Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘But—’

  Rosie held up an imperious hand. ‘Enough.’ She looked at the enormous black Breitling she wore on her left wrist. ‘It’s one thirty. We’ve got until five to come up with an alternative cover. Find me an alternative or find yourself a new job.’ With that, she picked up her coat and bag and walked out of the room.

  ‘Hullo,’ the woman behind the glossy white Corian counter looked up as Tash walked in. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. Everything all right?’

  Tash gave her a wan smile and shrugged. ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ she said with an exaggerated sigh.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, actually, I don’t. I don’t understand how you stand it, to be honest. You’re absolutely wasted there, Miss Bryce-Brudenell, absolutely wasted. Now, have you seen these?’ She pointed to a rack of clothes hanging to one side, still in their stiff plastic covers. ‘Diane von Furstenberg. Wrap-dresses. Divine. No one else has ’em yet. I ordered them when I was in New York last month – they’ve just arrived.’

  Tash’s mood suddenly lifted. The woman she was speaking to was Edith Berman, a small, rather severe-looking woman in her late fifties who looked more like the headmistress of one of those impeccably mannered girls’ schools somewhere in the New Forest than the owner of Eden’s, a small boutique just off the Marylebone High Street. Just as Edith couldn’t understand Tash’s career choice, there was much about Edith that Tash didn’t quite get. Formidably intelligent with a line in conversation that went from particle physics to the joys of organic silver, dressed mostly in Jil Sander with the most astonishing collection of jewellery Tash had ever seen, and grandmother to two adorable young boys, she’d run Eden’s with her late husband since the early seventies. There was no one quite like her. Despite Eden’s formidable success, they’d never opened another store; there was only one Eden’s, and it had always been in the same location on Moxon Street. She had very little time for the fashion ‘rat pack’, as she called them – the editors, stylists and their (thousands of) assistants who dictated what was ‘in’ and what wasn’t. Edith wasn’t interested in trends. She shopped with two things in mind: quality and originality and the women who came into Eden’s once, came back again. Again and again and again.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ Tash said, picking up one of the dresses and peering at the print through the plastic.

  ‘Take it out. Feel it. It’s silk. Silk jersey. Lovely against one’s skin.’

  Tash smiled to herself. Edith sometimes spoke like royalty. One’s skin. Only Edith could say something like that. She carefully unsheathed the dress and held it against her, turning to look at herself in the mirror. A typically striking, stylish DvF print – large white tropical flowers against a mustard background. It was stunning, though not on her. ‘Lovely,’ she agreed. ‘She’s got such an eye.’

  ‘I’ve got such an eye, you mean,’ Edith smiled. ‘Though I do miss Seth. Now there was a man with an eye for colour – unbelievable what he’d find.’

  ‘Did you always work together?’ Tash asked curiously.

  Edith nodded. ‘Right from the start. We opened up in 1972, can you believe it? Over thirty years we ran the shop together. Thirty-two years. Married for forty.’

  Tash didn’t know what to say. She realised she knew very little about Edith’s private life. ‘Where’s that from?’ she asked, pointing to the exquisite cuff bracelet that Edith was wearing.

  ‘This? Oh, she’s one of my favourites. Kimberly McDonald. I just love the way she mixes things up. That’s agate and gold, and those are geodes,’ she said, pointing to the blue, purple and amber-hued stones, cut flat and polished to a high sheen. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where’s she based?’

  ‘South Carolina, of all places.’

  ‘How d’you ever find all these interesting designers?’ Tash asked.

  Edith gave a small laugh. ‘Internet. Simple. It was Seth’s idea, really. He used to spend hours looking at sites, tracking down young designers. They’re all online these days.’

  Tash nodded absently. She used the internet mostly for research – layouts, places, photographers and the like. The idea of Seth Berman, who must have been in his, sitting in their little office at the back of the shop, browsing, tickled her. ‘But isn’t it a nuisance?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, if you see something in—’

  ‘Edith? Oh, thank God you’re here!’ A woman’s voice cut her short. ‘It’s a complete disaster!’

