“My point is that sometimes you need to talk things up. You know, even tell white lies, just to get the people through the door. Then, if they hate the place, well, they won’t buy it, will they? But if they do . . . well, then it’s sort of a good thing you talked it up in the first place, because otherwise they’d never have gone to see it . . .”
“What’s that got to do with economics, sir?” a girl near the back asks Simon. Hmm. She’s onto something there. I shoot her a look.
“It’s not so much to do with economics . . .” I begin to say, but before I can finish, the bell goes and suddenly the room is filled with the sound of scraping chairs and the chatter of teenagers as they get up to leave. A couple of them look at me strangely as they pass me, but I stare back, defiantly, and they soon lose interest.
“Read chapter ten of your textbooks before next lesson,” Simon manages to call out to them before they disappear, leaving us alone.
“It wasn’t really anything to do with economics,” I say, slightly defensively.
“I rather gathered that,” Simon says.
“I just wanted to explain. I know I lied to you, and I really hate myself for it. But I only did it because I didn’t know what else to do. I mean, if I hadn’t lied, I’d never have met you. And I kept wanting to tell you, but something always seemed to get in the way. But I never lied about anything serious. Just . . . you know . . . my name . . .”
“So Dad tells me,” says Simon, obviously bemused. “He told me I should hear you out. I . . . er . . . hear you’re called Natalie . . . ?”
I nod sheepishly. “Natalie Raglan.”
“Nice name. Suits you.”
“Simon,” I say quickly. I need to get this out before anything else. “Are you . . . seeing anyone else. I mean, if you are, just tell me, and I’ll go . . .”
“I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says softly, then half grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean you should necessarily get any ideas. You have no idea what you put me through. You just disappeared. No one knew what to think. I didn’t know what to think . . .”
I hang my head. “Not one of my best decisions,” I admit. “But at the time I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you all hated me.”
“Hated you?” Simon says incredulously. “I’ve never hated you. But, Jesus, I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks!”
“I know.” I stand awkwardly for a moment. He looks so hurt, and it’s my fault. But all I can do is explain. Explain, and hope that he can somehow forgive me. And if he doesn’t, then at least I’ll have tried.
I take a deep breath. “Cressida used to live in my flat before me,” I explain. “And she got this really interesting-looking letter from Leonora, telling her about you. Except it wasn’t, really—apparently it was about your dad. But I didn’t know that . . . and I know I shouldn’t have opened her letter when it wasn’t addressed to me. But I did. And then I shouldn’t have called you . . .”
“But you did.” Simon finishes the sentence for me. “Dad kind of told me as much. Look, I don’t care if you’re called Cressida, or Natalie, or . . .”
“But that’s just it, you must care,” I interrupt. “I care. I hated you calling me Cressida. I thought I liked it—thought that being Cressida was better than being Natalie Raglan. It felt so exciting and stuff. But I’m not Cressida. And I don’t want you to love her. I want you to love me.”
Simon smiles tenderly at me.
“Okay,” he says softly. “So I won’t call you Cressida ever again. But why did you run away like that? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks so hurt. “I thought . . . I thought I heard you talking about me. I thought your parents didn’t think I was good enough for you.”
It sounds so stupid now.
“Not good enough? How on earth would you think that . . . they actually adored you . . .”
“I know. Simon, I was really stupid. And scared. And I took the easy way out. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you and . . . I was hoping you might forgive me.”
Simon looks down at his feet. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I thought . . . I thought you’d run out on me. And from past experience, that suggested to me that I wouldn’t see you again.”
Oh God. His mother. I suddenly realize how hurt Simon must have been. I left like she did. Without a word. I look into Simon’s eyes, and for the first time, I feel like I can really see him properly. As if seeing him hurt and confused has made me understand him. And made me realize that I don’t care if we live in Notting Hill, Wiltshire, or Outer Mongolia, so long as we’re together.
“Please take me back,” I whisper. “I was stupid and selfish and I should never have gone. I’ll never do anything like that again, I promise. And I’ll make it up to you . . . somehow . . .”
