Little White Lies

by Gemma Townley

  And maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I’ve been subconsciously trying to make up for James’s death all my life. Perhaps now it’s time to start getting my own life back on track.

  But where? Do I stay here or go back to London? London is a great place, I know that. I suppose Eden comes in different shapes and sizes at different times. And maybe I’m not quite ready for the peace of the country again quite yet. But realistically, what do I have to go back to in the City?

  What was it my dad was saying about compromise and sacrifice? Well, I think staying here is worth it. Not ever having to face Simon is a good reason. Losing my job is a pretty good reason, too. No, there’s no doubt about it, I’ve made the right decision. At least, I think I have. Maybe.

  “Natalie, dear, it’s the telephone. For you.”

  My mother is bustling around my room as I slowly open my eyes. I feel exhausted, as if I haven’t slept, and yet I know I have—I’ve been dreaming about school and being asked questions by my most scary teacher, Miss Adams, and I don’t know the answers . . . I always get that dream when I’m worried about something or if I’ve got a job interview or something. So I don’t know why I dreamt about it last night.

  “Can’t you tell whoever it is to call me back?” I ask her, burying my head back under the duvet.

  “I tried that, but the woman on the line was very persistent,” my mum says briskly. “Almost rude, actually, but I suppose manners aren’t that important anymore . . .”

  I follow her blindly out of my old bedroom and pick up the phone. As Mum walks down the stairs, she mouths, “Cup of tea?” and I nod gratefully.

  “Hello?”

  My voice is desperately croaky, so I clear my throat and try again.

  “I’m sorry, hello?”

  “Natalie? Thank fuck for that. Bloody hell, girl, you’re difficult to get hold of!”

  It’s Julie.

  “Julie! How are you? Er—how did you get my number?”

  “Not easily, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” she says crossly. “What the fuck are you doing in Bath? Jesus, the stress I’ve had tracking you down. Alistair and I were banging on your door and this old bloke opened it . . . honestly, Natalie, you should have seen the pair of us. Staring at him, we were. And he tells us you’ve moved down to Bath!”

  “Yeah, well, I think it’s better this way. I’m not sure London was really such a good move. Anway, I lost my job, remember?”

  “Yeah, but that’s the point,” says Julie. “You haven’t lost your job anymore. And you’ve got to come back just so that I can hear Laura begging.”

  “What? Julie, you know as well as I do that Laura won’t want me back in the shop.”

  “Laura may not, but then again, Laura may not have much choice in the matter.”

  “Excuse me?” This is all too much for my sleepy brain to take in. What on earth is Julie talking about?

  “Remember your friend Giovanni?”

  “The Italian guy? He’s hardly my friend, Julie, and it’s not my fault if he doesn’t want to sell his stuff in Tina T’s.”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is, he does, you see. He’s letting Laura stock his bags, and shoes. New line. Exclusive. There’s just one condition—he wants you to have responsibility for his stock—the display and everything. And Laura is spitting blood.”

  “Me?” I nearly drop the phone. “But I’m in Bath!”

  Julie sighs audibly. “My God, girl, is it the air down there or have you always been this stupid?”

  She starts talking very slowly. “Let me explain this in words of one syllable. You have to come back from Bath. Laura hasn’t told Giovanni that you’ve left. He wants you to be his point of contact. And Laura keeps putting him off ’cos she can’t get hold of you and she doesn’t know what to do . . .”

  “No!” I gasp.

  “Yes!” Julie says excitably. “Look, she needs you. And now, thank God, I know where you are. Right, I’ll give her your number, shall I? And you can play hard to get. Make her give you a pay raise or something.”

  I pause. There is a little voice inside me that is whooping with delight. That wants me to go and pack my bags and, quickly as I can, go to London, and watch Laura beg me to come back to work. But of course I can’t really do it. I’m back in Bath where I belong, and I’m staying here.

  “Julie, look, that’s really good news,” I say, trying to convince myself I’m doing the right thing, “but I don’t think I can take back my old job. I just . . . well, I need a new start, that’s all.”