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Edith said to Tash. ‘Let me just see to this. Clare’s a very dear customer.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll just browse; don’t mind me. I won’t be buying anything,’ Tash said with a grin. She moved off, leaving Edith to sort out whatever disaster was looming.

  ‘It’s just so frustrating,’ the woman named Clare wailed. She was holding out a dark grape dress that Tash recognised as Michael Kors. ‘I love it but the colours are all wrong. I want the orange one. I saw it in Milan last week and I should’ve bought it there are then. I told Declan but he thought the green suited me better. It doesn’t. It’s a disaster.’

  ‘Well, we can place an order for the orange one. I know just the one you mean – it’s actually burnt amber, not orange – but you’re right, it’ll go so much better with your colouring. What on earth was Declan thinking?’ Edith said with a placatory smile.

  ‘Yes, but can you get it here by Saturday?’

  ‘Clare, it’s Thursday today,’ Edith reminded her gently.

  ‘I know, but it’s Nadine’s fortieth on Saturday night – you know, Nadine Hernandez – Pépé’s wife? Well, his third wife, at any rate. Anyhow, it’s her fortieth on Saturday and we’re going to Fulton’s and I so desperately wanted to wear it.’ Clare looked almost suicidal, Tash noticed, sneaking a quick look over her shoulder. Edith was doing her best to placate the woman, pulling out one alternative after another. But there was no placating a woman who’d set her heart on a particular outfit for a particular event. ‘It’s got to be Michael Kors, Edith, it’s just got to be. He’s perfect for that sort of occasion. Oh, God . . . what’m I going to do?’ she wailed. Clare Whatever-Her-Name-Was was clearly not just a valued customer, she was savvy too. She was absolutely right. The dress, a simple belted crepe-wool dress with small cap sleeves, fell to just below the knee. With the right belt and shoes – and Tash could already see in her mind’s eye the dark brown lizard-skin Pierre Hardy shoes she’d spotted in the window as soon as she walked in, and the brown-and-cream Miu-Miu lizard-skin bag – the outfit would be stunning, yet understated. Perfect for a third wife’s fortieth birthday dinner at Fulton’s.

  ‘Tash?’ Edith called out as she pulled yet another outfit off the rack. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’

  But Tash was already halfway out the door. Something had just occurred to her.

  50

  REBECCA

  Tel Aviv

  Julian Lovell. She still wasn’t quite sure how to think of him. It had been just over a fortnight since she’d first met him. She had no idea what he expected from her. If he was courting her, he was doing it with infinite patience. He hadn’t so much as kissed her, other than the perfunctory touch on either cheek when he picked her up or dropped her off, and yet he’d come round practically every day. She’d never experienced anything quite like it. All her previous boyfriends seemed to view getting to know her as a by-product of the relationship, certainly not its main point. But Julian wanted to know her. He wanted her opinion of things. What did she think of Tel Aviv? Jerusalem? Was she enjoying herself? What sort of music did she like? Did she like the taste of this or that? And wine? There was a warmth to him that she’d rarely encountered in anyone, least of all a man, yet he confused her at times. For all his generosity and openness, she saw that there was also part of him that was shut off to her. In spite of his gentle, insistent questioning of her, he somehow managed to say very little about his own past. He’d never been married; that much
she knew. Once, over dinner and a glass of wine too many, he mentioned a woman’s name, Ruth, but then stopped, as if he’d already said too much. She’d looked at his face uncertainly, unsure whether to ask anything further, but it was already closed. And then, as usual, he’d neatly turned the conversation round to her.

  The land stretched before them, an endless, gently undulating line of trees with feathery, silver tops that thinned out where the hills began. ‘Where are we?’ she asked as he swung the big car carefully off the road. It was a late Saturday afternoon; there was almost no traffic about. The car rode gently down a soft sandy track towards a line of trees whose branches met overhead, throwing down a shadowy, dappled light.

  ‘Near Hadera. I thought I’d show you where I worked when I first came here.’