Simon grimaces, and puts his hands through his hair. We stand there silently for a minute, as I say silent prayers that things will work out, that he’ll forgive me.
“So, anything else you want to tell me while you’re at it?” he asks eventually. “I mean, if you used to be a man, I think I deserve to know, don’t you?”
I smile nervously. He still looks serious, but I think I can see a little glint in his eye. Just a little one. “Everything else is true,” I say hesitantly, not wanting the glint to go, and then pause.
“Everything except the Reiki healing bit,” I say after a few seconds. “I’m not actually a Reiki healer.”
Simon looks slightly stunned. “But Stanley Wickett . . . does he know you’re not qualified? Natalie, that’s incredibly unethical.”
I go red. Oh God, the glint’s gone. He’s back to looking confused and slightly hurt. It’s a combination that tugs at my heartstrings and makes me want to throw my arms around him and stroke his head. But I can’t. And if I carry on telling him all the things I’ve done wrong, I may never be able to again.
“He does . . .” I say cautiously. “The thing is, I didn’t ever actually do any Reiki on Stanley. We . . . well, if you must know, I introduced him to EastEnders instead.”
I look up at Simon to gauge his reaction. He looks utterly bemused.
“He comes round most nights now,” I continue with a shrug. “You know. And . . .” I take a deep breath. May as well get it all out now. “. . . he’s the one who convinced me that I should open a shop.”
“A shop,” Simon says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
I nod.
“My very own shop,” I say, a little bit of pride evident in my voice. “Your dad’s one of the backers, and we’re stocking the most beautiful bags you’ve ever seen . . .”
Simon raises his eyebrows at me and looks like he’s about to ask me a question, then thinks better of it.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says seriously.
“I thought you’d never want to see me again.”
“How can you think that?” asks Simon softly, walking closer to me. “You are the maddest, most infuriating and unpredictable woman I think I’ve ever met. But you make me feel alive.”
“But I lied to you about so much,” I say falteringly. “And I didn’t even know you wanted to be a teacher . . .”
“Well, it would seem we’re both pretty crap at communicating, then, because I thought you wanted to give it all up to become a Reiki healer.”
Simon is laughing now, and I inch forward until I’m almost touching him. I want to reach out and hold his hand, but I still feel a bit awkward. Like I don’t quite deserve it yet.
“Dad also told me that you found the whole investment-banker thing a turnoff,” he says sternly.
I blush slightly. “Just relatively speaking,” I explain. “Teaching, though . . . that’s kind of sexy.”
“You like the whole leather-arm-patches look, then?”
“Of course. They’re very Paul Smith,” I say seriously.
“I’ll be making a lot less money,” says Simon.
“But you’ll have more time for picnics in
the park,” I point out.
“So no more lies?”
“No more lies,” I promise.
Simon grins. “Tell me,” he says, the glint now firmly back in his eye. “Does Natalie Raglan kiss as well as Cressida Langton did?”
A flood of relief washes over me. We’re okay, I think happily. We’re going to be okay.
“Well, I’m not sure,” I say thoughtfully. “I suppose the proof of that would be in the—”
“Eating?” Simon butts in, and leans down to kiss me.
“Kissing, actually,” I whisper as his lips meet mine.
“Eeeeeuuuggghhhhh!” We look up quickly to see a gang of fourteen-year-olds coming through the door.
“Sir, that’s revolting!” a boy says loudly, and the others laugh raucously.
Simon deftly pulls away and peers at me as if he’s a doctor or something.
“I think that’s got it.”
“Sir, you were kissing that lady,” shrieks one of the children.
“No I wasn’t,” says Simon firmly. “She just had something in her eye, and I was checking that everything was okay. Now, kids, settle down quietly until your teacher gets here.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he whispers, winking at me.
“I thought we agreed no more lies and deception?” I say with a grin, poking him in the ribs as we head out of the classroom.
