and he comes down the stairs wearing a vest and some pale blue-and-white-striped pajamas. My eyes widen slightly—he isn’t wearing his glasses and his arms are looking incredibly muscley. So why am I thinking “ah, sweet” instead of “phwoar”?
He’s also looking pretty sleepy, with bags under his eyes and hair sticking up all over the place.
“Will you answer your bloody door,” he says wearily. “Didn’t get in till five A.M. Do not need this kind of wake-up call on a Sunday.”
Then he goes back inside his flat, leaving me standing in the corridor. Of course. My front doorbell. Not something I’ve actually used since I’ve been here.
I race to the sitting room window and lift it up. Peering down to the street below, I can make out a female form. Lucy? Oh, don’t say it’s Laura asking me to work again. I just can’t bear it. This time I’m definitely telling her I’m sick.
With a faux croaky voice I call down, “Hello? Hello?”
I see a face look up. But instead of a stretched, pinched witchlike face, it’s a lovely, familiar, smiley face. Ohmygod! It’s Chloe!
“Chloe! Stay there!” I shout and race downstairs, only remembering just in time to take my keys with me.
Planting a huge kiss on her cheek, and gripping her with a bearlike hug, I drag Chloe upstairs. I don’t care if she finds out that I was lying about the whole Soho House and boyfriend thing now—it’s just so good to see her, so good to have her in London.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming up? God, it’s so good to see you!”
Chloe grins. “Didn’t know I was coming up myself. My dad’s got a friend running the Marathon, so he came to watch. I just got a lift down.”
“The Marathon? Is that today?”
“Mmmm. So this is your place, huh? It’s really cool!”
I show her around the flat, tidying as I go.
“It’s not that big or anything, but you can almost see Portobello Road. And the blue door from the film Notting Hill is just around the corner, too. At least, it would have been if they hadn’t sold it. But the Travel Bookshop is still there . . . Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Love one. Ooh! Nice flowers! Who are they from?”
“Simon!” I say excitedly, then remember that I told Chloe I was going out with Alistair.
Thinking on my feet, I decide against ’fessing up. Instead, I pretend to look slightly sad.
“Alistair and I kind of ended,” I say somberly. “But I’m . . . you know, pretty much over it.”
“Oh, Natalie, I’m sorry—you really seemed to like Alistair. What happened?”
“It just sort of f
izzled out really,” I say, not looking Chloe in the eye.
“Oh, well, these flowers are gorgeous. So what’s this guy Simon like?”
“Really lovely,” I say dreamily, then remind myself not to get too carried away. He thinks I’m someone else. “Although I’m not sure he’s my type really,” I continue. “He works in investment banking . . .”
I wait for Chloe to roll her eyes or something, but instead she starts looking at the flowers again. “Not your type? That’s a shame. These are amazing. God, I wish I could meet men in banking who sent me flowers like that. So let’s see the card!”
She starts looking through the bouquet. Shit—I can’t let her see the card; it’s addressed to Cressida. Quickly, I whisk the flowers out of her arms. “No card,” I say quickly. “Simon’s not really the card type, you know? Anyway, got to put them in some water . . .”
“Not a card type? Who sends flowers without a card?” asks Chloe, looking nonplussed.
“Oh, you know . . .” I say, trying to figure out a way to move the conversation on.
“So, anyway,” I say as cheerfully as I can, “here’s some tea. How long can you stay?” We move over to the sofa and sit down.
“Just till later this afternoon, I’m afraid. I was thinking about staying over and calling in sick though,” Chloe says with a smile.
“Really?” I ask incredulously. Believe me, this is very out of character. Chloe never bunked off a single lesson at school, let alone threw sickies at work.
“Yes, well, I think it’s time I started to take some risks, too. I mean, here you are in this trendy London flat with flowers, and I’m still back home in the same boring job, and I don’t have a boyfriend . . .”
She hugs a cushion to her, and I shrug in sympathy. Chloe never has a boyfriend—she just has huge numbers of admirers whom she picks flaws in until we both agree there’s no future, and then she turns them down.
“Tell you what,” I say, “I’m working tomorrow, but there’s always next weekend. Why don’t you go back with your dad tonight, then come again next weekend and call in sick on the Monday so you can have an extra day here. I’ll take the day off and we can have an indulgent day at the cinema or something.”
“Deal,” Chloe says, her eyes twinkling. “So tell me, do Londoners watch crap television on Sunday morning, or are you all far too cool?”
“No, we watch it. We just don’t admit it to anyone,” I answer, grinning.
I hand Chloe the remote control, and she flicks around the channels while I make some toast.
“So what do you fancy doing today?” I ask.
“Whatever you usually do,” says Chloe, flicking through my latest copy of Heat. “Don’t loads of celebrities live round here?”
“I guess,” I say, shrugging. I don’t want to admit that I’ve never actually seen anyone famous here. I think I might have seen Hugh Grant in the 192 bar the other day, but I’m not entirely sure.
We finish our tea and toast, and I have a quick shower and get dressed. The sun is out and I want to make the most of having Chloe here.
“Okay, shall we go?” I call out to Chloe when I’m ready. She’s still buried in Heat. “Yes . . .” she says, “I s’pose . . .”
“You can take it with you if you want,” I say with a grin.
“No, that would be really sad,” says Chloe. “Now, is there a shop called Tina T’s round here?”
I look up sharply. “Yes. Yes there is, at least, I think there is . . . Why?”
“Well,” says Chloe, “according to Heat, everyone from Kate Moss to Elle MacPherson shops there. So I think we should have a look, don’t you?”
“No they don’t,” I say before I can stop myself. At least they never have when I’ve been there. That’s probably just Laura’s attempt to drum up trade.
