Little White Lies

by Gemma Townley

  “There’s a lovely pub right on the river,” he continues. “Had my first legal drink there. And lots of illegal ones before that, of course. Then we could take a walk . . .” As he talks, Tilly comes out of the kitchen, and Simon stands up straight.

  “Mum, we are going for a walk,” he says confidently.

  I feel Simon’s hand squeezing my bottom in a manner that suggests he means something quite different from walking.

  “What a very good idea,” says Tilly. “We could all . . .” But she trails off as she catches Simon’s eye.

  “. . . we could all meet back here later,” she concludes after a brief pause. “Simon, darling, if you pass a shop, would you mind buying some milk?”

  And blushing slightly, she wanders back toward the kitchen.

  14

  The pub is the sort of place that you can’t imagine ever having not existed. It’s bang, smack in the middle of the village, with the village green on one side and a river on the other. Cricketers are playing on the green, and we take our beers out to a table outside to watch them. People smile at us, and say hello to Simon. It’s even more English than Castle Coombe, and that’s really saying something.

  “Doesn’t look like we’re doing too well,” Simon says, nodding toward the scoreboard. I smile sympathetically. To be honest, I’ve never really understood cricket. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game, but it’s the clothes and the sun and the sitting outside drinking that I like. I’ve never actually mastered the rules. But somehow, sitting here with Simon, I wish I had.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say happily.

  Simon grins. “You like it here? I thought you’d hate it. I mean, it’s hardly Notting Hill, is it? I thought you’d dismiss it as terribly uncool.”

  I smile. He’s right, in a way. This is the same landscape I grew up in. I know it, understand it. And maybe it’s more a part of me than I realized. Then there’s the wonderful feeling of community. That’s what’s wrong with London. I mean, it’s exciting and fun, but you don’t get the same sense of belonging in the city. I smile to myself as I remember how claustrophobic it made me feel. Somehow it feels different, sitting here with Simon.

  “Not uncool,” I say pointedly. “It’s lovely. And anyway, just because I live in London, it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the country.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” says Simon. “So does that mean you’d actually consider leaving the metropolis one day?” He’s smiling, but his eyes look serious.

  “I don’t really know,” I say wistfully. “I thought I would never go back to the country, but I’m not sure anymore.”

  “Back to the country?” Simon says, surprised. “But I thought you were born in London?”

  Bollocks. I forgot that I told Simon I grew up in London. It just seemed to fit with the whole Cressida persona.

  “We used to . . . holiday . . . in the country,” I say hesitantly. “Not too far away from here actually. Near Bath.”

  “Lovely place,” agrees Simon, looking into the middle distance. “I know what you mean about not knowing what you think anymore, though,” he says. “I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, too. . . .”

  Then he turns to me. “Have you ever wanted to do something completely different—you know, really change your life?”

  What, like changing your name and adopting someone else’s life, I think to myself.

  “I suppose,” I say slowly. “But I’m not sure you ever really change. Only on the surface . . .” I clench my fists. This is the time to tell Simon the truth. About being Natalie. If I can find the right words, maybe he’ll understand.

  But before I can open my mouth, Simon looks away. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he says seriously. He looks so thoughtful. Maybe now isn’t the best time to tell him, after all. I want to tell him when he’s more cheerful—so he can see the funny side.

  Or, of course, I could forget the whole “telling him” idea altogether. I frown as I think through my options.

  1.Change my name to Cressida Langton.

  Pros:No need to tell Simon or his lovely family that I’m a fraud.

  Cons:My parents may be a bit upset. And it might seem a bit weird at work.

  2.Cut off contact with anyone who knows me as Natalie and just keep the charade going.

  Pros:Straightforward approach, simple to follow.

  Cons:Never see Mum and Dad again? Maybe that’s a bit too draconian.

  3.Convince Simon I want to change my name to Natalie Raglan.

  Pros:Ah-hah! Fantastic idea! Problem solved.

  Cons:Except it isn’t, is it. As soon as he meets my family, he’ll find out I was always called Natalie Raglan.