“I’ve obviously been spending too much time with you,” Simon says with a smile. “You must be a bad influence.”
“Not altogether bad . . .” I argue.
“You mean because you meant well?” Simon suggests.
“Exactly . . . I had the best of intentions all along,” I say, taking his hand as we reach the school gates, “. . . but sometimes it pays to give in to temptation . . .”
EPILOGUE
“You’re sure I look okay?” I ask Simon nervously, peering at myself in the mirror from every angle. I’m wearing my favorite dress—the Alberta Ferretti, the one he bought me. And even though I know it’s perfect, I can’t stop fretting.
“You look gorgeous.” Simon smiles reassuringly. “As does the shop. It’s going to be a great party.”
I walk over to the recently installed display unit against which Simon is leaning, and put my arms around his neck. “You really think so?”
“Just look around,” he says, grinning. “It looks amazing!”
I turn round and let my eyes wander around the shop, taking in the varnished floorboards, the immaculate rails full of gorgeous clothes, the till that gives an old-fashioned ring when it’s opened (disguising an expensive stock-management software package that Julie and Giovanni insisted on). Even the sign outside is perfect—old-fashioned tin in moss green with hot pink lettering. And as of tomorrow, the shop will be open for business.
“What time did your parents say they’d get here?” I ask anxiously.
“Eight o’clock. Same as everyone else. And, yes, there’s enough wine. And, no, we won’t run out of food.”
As he speaks Simon squeezes my hand, and I lean back against him. I don’t know what I’d have done without him in the last few months, listening to me as I talked for hours at a time about handbags, wall colors, and types of dressing-room curtains. I thought remodeling the shop would be the biggest job, but that was just the beginning. The sheer number of decisions Julie and I have had to make—from rail size to advertising to stock levels—has been terrifying. But now it’s all done. Now it’s ready to open. And in a few minutes, the opening party will begin.
“Look at you two—like starstruck lovers, you are!” I look up to see Julie walk through the door looking like Madonna in the “Justify My Love” and “Vogue” era. Lucy is right behind her, wearing a tightly fitting lemon-yellow dress and luminous green heels and looking unbelievably gorgeous.
“It just looks better each time I see it,” she says gleefully, wandering around the shop and helping herself to a glass of wine from the fifty or so glasses laid out on a table at the front.
“Want one?”
I nod. She brings over four glasses on a tray and sets it down in front of us. Julie picks one up and downs it in one.
“Never been so bloody nervous in my life,” she explains with a rueful smile. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me, honestly.”
“I like your thinking,” says Lucy, and necks her wine, too. My eyes meet Simon’s uncertainly, and he winks.
“I agree. A bit of Dutch courage is what’s called for here. So . . . down the hatch . . .”
His eyes twinkle as he gulps down his glass of wine; then he grins at me as Julie and Lucy close in. “Down in one, down in one,” they chant until eventually I concede and drink the entire glass in one go. Within a minute my cheeks are glowing and I feel slightly light-headed.
“Giovanni would be appalled,” I say with a smile. “It’s Italian wine, you know.”
“Appalled at what? What you doing with the wonderful Italian wine?”
We turn quickly to see Giovanni, who has just arrived with Archie and Tilly. Julie rushes over to him, and a few seconds later, Simon’s brother arrives with his wife, Sarah.
Within a few minutes, the shop is full of greetings, air kisses, and exclamations of “ooh” and “aah” as more and more people arrive and look around the shop.
I feel Simon squeeze my waist before he disappears into the throng, leaving me to meet and greet at the door.
“My God, this is fabulous!”
“More fucking fabulous than Joseph! Honestly, I’m jealous.”
Alistair and Michael have arrived, and they head straight for the wine, returning briefly to kiss me dramatically on the cheek. “Now, where’s Julie? I hear she’s gone dominatrix and I’m very excited,” Alistair says to no one in particular as he beadily surveys the room. I point him in the right direction and turn back just in time to see my parents arrive. Right behind them are Richard the would-be-model and Marie, Lucy’s film student friend.