“How do you know?”
Hmmmm, good question. How would I know that? I take a deep breath. Now is the time to come clean, I decide. To tell Chloe the truth about my job. She won’t mind—she’s my best friend, for God’s sake. No problem. Just open your mouth, and tell her.
Although I’d be pissed off if she lied to me. We’ll probably end up having a huge argument, and that would ruin our whole day. Much better to tell her just before she goes. Once I’ve had a whole day to remind her what good friends we are.
“Oh, I—uh—just go there sometimes, that’s all,” I say vaguely.
“Anyway,” I continue quickly, ignoring the rising feeling of guilt, “they say that about every shop round here. And there are some really nice little shops around the Portobello Road. Less, you know, expensive.”
“I don’t see how you can know whether Kate shops there or not,” says Chloe, obviously not happy with my lack of interest. “You may go there all the time, but I don’t, and if it’s good enough for Kate, it’s good enough for me,” she says decisively.
I smile thinly. I suppose I could always get a wig from the market so no one in Tina T’s recognizes me? Or maybe I could show her where it is, then say I need the loo and have to go? I sigh. Why, of all the bloody shops round here, is Chloe so determined to go to Tina T’s?
Trying to think of more excuses for not going, I open the door. Coming down the stairs ahead of me is Alistair, and Michael is with him.
“Morning all,” says Michael with a yawn.
“Hi, Michael, Alistair,” I say, slightly sheepishly. “Sorry about waking you up this morning. This is my friend Chloe. Chloe, this is Alistair and Michael.”
“Chloe. Delighted.” Michael performs a perfunctory bow, and Alistair rolls his eyes.
“You up to anything today?” he asks in a lazy drawl.
“Not really,” I say, just as Chloe says, “Shopping!” We look at each other and laugh.
“Well, now that we’ve been so rudely awakened, we’re off to the Ground Floor Bar to drink coffee and read the papers, so if you get bored, or run out of people to annoy, that’s where you’ll find us,” says Alistair.
“Great! Maybe see you later, then.” I smile, and Chloe and I follow them down the stairs.
As soon as we’re out of the door and Alistair and Michael are out of earshot, Chloe grabs my arm. “So that was Alistair? Which one? The good-looking one?”
I grin excitedly. “Yes. The tall one.”
“The tall one? Oh, I preferred the other one. The one who bowed. He was gorgeous!”
I look at her uncertainly. “Really? You don’t think he’s a bit on the thin side?”
Chloe just smiles in response. “I think I’m going to want some coffee soon, don’t you? I mean, if you’re okay hanging out with Alistair. You seemed to get on okay—I mean, no real bad feeling or anything . . . ?” She looks up at me hopefully.
“Oh, there’s no bad feeling,” I assure her—anything to get out of going to Tina T’s. “I think coffee sounds like a great idea.”
I take her down the Portobello Road, and we try on tops in Preen and look at bags in the market. I realize just how much I’ve missed just having fun with Chloe—she always gets so excited by little things and it’s really infectious.
“Shall we go to Tina T’s now?” she asks after about an hour of wandering.
“We could . . .” I say hesitantly, “although it’s a bit of a way away. If we went there, we probably wouldn’t make it back to the Ground Floor Bar for coffee in time.”
Chloe’s eyes are sparkling. “Okay. Coffee now, designer labels and celebrities later.”
Alistair and Michael are sitting in the window with a pile of newspapers in front of them. When Chloe and I were growing up, we used to watch films where people sat in cool coffee shops (usually French films where everyone was a philosopher and the girls were beautiful and silent), and we’d spend entire days trawling round Bath coffee and tea shops hoping to find gorgeous men just sitting around, reading French novels, and looking gorgeous. Only we never found any—Bath is full of normal-looking people and tourists, but no Johnny Depp look-alikes.
But now,
looking at Alistair and Michael with their dark brown leather jackets and indigo jeans, sitting at a beaten-up wooden table with the sun streaming in on them, well, we may be a little old now to be playing out this particular fantasy, but I know Chloe’s thinking exactly what I am.
“Hi!” I say, sitting down next to Alistair. He looks up and nods.
“You can’t interrupt his reading,” Michael says with a grin. “He’s decided he wants to improve his knowledge of current affairs. I keep telling him that he shouldn’t be reading the Style section if he wants to know about world affairs, but he won’t listen.”
Chloe giggles.
“Can I get you anything?” a waitress asks, and we both order lattes.
“So, buy anything?”
“No,” says Chloe, sounding disappointed. “I mean, there are some nice things here, but they’re very expensive.”
“Tell me about it,” says Michael. “If you go to Joseph and see anything you like, just let me know and I’ll get you a discount.”
“Really? Do you work there?” Chloe says excitedly.
“Tina T’s don’t do discounts, do they, Natalie?” Michael asks.
“Why would they?” asks Chloe, as I shake my head.
“Because she works for them,” says Michael slowly, in a tone which suggests Chloe must be very dim or something.
Luckily our coffees arrive before Chloe can say anything.
“I’ll explain later,” I whisper, playing for time as she shoots me a look and Alistair and Michael fight over sections of the Sunday papers. Eventually Chloe shrugs and picks up a stray magazine.
I look around our little group. This is what Sundays are all about, I think contentedly. I want to do this every week. Just me, Alistair, Chloe, and Michael, sitting around drinking coffee and talking about nothing in particular. I wonder vaguely how Simon might fit into this little foursome. Maybe he’d get on with Alistair and Michael. But as soon as I think it, I know how unlikely it is. They’re like chalk and cheese. Like Bath and Notting Hill. Like Natalie and Cressida . . .
Little White Lies Page 12