  4.Leave Simon and never see him again.

  Pros:None. That’s a ridiculous idea. In fact, this whole list idea is ridiculous. I’m just going to tell him the truth. I just have to get him in the right mood, that’s all.

  “So,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you thinking of a career change or something? It’s just that there’s a sign in the pub—they’re looking for a bar assistant!”

  I laugh, but Simon still looks serious. “I am, yes. In a way. At least I think I am . . . I want to do something worthwhile. Something that actually means something to someone,” he says seriously.

  “You mean something to me,” I say softly, leaning over to kiss him.

  His face crinkles into a smile. “Something? I just mean something to you?”

  “Yes, well, you don’t know how big the something is, do you?” I say playfully. “Anyway, I think you should choose whatever career you want. So long as you can keep me in Alberta Ferretti dresses, that is . . .”

  Simon looks at me for a couple of seconds, then stands up.

  “Fancy a walk?” he asks.

  We wander down by the river, and end up sitting under a tree, thin rays of sun reaching us through the leaves.

  It’s a beautiful spot. The perfect place to tell Simon about the whole Natalie/Cressida debacle. I mean, he might even find it funny. You know, maybe . . .

  “Simon,” I say before I can change my mind, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something I wasn’t completely, well, honest about.”

  He looks up sharply, then grins.

  “Come on then, tell me what it is. Actually, no, don’t. Let me guess. You’re . . . part alien? No, that’s not it. You’re . . . sixty years old with a very good plastic surgeon? No, that’s not right either. Um . . . ooh, I know, you’re not Cressida Langton, but an evil impostor who’s tied up the real Cressida and locked her in a cupboard somewhere . . .”

  I go bright red as Simon laughs out loud.

  “She’s in my dungeon, actually,” I say with a very unconvincing smile.

  “So come on, then, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” says Simon, looking at me expectantly.

  “Um . . .” I say hesitantly. How can I tell him now? He’ll think I’m joking. Or criminally insane. Either way, there’s just no way I can bring myself to tell him that our entire relationship was built on deception.

  Anyway, I think what I’m doing could be illegal.

  Simon’s still looking at me. Shit, if I’m not going to tell him about the whole Cressida thing, I’m going to have to think of something else to tell him.

  “I don’t really think my future’s in fashion advertising,” I say eventually. Well, at least that isn’t a lie. I mean, I don’t work in fashion advertising anymore, so it’s unlikely I could have a future in it.

  Simon looks at me happily. “I’m so pleased,” he says, smiling. “You’re going to concentrate on Reiki, aren’t you? That’s so great—I was talking to Mum about it earlier . . .”

  “You told your Mum I do Reiki?”

  Shit. Bollocks. What if she wants me to do Reiki on her? I can’t see her falling for the let’s-watch-EastEnders-instead ruse.

  “Yes—she thinks it’s great! Cress, I think you’re doing absolutely the right thing. You should be really p
roud . . .”

  I stare at him. Oh God. This is going from bad to worse. I want to scream, to shout that I don’t give a damn about bloody Reiki. I want him to know who I really am. I want him to tell me everything’s going to be okay. I don’t want any more lies. But now it seems that it’s the lie that Simon’s in love with. This whole relationship is built on nothing—he thinks I’m someone completely different. I mean, how can he be in love with me? He doesn’t even know who I am!

  The thing is, I thought I could handle it. I thought everything would work out. But maybe I bit off more than I could chew. Is that it? Is this some kind of punishment for giving in to temptation?

  “You have to do it,” Simon continues, taking my hand. “Really, you have to, Cress. Life is too bloody short to get stuck doing marketing when you want to be doing something really important.”

  I look up at him glumly, trying to force back the tears. “You really think Reiki is important?” I ask him.

  “Of course. Whatever you want to do is important,” says Simon, his eyes shining. “You just need a game plan.”

  I smile weakly. “Game plan?”