  ‘The kibbutz?’

  He nodded. ‘Ein Shemer. It’s about half a mile down that track.’ He pointed ahead of them, and then opened his door before coming round to open hers. He helped her out. It was colder here than in the city and she pulled her coat tightly around her. The sky was clear, a lovely, watery blue-turning-to-pink colour, as dusk began to fall. She stood close to him, aware of his presence next to her as she surveyed the landscape. ‘They grow everything here,’ he murmured, pointing to the fields that lay just within sight. ‘Apples, oranges, watermelons . . . you name it. Avocados, tomatoes . . . I don’t think there’s anything they haven’t tried – and succeeded too. It’s one of the richest kibbutzim in the country.’

  ‘You know so much about this place,’ Rebecca murmured, impressed. ‘I feel like such an ignoramus around you sometimes.’

  ‘You? An ignoramus?’ He laughed.

  ‘It’s true,’ Rebecca said earnestly. ‘I hardly know it, or anything about it. I suppose I just never thought it had anything to do with me, you know?’

  ‘Of course it does. You’re Jewish.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that it always seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . so far away, somehow. And always full of problems.’

  There was a very faint muscle that moved in the side of his jaw, she’d noticed, when he was animated. It moved now, as though he were clenching his teeth. Some deeper emotion came from him, bouncing off the surface of his skin so that she felt it skim lightly across her own, like a faint, tingling shiver. She waited for him to say something more but he was quiet. Had she offended him? He inspired a strange mixture of longing and trepidation in her. His approval of her, when it came, contained such warmth and interest that she felt herself basking in it, like sunlight. His smiles were slow and not easily won, so when he did smile at her, turning his face to look at her properly, fully, she could feel her heart and stomach turning over, as if she’d been given something both precious and rare. She shivered suddenly.

  ‘Cold?’ he murmured.

  She shook her head. It was exactly the same tone of voice her father used, a mixture of solicitous kindness and tolerant amusement. To her alarm, she suddenly felt a prick of tears behind her eyes. Her father was old and there were moments when the strains of running the family empire showed clearly upon his lined face. They would have liked more children, a son especially. Her mother never spoke about it but from some forgotten source, Rebecca knew there’d been many attempts, many miscarriages, before she finally came along. And after her, there would be no more. She’d overheard them once, years ago, arguing in a way they seldom did, in her father’s book-lined study downstairs. ‘Leave them to Rebecca? What for?’ she’d heard her father ask angrily. ‘She’ll never read them.’

  ‘You never know,’ her mother replied soothingly. ‘One day, perhaps? And even if she doesn’t, perhaps . . . perhaps her husband will?’

  She’d paused on the stairwell, a ripple of fear running lightly up her spine. Her husband? She didn’t even have a boyfriend! She’d wanted to linger but one or other of the maids in the house came clattering through into the hallway and the quiet spell was broken.

  She shook her head. ‘No, not cold. Just . . .’ She stopped suddenly, unsure how to continue or put into words what she was feeling.

  ‘Just . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I was just thinking . . . how nice it’s been. Hanging out with you,’ she added quickly. ‘Going to different places. You’ve been really kind.’

  ‘Is that why you think I’m doing this?’ Julian asked quietly. ‘To be kind?’

  Rebecca hesitated. There was a tone in his voice she hadn’t heard before. ‘I . . . well, I just assumed . . . I mean, I don’t know, you’ve been really, well, kind. Yes, kind.’ She didn’t know how else to put it. What was he asking? She stole a quick sideways look at him. He was concentrating on the landscape but the faint movement at his jawline indicated he was thinking of something else.

  ‘What do you think of me?’

  ‘You?’ She was taken aback. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘What I said. What do you think of me?’

  ‘I . . . I think you’re . . . well, you’re . . . you’ve been great. To me, I mean. I really enjoy—’ She stopped, blushing furiously. What the hell was he asking?

  ‘Go on,’ he said gently.

  She shook her head. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Come on, Rebecca. It’s not bloody rocket science. What do you think of me?’

