I make a beeline for Giovanni, whom I haven’t managed to say hello to properly yet, but I’m distracted by a voice I recognize but can’t place. It sounds like . . . but, no, it couldn’t be . . . could it?
“Seriously,” I hear someone say in a deep West Country voice. “I thought you’d be a model, not just a shop assistant.”
It is. It’s Pete. And he’s chatting up Lucy, who has a bemused expression on her face.
“Right,” she says uncertainly. “Well, anyway, better um . . . mingle . . .”
“What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously as Lucy gives me a little smile and nips off in the direction of Alistair, Michael, and Chloe.
“Nice to see you, too,” he says, looking a bit pissed off, then shrugs. “Wasn’t doing anything else and Chloe said she’d give me a lift if I wanted.”
I look round the room and catch Chloe’s eye. She looks at me, looks at Pete, and gives me a sheepish smile.
“Anyway, you dumped me on the phone,” Pete continues. “I thought only blokes did that sort of thing.”
“Sorry, Pete. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say seriously. “I just realized that my life was in London.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “Got a great sympathy shag out of Rebecca and another one out of her friend Sally as it goes, so it all worked out pretty well. But I see what you mean about London. I’ve never seen so many hot women in my life. Think I might move down here myself.”
I look at him uncertainly. “Really?”
“Don’t see why not. Can’t be too difficult if you managed it, eh?” At this, Pete’s face creases into a smile and he starts to laugh. I smile tightly.
“Cor, she’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?” he says after he’s finished guffawing. I follow his eye line to the door and then freeze. There, not quite inside the shop, is Laura. Laura the wicked witch of Notting Hill. She’s dressed in black, as always, with blood red lipstick and she looks more tired than usual.
Julie’s seen her, too, and is making her way toward her.
“Can we help you?” she asks pointedly.
“I wanted to see Natalie,” Laura says icily.
“Well, here I am,” I say quickly, moving forward. “Come to try and ruin the party, have you? Because you won’t succeed.”
Laura looks at me carefully. “I haven’t come to ruin your party, no. I came to tell you something.”
“Well, go on, then,” says Julie impatiently.
Laura shoots her a look, then turns back to me.
“The dress,” she says after a while, each word sounding painful for her to speak. “I went through the inventory, and it seems that the dress . . . it seems that I was . . . that you didn’t . . .”
“That I didn’t what?”
“That . . . the dress was yours, after all.”
My eyes narrow. Is Laura actually trying, however badly, to apologize, to admit that she was wrong?
“Yes, it was mine,” I say simply.
“Well, that’s all, really. I’m sorry, Natalie. Sorry that you and I . . . that things were so difficult.”
I pause. This is unexpected, and I’m not sure how to react. Laura is acting almost human, and it’s quite unsettling.
“I guess it’s water under the bridge now,” I say uncertainly.
“Ah, Giovanni,” Laura says with a tight-lipped smile as he appears at my side. “I thought you might be here. Well, good luck to you all.”
She turns to go, but I find myself wanting to call her back. Okay, so she’s been a complete bitch, but she did at least give me a job. And we did all walk out on her—Michael told us that for two weeks after we left, she was working on her own every single day. She’s only just managed to recruit more staff. Perhaps she’s been punished enough.
“Laura . . .” I say hesitantly, “you could stay for a drink. If you wanted.”
Julie looks at me strangely, then shrugs at Laura. “Why the hell not? We’ve drunk enough of your wine over the years.”
Laura hesitates; then her mouth moves into what I think might be a smile, but I’m not entirely sure. “Maybe just one,” she says softly, and then almost inaudibly, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say loudly with a smile, and point her toward the wine.
“That was very—uh—noble, yes? I think so,” says Giovanni happily. “Ees better to be on friendly term, you know?”
“I know,” I say. “Although I don’t want to get too friendly, thank you very much. So, are you having a good time?”
Giovanni grins. “The best time. I meet many nice peoples. And your mother. Oouf! What a lady!”
He rolls his eyes at me, and I laugh. “Don’t let Dad hear you,” I say with a grin. “But please feel free to flirt outrageously with her. She’ll absolutely love it.”
Giovanni winks and disappears. I look around the room—at Chloe, laughing with Michael; Lucy play-fighting with Alistair; Stanley and my dad talking earnestly about something or other; Simon talking to Jason, who has managed to take the night off from Canvas; Julie and Archie deep in conversation; my mother throwing back her head and laughing at something Giovanni has just said; and Pete moving in on Laura. “You ever seen The Graduate?” I hear him ask. “Only I always wondered what it would be like. You know, shagging an older woman . . .”
“Enjoying yourself?” Simon murmurs into my neck.
“Mmmmm,” I say with a smile. “You know, it’s a shame Cressida couldn’t come. I’d sort of like to thank her.”
“Why thank Cressida?” he asks curiously. “She’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
“Of course she has,” I say quickly. “Her letter led me to you, and if I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t have met Stanley, or your dad.”
“Then you should be thanking Leonora for writing the letter, not Cressida,” says Simon lightly, then looks serious. “Nat, you shouldn’t be thanking either of them, really. Whatever they did or didn’t do was incidental. You brought all these people together. You befriended Stanley, won over my dad, inspired Giovanni. And, of course, made me fall hopelessly in love with you.”
