Little White Lies

by Gemma Townley

  “How dare you!” says Laura icily, her eyes flashing. “If you think I am going to take that kind of language in my shop, you are quite mistaken. And you can forget the job, Natalie. I’ve changed my mind. As for you, Julie, I’m going to have to think very carefully about your future.”

  “Suits me,” says Julie calmly.

  “Me, too,” says Lucy.

  “You?” Laura trills. “Lucy, you stay where you are.”

  “But I think you’re a bitch, too,” Lucy says, wide-eyed.

  “Right, well you can collect your P45 along with the rest of them,” Laura shouts. “Natalie, get out. Julie, Lucy, you’d better think up a very good excuse for this behavior.”

  “So I guess our little chat is over?” I ask Laura, as Julie and Lucy head for the door.

  She stares at me, obviously confused.

  “You can’t all just go!” she shouts. “You can bloody well apologize.”

  “Ah, but you see, that’s not quite right, is it?” I say sweetly. “The thing is, we can just go. And we’re going to.”

  “About time, too,” says Julie for good measure.

  “But . . . Julie,” implores Laura, “I need you to run the place. Let’s talk about this. I’m sorry I overreacted. Let’s talk about your prospects . . .”

  “Love to, but I’m a bit busy right now,” says Julie brightly. “New job, new horizons. Tell you what, you could take me out for a drink sometime—talk about my prospects then.”

  “What do you mean, ’new job’?” hisses Laura. “You have a job here.”

  “Ah, but you see I don’t, do I? Because you just fired me. Didn’t you?” says Julie pointedly.

  “You did, she’s right,” says Stanley, who has just walked in. “Heard it all through the curtain,” he explains.

  “And who is this?” Laura asks, looking at Stanley as if he were the lowest creature to walk the planet.

  “My business partner,” I say, grinning broadly. “One of them, anyway. I think you may know another one—Giovanni Tivoli?”

  Laura’s face looks like thunder.

  “You have not heard the last of this,” she spits. “Mark my words, you have not heard the last of this.”

  “Actually, Laura,” says Julie as we all leave the shop, “I think it’s you that hasn’t heard the last. And I reckon you’re not going to want to.”

  We walk down Ledbury Road in silence, turn right down Westbourne Grove, then left again. My heart is thumping in my chest. This is it. This is the moment I’ve dreamt about all my life. Me in my own little shop. It’s just that Archie and Giovanni haven’t seen it yet. It seemed so easy, talking to Stanley, talking to Giovanni. Julie and Lucy said yes straightaway. And now it’s actually happening . . . I take a deep breath and try to listen to the others talking and laughing. It’s going to be okay, I keep telling myself like a mantra. It’s a lovely little shop. I just hope the others think so . . . What if they think it’s too small? Or too twee? What if Stanley changes his mind? What if Giovanni hates it?

  After a few minutes Stanley stops.

  “Well, here it is.”

  Everyone stops and looks at the little cottage in front of us. When I see the white painted stone and the little sign saying “Finest Antiques,” I breathe a sigh of relief. It looks better each time I see it. It’s still the prettiest little house/shop I’ve ever seen. And Julie and Lucy seem to think so, too. Stanley gets out the keys and we all troop in.

  I give Stanley a quick hug. “You’re sure about this?” I ask for the millionth time. He rolls his eyes. “I wish you’d stop asking me that,” he says impatiently.

  I make some tea, then nervously look at my watch. Giovanni is due any minute, along with Archie. They were both excited by the prospect of opening a shop in Stanley’s house selling Stallioni’s new diffusion-line clothes and bags and the new shoe collection, but will they see the potential that I see in Stanley’s former storeroom? Enough potential to back the venture and cover the cost of remodeling?

  My hands are sweating slightly as I hear the door creak open and I turn round to see Giovanni walk into the cramped shop.

  His face is very serious. “I have just come from Tina T’s,” he says. “I understand you have upset the manager, no?”

  We look at one another sheepishly.

  “Well, I never like her, anyway,” he says with a smile. A few moments later Archie arrives.