  “A ’new start’? What the fuck are you talking about? Natalie, you’ve only been in London a few months and now you’ve got Laura over a barrel . . . You told me you hated bloody Bath, anyway.”

  “Yeah, well, things change,” I say defensively.

  “Tell you what, babe, you’ve changed, that’s what. Look, it’s up to you. You want me to give Laura your number or not?”

  “No,” I say softly. “Thanks, Julie, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope you do,” says Julie, and puts the phone down.

  I mooch back into the kitchen.

  “Got any plans?” Mum asks, as she puts a cup of tea in front of me. I pour myself some cornflakes and consider her question. Do I have any plans? I mean, really, do I? “Only I was thinking about going shopping. If you fancied coming. Your auntie Liz is having a party next week and I need something to wear . . . Natalie dear, are you okay?”

  I try to nod and smile brightly, but it’s no use. I’m not okay. I’m about as far from okay as I’ve ever been. I feel like I’m in a void, and all the options open to me are unattractive, and it’s all my fault, so I can’t even blame anyone, and my life is pretty much over as far as I can tell. I look up desolately as tears run into my cereal bowl.

  “I don’t have any plans,” I say miserably. “I can’t go back to London, and I’m not in love with Pete, and I probably won’t ever have any plans again . . . but yes, I suppose shopping sounds nice.”

  “Why can’t you go back to London, darling?” Mum asks me, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me to give me a hug. “You seemed to be doing so well there. What happened to you, dear?”

  “I just messed up,” I say dolefully. I figure my mother doesn’t need to know the details.

  “Messed up how? Come on, I’m your mother. You can tell me, you know. I won’t be shocked. Although it wasn’t drugs, was it? You know your father and I have always been understanding, but drugs—well, at that I draw the line . . .”

  “It isn’t drugs,” I reassure her.

  “Well, then, it can’t be that bad, can it?” she says brightly, stroking my back like she used to when I was a little girl.

  “Look, dear,” she continues, “do you remember what Grandpa used to say when he was alive? If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. Now, you’re healthy, you’ve got a great job at Shannon’s, and you’ve always got your dad and me to come back to. What could be so bad?” She’s got a point. I mean, it’s not really that bad. Not when you compare what I’ve got with people who are starving and stuff. In the great scheme of things, I’ve got things pretty good, I suppose.

  “They want me back in London,” I say, sniffing loudly. “My job, I mean. But I can’t go back there. I mean, there’s nothing there for me . . .”

  “You’ve got your job back? Oh, thank the Lord,” Mum says, getting up quickly. “Phillip! Phillip! Natalie’s going back to London!”

  Mum goes looking for Dad, and I follow after her. “I didn’t say that,” I say pointedly. “I said I couldn’t go. Mum, stop, will you? I can’t go back to London. Anyway, I thought you’d want me to stay here.”

  “Stay here?” Mum looks at me as if I’m mad. “Natalie, don’t be silly. If you want to come back here in a few years’ time, perhaps when you’re married and have children, then your dad and I would love it. But coming back like this, with that look of resignation on your face—oh, dear. It breaks your father’s heart, you know . . . N
ow, where is he? Phillip?”

  She walks up the stairs and my dad appears at the top. “Did I hear you’re going back to London, Natalie?”

  I look up balefully. “No! I mean, I don’t know . . . I mean, maybe . . .” I manage to say, sniffing loudly. But instead of giving me a hug like I’m expecting, he claps his hands together.

  “That’s wonderful news. I’ll give you a lift down if you want. You know, when you’ve packed your things.”

  He looks at me expectantly, evidently waiting for me to go and pack. Confused, I wander back into the kitchen, trying to work out how a conversation about how shit my life is turned into a conversation about me going back to London. I can’t go back, can I?

  I try to imagine myself back in Tina T’s, going out with Julie, watching EastEnders with Stan, and I get a sudden pang. Maybe I do want to go back to London. But what about Simon? Will I be able to bury my thoughts of him as easily once I’m back?