  “You know, a plan of action.” He looks so enthusiastic. Like he thinks I could really be some successful Reiki healer. I love him for his belief in me, however misplaced. But that’s the point, isn’t it? All his feelings are misplaced.

  “Simon, there is no game plan,” I say after a while. “I’m not going to be a full-time Reiki healer. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I shake my head for emphasis, and Simon looks all deflated.

  “You’re probably right,” he says sadly, getting up to go and holding his hand out to me. “Back on the old treadmill, eh?”

  We walk in silence most of the way home. All the way, I talk to him in my head. I tell him I’m not Cressida. Tell him I’m not a bloody Reiki healer, and not a family friend of some missionary worker in India. I come from Bath, I say gently. I’ve been utterly stupid, and I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.

  But the words don’t reach my lips, and Simon walks along blissfully unaware.

  The cricket match is still going strong as we pass the village green and a few minutes later we arrive back. I put my arm around Simon’s waist as we approach the house. There is something about it, about Simon’s parents, which is gnawing away at my emotions. Maybe it’s the fact that I still haven’t told Simon the truth, but I feel like laughing, or crying, or maybe both. It just that after London, it feels so welcoming—like a proper home, where people argue and make up and talk and play and . . . well, live. And I like it here.

  Tilly is at the front door looking excited.

  “You’ll never guess who’s here!” she says, running out to meet us in the driveway.

  “Father Christmas?” asks Simon in a deadpan voice. He’s been quiet ever since our conversation by the river.

  “Don’t be silly. No, it’s Leonora! She’s back in England for a couple of months, and I told her the other day that you were both coming down. She called just after you left to say she was coming over. Cressida, you didn’t tell us that she’s your godmother!”

  My heart almost stops beating, and my hands clam up.

  “Le . . . Leonora? She’s here?” More to the point, she’s Cressida’s godmother? Oh, shit.

  Why did I not see this coming? How could I just have expected to come and stay with Simon’s parents without something like this happening?

  “Yes! She’s so looking forward to seeing you. And you, too, Simon. So, did you have a good walk?”

  “We had a wonderful walk, didn’t we, Cress? . . . Cress?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Yes, a lovely walk . . .”

  I think I’m going to faint. Or be sick. Or maybe both. I can’t feel my legs. Can’t see properly. Is this what they call a panic attack?

  “Cress . . . Cress, are you okay?”

  Simon is looking at me with a worried look on his face.

  “Simon,” I try to say, but have difficulty forming any words.

  The last thing I remember is the feeling of gravel hitting the side of my face very hard.

  I move my face slowly from side to side. It’s soft, cool. A pillow! It’s a pillow! I must have dreamt the whole thing. Oh, thank God. I’m at home and none of it happened. Simon will probably be arriving very soon to whisk me away for the weekend . . .

  Except that this isn’t my pillow. It’s much nicer than my pillow. And this isn’t my room, either. It’s got pink wallpaper and huge big windows covered in sweeping curtains rather than the cheap IKEA things I’ve got hanging up in my bedroom.

  Gingerly I sit up and look around. It’s dark outside, but there’s enough light seeping through the curtains from the stars to pick out my clothes on a chair next to the bed. And to see that I’m on my own. I must have fainted. God, how embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever fainted before.

  My heart sinks as I remember Leonora. Although she must have gone by now. But did she see me? Did she tell everyone that I wasn’t Cressida? I bite my lip nervously, then inch off the bed as quietly as I can.

  Slowly, very slowly, I put on my clothes. I can hear voices coming from the next-door room, and chairs scraping on a hard floor—I must be in the annex next to the kitchen. I can hear Simon’s voice, and Tilly’s, then Archie’s, and then someone else’s. A woman. Oh, God, it must be Leonora. She’s still here. Why can’t she bugger off back to India and leave me alone?

  Okay, time to face the music. I have to go out there and tell them the truth. It’ll be horrible, but it’ll also be a huge relief—like putting down a heavy bag I’ve been carrying around with me. I hate lying to Simon, hate having to avoid certain questions. And if he’s angry, fine—I can take anger. I’ll just keep explaining until he’s okay with it. I’ll prove to him I did it all out of the best of intentions. That I never meant to lie to him.