I give Simon a quick kiss. “I do love you,” I say softly. “Thank you for . . . well, just thank you.”
Julie comes over. “Is it time yet? Chloe’s going to be too drunk to walk in those heels if we don’t do it soon.” I glance over at Chloe, who is indeed looking a bit tipsy, and quickly agree. “Back in a sec,” I tell Simon, and signal to Alistair, who walks over to the stereo as Julie scoops up Chloe and Lucy. “Five minutes,” she hisses at me, and I give her a quick grin, then feel nerves begin to edge over me.
“If you do a Gwyneth and cry, you know I’ll never talk to you again, don’t you?” Alistair says amiably, and I manage a smile.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
Then Julie appears from behind the dressing-room curtain and nods.
I clink two glasses together, and gradually the hum of conversation turns into silence. I take a deep breath.
“Thank you for coming this evening, and welcome to Bess and Stanley, the new spot for fashionistas in Notting Hill,” I say in a strangled voice, then clear my throat loudly. Public speaking has never really been my forte.
“I’m not going to say much—just a few words of thanks,” I continue. “To Stanley, my friend and business partner, whose shop you’re standing in right now; to Archie for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in him; to Giovanni for letting us stock the most beautiful bags and shoes known to man; to Julie for showing me how it’s done and keeping the business on the straight and narrow; to my parents for giving me so much love and support—and, of course, for kicking me out of Bath and sending me back to London; and finally to Simon for . . . well, for being him.”
Alistair catches my eye and I wink. “But now I’d like you to make a little bit of room, and enjoy a quick performance from two other great friends—Lucy, part-student and part-superwoman, who’s done wonders with our merchandis
ing, and Chloe, my best friend, marketer extraordinaire, and . . . as you’re about to see, almost a supermodel . . .”
Alistair hits a button on the stereo, and as the White Stripes blares out of the speakers, Lucy and Chloe emerge from the dressing room wearing Stallioni heels, cropped jeans, bikini tops, and as many Stallioni bags as they could hang over themselves. They walk up and down the shop floor for several minutes, turning as Michael photographs them. They both look amazing, but Chloe is positively glowing—you’d think she was born to do this. And to think that she assumed I was joking when I suggested it to her, reminded her that it was the one ambition she’d yet to fulfill.
As they strut their stuff, I notice Richard standing next to my mum, and am sure I hear him say, “I should be on da fuckin’ catwalk. I’m a model, you know.” I smile as I see her do a double take, obviously as bemused by Richard’s claims as I was. Then I giggle as I see him begin to lift up his T-shirt.
As the “models” walk back toward the dressing room, Chloe signals to Alistair to stop the music and gives me a hug.
“I don’t think we can really go tonight without drinking a toast to Nat, can we?” she asks. I go horribly red as I see everyone looking at me, smiling (everyone except Richard, that is; he’s still looking in puzzlement at his stomach). They look so proud, so happy for me, I’m worried I’m going to “do a Gwyneth,” after all.
“To Nat,” continues Chloe. “For proving that dreams can come true.”
“And to Cressida,” I say quietly to myself. “For helping me with the paperwork.”
Praise for
WHEN IN ROME . . .
by Gemma Townley
“A refreshing, funny, pacy book, it made me want to rush off to Rome and be Audrey Hepburn. I loved it!”
—SOPHIE KINSELLA, author of Confessions of a Shopaholic
“Gemma Townley’s story is infectious, sweet, charming, and hysterical. She’s an author after my own heart.”
—SHERRIE KRANTZ, author of
The Autobiography of Vivian and Vivian Lives
“As sweet and frothy as a cappuccino, this engaging Roman Holiday–inspired romp reveals the importance of a ’victory haircut’ and the tranformative powers of shopping at Gucci!”
—MELISSA DE LA CRUZ, author of Cat’s Meow
and How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less
“Like tiramisu washed down with cappuccino—seductive, and deliciously bad for you.”
—REBECCA CAMPBELL, author of Slave to Fashion
“A delightful debut.”
—Shape
“A bubbly debut.”
—New York Daily News
© Millie Pilkington
GEMMA TOWNLEY launched her writing career at the age of sixteen with a book review in Harpers & Queen. At Reading University, unimpressed with the official university paper, Spark, she launched a satirical rival, Spank, which she edited for a year before taking over as deputy editor on Spark and features editor on South-East Student. While at Reading, Townley (a singer, cellist, and bassist) also found time to record two albums with her band, Blueboy, with which she toured the U.K., France, and Japan.
After graduating, she worked on and wrote financial articles for a number of magazines, including Home and Ideas, Pay Magazine, Expat Investor, and Company. At the same time, she wrote about music for style magazines including G-Spot and Second Generation. She later became editor of Financial Management magazine and now works in communications.
She lives in London with her husband, Mark.
Also by Gemma Townley
WHEN IN ROME . . .
Little White Lies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2005 by Gemma Townley
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Ballantine Books website address: www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-48206-8
v3.0
Little White Lies Page 27