  Unless . . . unless burying my thoughts isn’t actually the best option. I sit down as my mind races, trying to decide whether I can actually do what I’m thinking about doing. Am I really thinking about calling him up? Explaining everything? It sounds so brilliantly simple, so utterly straightforward. But what happens when I hear his voice?

  What if it really was Cressida Langton he was in love with? What do I, Natalie Raglan, have that Simon could possibly want?

  But at least if I called him, I would find out either way. I need to just get it over and done with, so I can get on with my life, don’t I?

  My palms are sweating furiously, but I know I’ve got to go through with it, right now while I’ve got the courage. While my parents run around upstairs packing, I quietly shut the kitchen door and pick up the phone. I know Simon’s direct line by heart, and I dial it before I can change my mind.

  “Hello, Helen Adams speaking.”

  “Oh! Oh, sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong number,” I mumble, and put the phone down. Bollocks. I must have dialed one of the digits wrong. Carefully, I dial the number again.

  “Hello, Helen Adams. Can I help you?”

  “Oh! I wanted Simon,” I say indignantly. What is this Helen woman doing answering his phone? Who is she?

  “Simon Rutherford? He’s left, I’m afraid. Can I help?”

  “No! I mean, why? And where? Where has he gone?”

  “Dunno, actually,” Helen replies. “He left a month or so ago.”

  “Was it a sudden decision? It’s . . . I’m just a friend,” I say quickly, to explain. I’m getting a bad feeling in my stomach. Has he given up his job because of me? Because I broke his heart?

  “Sudden? No, I don’t think so. He’s retraining . . . I think he wanted to be a teacher or something. . . .”

  “Right!” I say as brightly as I can manage. “Great. Well, sorry to have troubled you.” I hang up and get a fuzzy feeling in my head. Simon retraining as a teacher? That’s ridiculous. She must have got him confused with someone else.

  Quickly I dial his home number. It rings a few times and then the answer phone kicks in. “Hi, Jezza and Caroline here. Leave a message.”

  Jezza and Caroline? Who the hell are they?

  I put the phone down and stare at it.

  “So how does it feel to be going back to London?” says my dad, walking into the kitchen.

  “What? Oh, you know. I mean, great. Really great,” I hear myself say.

  “Right, are you ready?” asks Dad, as Mum bustles around.

  “You’re pretty keen for me to go, aren’t you?” I ask him.

  “Pretty keen for you to be happy,” says Dad seriously, then gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  I pause. “Do you think there’s any chance we could go via Wiltshire,” I ask hesitantly.

  “Don’t see why not,” says Dad. “Why?”

  “Just some people I need to see,” I say quietly. “Some unfinished business.”

  17

  I call Julie from the car.

  “I knew you’d bloody see sense eventually,” she sighs. “Honestly, you are a bloody drama queen, you know. I’ll let Laura have your mobile number. But don’t return her call for a day or so. I love seeing her so helpless . . .”

  Dad and I don’t talk very much while we drive. He puts on the radio, and from time to time we sing along to an ABBA song or something, but other than that we pretty much stay silent. My dad’s very good at the strong, silent support thing. And right now I don’t know what to say.

  It’s only when we draw up at Simon’s parents’ house that I decide I want to talk—but it’s only on avoidance tactic and my dad knows it. It was probably a stupid idea, just turning up like this. And poor old Dad—It was nice enough of him to offer to drive me to London without having to go miles out of his way to go to Wiltshire, too.

  “Tell me more about when you and Mum were going to move to London . . .” I ask suddenly. But Dad refuses to play ball.

  “You going in?” he asks pointedly, and switches off the engine.

  I take a deep breath and open the car door. For all I know there could be no one at home. I mean, it was a ridiculous idea, just coming down like this. And even if they are in, they’re hardly going to want to see me, are they?

  Slowly I approach the front door. I remember the last time I was here—how sunny and happy everything was. All the dogs and children. And now it’s just me.

  But before I can reach for the doorbell, the door opens and Simon’s father is right in front of me. “Tilly thought it was you,” he says with a half grin. “So, are you going to tell us your real name this time?”