  Oh God, what if he ends up hating me? What if he wants me to go?

  I find myself thinking that Simon would never chuck me out at this time of night, whatever the time is, and that this fact could work in my favor—I’ll have more time to turn things around. But then I get angry with myself for being so scheming. Forget Cressida, I seem to be turning into Becky Sharp.

  I take a deep breath. We can get through this—Simon loves me and his family are good people; they’ll hear me out; they’ll think I’m a bit ridiculous, but they’ll see the funny side and we’ll talk about it for years to come.

  But what if they don’t? What if they never forgive me?

  I bite my nails nervously. I love it here—I mean, I’m in love with Simon, but I also love his family, this house, their way of life. In spite of all my protestations that the country is utterly dull, I adore this place and I want to be a part of it. And I can’t bear the thought that when Simon knows what I’m really like—who I really am—he won’t want to see me again. That they’ll cast me out, and I won’t be able to come back.

  Still, there’s only one thing for it. It’s time to face the music.

  Tentatively, I move over to the door and then I boldly throw it open, ready to face my fate. But instead of opening directly onto the kitchen, the door opens onto a corridor that leads to the kitchen. Feeling my bravery falter a little, I tiptoe down toward the kitchen to try and hear a bit better what they’re saying. To establish whether they’re really angry or are talking about something completely different—you know, like it’s not really that big a deal.

  “But, Simon,” I hear Archie say. “. . . not sure . . . right for you . . . so different . . .”

  I wonder what they’re talking about.

  “. . . think your passion is misplaced.”

  Passion misplaced? That sounds interesting. Passion for what?

  “It’s just such a bolt from the blue . . . being a bit reckless,” I think I hear Tilly say.

  Maybe Simon’s buying a new car?

  Whatever it is, Simon is surprisingly quiet on the issue. A couple of seconds later Archie starts talking agai
n. I can’t hear everything he’s saying through the heavy kitchen door, but I can make out a lot of the words.

  “. . .worried about you . . .” he says. “. . . wanted more for you . . . won’t provide for you longer term . . .”

  Suddenly I get a nasty sick feeling in my stomach. He couldn’t be . . . he isn’t talking about me, is he? I edge closer.

  “It’s okay to follow your heart,” Archie continues, “but you do have to think through the practicalities. Make sure your choice is appropriate.”

  My heart starts to beat loudly in my chest, and I move back quickly, afraid I’ll be heard.

  Archie said something about Simon’s passion being misplaced earlier. Is that what he thinks? Do they think I’m bad news for him?

  Well, there’s only one thing for it. I am going to go out there and prove to them that I am right for Simon, that he isn’t being reckless. That it’s all been one big mix-up and that I’m not usually like this . . .

  But what am I thinking? I am usually like this. At least I have been like this since moving to London. What have I become? I don’t even know who am I anymore. Maybe they’re right. Maybe Simon’s better off without me. He’s such a wonderful man, and I’ve consistently hidden the truth from him.

  I stand by the door for a few more minutes, trying to work out what to do. I can’t stay here, but I can’t go either—not until I’ve said I’m sorry.

  Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by a loud, smart voice. Somehow I know it belongs to Leonora.

  “Simon, I just don’t see how you can really lower your living standards to that level,” I hear her say in a loud, indignant voice. “You’ve come so far—do you really want to have to start all over again?”

  I frown slightly. Lower his living standards? Is she actually suggesting that going out with me means lowering his living standards? Well, of all the cheek!

  I listen intently, waiting for Simon to spring to my defense, to tell her that she’s wrong. But I don’t hear anything. Simon isn’t speaking.

  And then it hits me. He must agree with her. He must agree with all of them. If he didn’t, he’d be telling them so—he was perfectly happy arguing the toss with his parents over whether they should redo the bathroom earlier, so it can’t be a sudden shyness I’m not familiar with.