  “This is the shop?” he says, looking surprised.

  I nod, and my heart sinks. He’s disappointed—he was obviously expecting much more than a tiny antiques shop, and he’s going to say no.

  “It’s a lot of work,” says Archie seriously.

  “Of course it is,” Julie replies matter-of-factly. “But we’ve got three estimates, and the builders reckon it could be sorted in six weeks.” She peers at Archie as he takes in the wooden beams and the battered wood floor.

  “And just imagine it when it’s done!” I say excitedly. “The clothes rails over there; the shoes over here; the till and a display unit where I’m standing; the stockroom and office out the back—it’s perfect, just perfect!”

  Giovanni is skipping around the shop banging walls and standing in front of the windows. Stanley winks at me and puts his arm round Archie’s shoulder.

  “You’ve seen the extension proposals, haven’t you?” he asks. “Out the back we have twice the size of this room again.”

  Then he smiles confidently. “I’m sorry—let me introduce myself. I’m Stanley Wickett. And you must be Archie and Giovanni,” he continues. “Let me walk you through the plans.”

  Archie and Giovanni acquiesce, and I watch nervously as Stanley shows them the plans that Bess had drawn up all those years ago.

  “I thought the utility area could be the changing rooms,” I say hesitantly, following after them as the three men walk through to the back, nodding seriously and listening to Stanley.

  “Changing rooms. I see,” says Archie thoughtfully, as I exchange nervous glances with Julie and Lucy. Please don’t let this all have been for nothing, I beg silently. Please let this all work out.

  Archie and Giovanni continue their tour outside and it’s another five minutes before they come back in.

  “Well,” says Archie finally. “I presume that you’ve got your profit-and-loss and cash-flow forecasts sorted out?”

  I look at Julie, who has pulled out all the stops to get all the finances sorted over the past week. Or rather, pulled out all the stops to encourage Jason to get our finances sorted. You’d never think it by looking at him, but the guy’s a trained accountant. He just decided he didn’t like figures and went into bar work instead. What Julie didn’t appreciate until recently is that Jason owns Canvas, which came in rather handy when we needed financial expertise and entrepreneurial finesse.

  “All present and correct,” she says, passing some papers to Archie. “Three years’ investment is required, but as you can see, the profit margins in years four and five should be extremely healthy.”

  I look at her in wonderment. Somehow this project has turned both Julie and Stanley into confident businesspeople. You’d think they’d been pitching ideas and running up financial statements all their lives.

  Archie studies the sheets of paper for a few minutes.

  “And your diffusion line—it’d be exclusive to this shop?” Archie asks Giovanni, who nods.

  “And the name of the shop?”

  Everyone looks at me. “Well, I was sort of thinking maybe Bess and Stanley,” I say hesitantly. “You know, like Graham & Green, or Farrow and Ball . . .”

  Stanley looks a bit overcome.

  Archie nods again, then smiles broadly. “Welcome to the world of business, Natalie. Very glad to be on board. So when can you get the builders in?”

  “No, no, no,” says Giovanni, beaming from ear to ear. “First, we have champagne, yes?” He produces a bottle from his briefcase and some plastic cups.

  “Definitely,” I say happily, then give Gio
vanni a little kiss on the cheek. “Was Laura very cross?” I ask him.

  “She very crazy woman,” says Giovanni, grinning. “Crazy scary.”

  I look around the little shop as my head goes fuzzy from the champagne. Everyone here—well, they’re like a sort of family to me, really. London is just as beautiful and welcoming as the country. Just in a different way. And although I thought I was coming to London to escape the whole community thing, I’ve realized that life can be pretty meaningless without it.

  I guess things just aren’t black-and-white, after all. I thought that London was cool and wonderful; Simon thought it was full of poseurs. Then when things went wrong, I thought Bath was safe and that London was scary. But it isn’t true at all. The city has lots of little communities with great people—you just have to find them. And as for Bath . . . well, Pete was just as pretentious as Serge in his way. Even right and wrong isn’t that clear-cut. I mean opening that letter—was that right, or wrong? If I hadn’t, I’d never have met Simon. Or Stanley. None of us would be here. Maybe Chloe’s right—I don’t deserve a miserable end like Becky Sharp for opening those letters, after all. But for not telling Simon the truth . . . well, that’s a different matter.