  Archie ushers me in, and we sit in his study. It’s much more formal than the other rooms I’ve been in, and it almost feels like I’m being kept away from the warmth of the rest of the house on purpose. Like I don’t deserve to spend time there.

  Tilly brings me a cup of tea, then leaves the room, emerging again a few minutes later with my laundry bag.

  “Um, Simon left this here with us. Just in case. You know . . .” she says, trailing off at the end, obviously unsure what to say.

  I take it gratefully, and Tilly sits down awkwardly. I’m convinced she’s looking at me reproachfully, but every time I meet her eye, she sort of gives me this smile that makes me feel worse than if she’d glared at me. This is almost worse than seeing Simon himself.

  I clear my throat. “My name is Natalie,” I say, feeling like I’m addressing an Alcoholics Anonymous group. “I wanted to explain, and to apologize,” I continue, my voice wavering slightly. I look up but get no reaction, so I just carry on.

  “I never meant to lie to Simon. About my name, I mean. I just . . . Look, I was living in a flat where Cressida used to live. And I got this letter. She did, I mean. And I opened it, because I was lonely and bored and . . . so anyway, she got a matchmaking letter, from Leonora, suggesting that she get in touch with Simon. It said he worked in the City and stuff, and I know it wasn’t me she was trying to set up with Simon, but I . . . I was a bit lonely. I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but . . . well, I did.”

  “A matchmaking letter? Is that what you call it?” asks Archie, looking surprised.

  “Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, at first I thought Leonora might be an up-market dating agency or something, but it was so personal I thought it must be a friend or something . . . and I know that she was trying to set Simon up with Cressida, but I thought Cressida wouldn’t have got the letter, anyway, so it wouldn’t be so bad if I got in touch instead . . .”

  “You contacted Simon because you thought Leonora was matchmaking?” Archie says sternly.

  “Yes. No! I mean, well, that bit sort of happened by accident. I just . . . well, I asked him out,” I say nervously. “When I was drunk. Not . . . not that I get drunk a lot or anything,” I emphasize. I don’t want them thinking I’m a lush, do I?

  “Anyway, I just decided to call him, and when he called me back, I was too scared to tell him who I really was. I mean, I didn’t think he’d want t
o go out with some complete stranger. But I didn’t lie about anything else. Apart from being a Reiki healer, that is. But that wasn’t my fault. It was Stanley’s. He’s my patient. Although I don’t give him Reiki or anything, just television . . .”

  Archie and Tilly are looking at me in utter bemusement. Okay, Natalie, stick to the point, I tell myself.

  “Honestly,” I continue, “everything else was true . . . and I wanted to tell him . . . I just didn’t know if he’d still like me if I was Natalie and didn’t have a family friend who was a missionary . . .”

  “Leonora?” Archie asks with a smile. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a missionary. She runs a project for the missionary, though. From Wiltshire. Goes out once or twice a year to see how things are going.”

  “Oh, right,” I say desolately.

  Archie looks at me very seriously, and then little by little his face begins to break into a smile.

  “You weren’t looking for financial backing, then?”

  “What?” I ask, not understanding. What’s Archie talking about?

  “The letter, Cre . . . , sorry, Natalie, was not, as you put it, a matchmaking letter. Leonora was actually writing to her goddaughter suggesting that she approach me to provide investment funds for her business idea. A Reiki healing center or some such place. And the next thing she knows, Cressida arrives here purporting to be in love with my son . . .”

  “I am in love with him,” I say pointedly, and then I pause. Something Archie just said didn’t add up. “You?” I ask, incredulously. “Why would Leonora give Simon’s name, then?”

  “It didn’t.”

  “But . . . but it said ’Simon.’ The letter said ’Simon,’ and it said he worked at Henderson . . .”

  “Which is where I am still a consultant of sorts,” Archie says, smiling broadly now. “Senior director, actually. And I am called Simon. Just never really suited me, so my friends call me Archie. It’s my second name, you know. Anyway, I’m what you call a business angel—always looking for new projects to invest in. Like to keep busy, you know?”