“Mum! Dad! Over here!” I shout, waving my arms excitedly and ignoring Richard’s look of disdain. Dad looks nervous—he’s wearing a smart jacket and tie and is looking at Julie with alarm. I suppose he doesn’t get to see people wearing dog collars and fishnets all that often. Mum, on the other hand, looks amazing. She’s got her hair up in a chignon, and is wearing a beautiful black shift dress and a gold scarf tied loosely around her neck. She looks around the room excitedly, and I rush over to give her a hug.
“You look wonderful,” I tell her, and she smiles brightly.
“Well, you don’t come up to a shop opening in Notting Hill every day of the week, now, do you?” she says matter-of-factly, obviously trying to play down her excitement. “Now, is that Italian designer you were telling me about here yet? And I want you to introduce me to Simon’s parents, too. But first the designer. And where are the drinks? Is there just wine, or are we having cocktails . . . ?”
Dad gives me a little smile. “Don’t mind your mother,” he whispers. “She’s been looking forward to this party for weeks. I’m afraid she’s planning to fit the whole of London living into one night. She actually said she wants to go clubbing when the party’s over.”
“Seriously?” I ask incredulously, but Dad just shrugs.
“She’s so proud, you know,” he says softly. “We both are. We just couldn’t be happier for you. And this shop is . . . well, it’s . . .” He looks around, desperately trying to think of the right words—fashion is not something he really understands, and the weird and wonderful clothes on display are obviously a little much for him. “Great,” he eventually settles on. “Absolutely great.”
I grin and give him another hug. Mum has already wandered off and is talking animatedly to Alistair, who is cooing over her dress. Dad rolls his eyes and winks at me.
“Ah, here you are!”
I turn round to see Stanley standing next to me.
“Stanley! I was wondering where you were. Get yourself a drink quickly,” I say happily. “You haven’t
met my father, have you?”
Dad looks incredibly relieved to be introduced to someone who isn’t wearing a feather boa or leather, and shakes Stanley’s hand firmly.
“Great honor to meet you,” he says. “Natalie’s told us all about you. Wonderful thing you’re doing here, you know.”
Stanley’s eyes are shining. “Oh, I’ve barely done a thing,” he says, smiling proudly. “But you’re right, it is wonderful. I just wish my wife could be here to see it.”
“Me, too,” I say softly, and touch Stanley’s arm. He smiles at me, then shakes himself slightly and turns to Dad. “Better leave Natalie to it, don’t you think? So you live in Bath,” he says jovially, taking his arm and leading him toward the wine. “Lovely place, that . . .”
I scan the room for Simon and see him talking to Giovanni. Although “being talked to” would probably be nearer the mark. Giovanni is throwing his hands about, and Simon is nodding seriously. He catches my eyes and gives me a little smile as if to say, “I have no idea what this guy is talking about,” and I giggle slightly. I love the fact that Simon is clueless about fashion, is the antithesis of cool. And everyone else seems to love it, too. When he met Alistair for the first time, they got on brilliantly—I almost felt ashamed for thinking they’d have nothing to say to each other.
“Hi there, stranger!” I jump as Chloe hurls her arms round me and disturbs my reverie.
“Chloe! You’re here!” I give her a bear hug and take her hand excitedly. “What do you think? Tell me the truth, won’t you? Do you like it?”
Chloe looks around in wonderment. “Nat, this is just incredible. Your own shop. You’ve really done it. And of course I like it. God, it’s amazing!”
She takes my arm and walks around the small shop, squeezing past people to get a better view of the display.
“Oh, my God, those bags,” she breathes. “You’re right—they are just gorgeous.”
“Aren’t they just,” Michael says, joining us and giving Chloe a kiss. “And wait till you see the shoes. Alistair, look who’s here!”
“You’re still okay for later?” I ask quickly before she’s whisked off, and she nods. “Does the Pope wear a silly hat? Of course I am!” She gives me a quick elated smile as Michael leads her off to the shoe section.
Little White Lies Page 26