  After finishing the champagne, we pile into a café to discuss our plans and argue over decoration. Archie talks us through our ownership structure—we’re all going to be shareholders to differing degrees—and how we’re going to be managed. Stan’s going to oversee the builders; I’m in charge of buying and promotion; Julie and Lucy will manage the shop and do the books; and Giovanni’s got a team who will oversee the interior design. Julie immediately gets down to work, devising a clothing allowance for each of us.

  “So that we can promote the clothes to customers,” she explains with a smile.

  Finally Archie announces that he has to get back to Wiltshire, and we all get up to go.

  As Archie leans down to give me a kiss good-bye, he whispers, “And Simon?”

  “That’s where I’m going this afternoon,” I whisper back. He looks surprised, and I take his hand quickly.

  “I wanted to prove to him that I could follow my dreams, too,” I say, trying to explain why I haven’t called Simon yet. I consider adding, I’m too scared that he’s got some other girlfriend and that he’ll just reject me out of hand, but decide to keep that sentiment to myself.

  Archie nods seriously. “Don’t leave it too long,” he says with a little smile, and squeezes my hand.

  When everyone else has gone, I have a quick cup of tea with Stanley, who offers to escort me home, but I tell him I’ll be all right on my own; then I make my way back in a daze. I can’t believe it’s happened. I’ve got a shop.

  I walk up the stairs toward my flat slowly, lost in my own thoughts. So lost in fact that I bump smack into Alistair as he comes tearing down the stairs.

  “So how did it go?” he asks me excitedly. I’m not surprised that he knows all about it—according to Julie, they haven’t been talking about anything else since I suggested the idea to her a couple of weeks ago.

  I grin. “Well, Laura was pretty pissed off.”

  “This is just so exciting,” he says, embracing me and kissing me on the cheek. “And as soon as you want some creative ideas on advertising, you know who to ask!”

  “Alistair, you’re already at the top of our list. Although we’re not going to have much to spend, you understand?”

  “Pay me in shoes,” he says seriously. “You know, or belts if money’s really tight. Now, look, are you coming down to Canvas? I’m in the mood to celebrate.”

  I smile to myself. It wasn’t so long ago that all I wanted in the world was for Alistair to ask me out partying. I can’t believe how much things have changed.

  “I’d love to, Alistair, but I’ve got to go to Shepherd’s Bush.”

  “You poor thing!” Alistair looks aghast. “Well, don’t stay too long, will you? We don’t want you pulling a Bath trip again, do we?”

  “I won’t, I promise,” I say, smiling.

  “Well, okay, then,” agrees Alistair, pretending to look doleful, but with a glint in his eye. “But as soon as you’re back, come straight out to play, won’t you!” And with that he waves and leaps down the stairs toward the front door.

  19

  Standing outside the school gates, I’m amazed at the memories flooding back from my own time at school. Loitering by the bicycle shed with Chloe, tearing down corridors because I’m late for math.

  And here I am, outside another school, not wanting to actually go in. Nothing changes, I think wryly.

  I had hoped to track Simon down at the teacher-training college. Thought I would easily find him, go for a coffee, tell him everything.

  But he wasn’t there—the lady at reception told me he was “on site.” It was only when I refused to go until she told me exactly where I could find him that she acquiesced and gave me the address of St. Luke’s, the school where Simon’s working for a few weeks to get practical experience.

  Had it been farther away, I’d probably have convinced myself to come back another day. But it was just round the corner. A five-minute walk.

  But an hour later I’m still no nearer to going in. Somewhere in that building, I think to myself, is Simon, teaching a bunch of noisy sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds. How is he bearing up? I wonder. Is he keeping control or are they making fun of him?

  I suddenly feel incredibly protective. Simon is so brave, taking on something completely new, opening himself up to ridicule. I’d never dare do something like that.