  Rebecca couldn’t help herself. She giggled. Julian didn’t seem the type to swear. ‘Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s not that . . . it’s just you. Swearing. It doesn’t seem like you, somehow.’

  ‘Too old?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . you’re much too dignified. I’ve never heard my father swear, ever. Not even in German.’

  ‘Is that how you think of me?’

  The question caught her off-guard. ‘H . . . how d’you mean?’

  ‘Like your father?’

  ‘God, no! I just meant . . . oh, you know what I meant.’

  He was looking at her intently, as though waiting for something further. A strand of her hair blew across her face. With a steady hand, he reached out and tucked it carefully behind her ear. It was the first time he’d touched her, properly, and it burned right through her skin. Her face felt as though it were on fire. She put up a hand to her cheek but before she reached it, he’d caught hold of it. They stood there, at the side of the road, the cold evening air blowing around them, not speaking. A lone car drove past; she listened to the hollow roar of its tyres on the tarmac dying away. His thumb moved across her hand in a gentle rhythmic movement that somehow managed to be both soothing and erotic at the same time.

  ‘Rebecca,’ he murmured quietly, pulling her towards him. She pressed her face against his shirt, her hands reaching around his back underneath the warmth of his jacket. She breathed in deeply, taking the scent of him down into her lungs. Again he brought her father to mind – his beautifully laundered shirts, jackets brushed at the shoulders, crisply starched trousers, cigars and after-dinner drinks, the unmistakable scent of polished leather, the scent of her father’s study . . . all those things that she associated with maleness, with class and good taste, wealth . . . Julian had it, in spades. ‘Rebecca,’ he murmured again against her hair. ‘I know this may seem a little . . . well, sudden, but—’

  ‘Sudden?’ Rebecca couldn’t help herself. ‘You call this sudden? You haven’t even kissed me yet!’

  He laughed. She could feel the reverberations against her cheek. ‘Okay, perhaps “sudden” isn’t quite the right word. But, the thing is . . .’ He stopped again.

  Rebecca pulled back just a fraction to look up at him. His expression was one she’d never seen before. He was frowning intently but his face was at once remote and mysterious, out of her reach. She felt a tremendous surge of feeling somewhere inside her that was both connected to him – and to that grave, childishly serious expression – but also to the day itself. It was all jumbled up inside her, mixed up with her longing to be part of her own family’s history and yet somehow se
t herself apart from them. She saw very clearly, and not for the first time since she’d arrived in Israel, just how adrift she was, going along with whatever was put in front of her. Julian seemed to be offering her something and although she had no clear idea of what it was – yet – it would be a serious offer, not something frivolous or light. He was a serious man. Whatever came next, whatever he was about to say, she knew her life was about to change. ‘What?’ she whispered, pushing her face back into his warm, solid chest.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know any other way to say this. I’m . . . I’m in love. Yes, I’m in love with you. I haven’t felt this way about anyone since . . . well, in a long time. A very long time.’ He seemed to be struggling with the words. His grip on her tightened momentarily. ‘Ever since . . . since it happened . . . I didn’t think I’d ever be able to—’ He stopped. ‘Look, this isn’t the right place to talk. Not here, not by the side of the road. Can we go somewhere?’

  Rebecca nodded. Her whole body felt as though it were on fire. A hundred and one questions were tumbling around in her brain but there was some part of her that just didn’t want to let go. She’d never felt as safe with anyone in her life. ‘Wherever you want,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come on. You’ve never been to my place. There’s something I want to show you.’ He held her by the upper arms and pushed her slowly away from him, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he bent his head and kissed her, gently, but with great passion. She felt her world turn upside down, and then right itself slowly. She would have followed him anywhere.

  His apartment was on a beautiful tree-lined street just off Sheinkin Street, in the centre of the city. It was dark by the time he pulled over and switched off the engine. ‘I’m up there,’ he said, pointing up through the silhouetted trees to a white, balconied building. ‘Fifth floor. It’s a Bauhaus building. One of the first.’