  Shoving my hands deep in my jacket pockets (after unbuttoning it so that Simon will be able to see that I’m wearing the Alberta Ferretti dress), I begin to move slowly toward the entrance.

  It’s a huge school—much bigger than the one I went to in Bath. There must be over a thousand pupils here.

  I open the door and approach a girl who can’t be more than fourteen, dawdling down the corridor.

  “I’m . . . um . . . looking for Simon Rutherford,” I say hopefully. “I think he teaches economics.”

  She looks at me blankly, then points up a flight of stairs. “Timetable’s on the wall up there,” she says, and wanders off.

  Nervously I walk up the stairs. As promised, there at the top is a notice board with a laminated timetable, according to which the Lower Sixth are currently in an economics class in room B16.

  I wander back downstairs and walk down the corridor, looking at the labels on the classroom doors. A12, A13 . . . where is B? I nip back up the corridor and up the stairs. Sure enough, the first room I come to is B1. That means that Simon could be just fifteen rooms away.

  I can feel my hands are clammy. I wish I’d thought to find a washroom first to check if I look okay.

  He loved me once, I say to myself as I walk down toward B16. Archie said he’d be so pleased to see me. There’s nothing to be worried about.

  Suddenly I stop sharply. I can hear his voice. That is definitely Simon. I change my pace and tiptoe toward the voice, then hesitantly approach the door of B16. He’s at the front, wearing a cord jacket. God, he even looks like a teacher. There are about twenty students in the room, and they’re all listening. No one’s giggling, or passing messages around or anything.

  I look at my watch. Ten minutes till the end of the lesson. I’ll just wait out here, and he’ll be out soon.

  But as I turn to look down the corridor, I see another teacher coming up the stairs. What if she asks what I’m doing here? What if she makes me leave?

  Before she notices me, I do a quick assessment of the situation and turn the handle of B16’s door.

  Simon looks up, startled. Several of the students turn round and stare at me.

  “Just, um, carry on,” I say, trying to sound authoritative, and sit down at the desk closest to the door.

  Losing interest, the students turn back round and look at Simon expectantly.

  “Yes, right, well,” he says, obviously confused and put off
his stride.

  He meets my eyes and I nod and smile as encouragingly as I can.

  “So,” he continues, “it’s really a matter of confidence. Markets react not to information, but an interpretation of the information. Keynes argued that it was worth paying one man to dig a hole and another to fill it in, simply because the movement of money kept the economy going. Yes, Patrick?”

  A boy at the front has his hand in the air. He puts it down and pushes his chair back a bit. “So, it’s like, if you’re really confident, yeah, the chicks are all over you. Like, y’know, even if you ain’t got no dough or nothing.”

  Simon nods seriously. “Very good example,” he says, and Patrick tries to hide his pleasure.

  Suddenly I think of something, and put my hand up.

  Simon looks over at me uncertainly. “Yes?” he asks.

  “I was just wondering,” I say hesitantly, trying to work out what to say. “Are you saying that facts can be less important than appearances?”

  “That depends,” says Simon, still looking a bit shocked and uncomfortable. “Sometimes economic bubbles are created—where, like the dot-com bubble, things are really based on nothing but hot air. Generally speaking, chickens do come home to roost if there’s nothing solid supporting a boom.”

  He sounds so authoritative, so serious, I think proudly. He’s actually getting these kids interested in economics. If I’d had a teacher like him, I might have actually learned something about market forces. But right now I’m the one who’s got to get his interest.

  “Take the housing market,” I persist. “I mean, a house is worth what someone will pay for it, right?”

  “Right . . .” says Simon, looking at me curiously.

  “And the blurb written by estate agents—well, it’s not always strictly true, is it? You know, like when they describe a cupboard as a bijou pied-à-terre or something . . .” I hear a snigger from a couple of the kids. Simon, looking like he’s trying to keep a straight face, nods solemnly.

  “And your point?” he asks gently.

  “My point . . .” I say as authoritatively as I can. Come on, I tell myself. You can make your point . . . can’t you?