Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Mr Lovell?’ The doorman hesitated. ‘Oh. Right. Er, if you wouldn’t mind just waiting here for a moment,’ he said, his tone suddenly changing. He disappeared up the imposing steps. She waited. Seconds later, she heard Julian’s voice coming down the stairs.

  ‘So sorry about all this,’ he said easily, shrugging his way into his jacket. ‘Antiquated rules, if you ask me.’ He glanced at Tash. ‘Nice jeans, too. Come on, there’s a perfectly nice bistro around the corner. Better coffee too,’ he added with a chuckle. He beat the doorman to the front door and held it open for her. He was so suave that any embarrassment she might have felt over her inappropriate attire simply melted away. ‘It’s just down here, on the left.’

  A waiter leapt to attention as soon as he saw Julian. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Lovell. Nice to see you, nice to see you. Usual table? Very good.’ He ushered them to a window table. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, Mr Lovell?’

  ‘Absolutely, Cedric. Food first, then let’s talk business and then wine . . . what do you say?’ he asked Tash.

  Tash nodded quickly. ‘Er, yes . . . that sounds great.’

  ‘I’ll have the salmon, Cedric. And a large bottle of sparkling water for the table. And keep a bottle of the Pouilly-Fuissé in the fridge, won’t you? The Guffens-Heynen, if you’ve got it. Had it last week,’ he leaned towards Tash confidentially. ‘Superb.’

  ‘Steak for me,’ she said firmly. Now was not the time to be coy. Other women might choose a salad; not her.

  ‘Very good, ma’am. And how would you like your steak done?’

  ‘Medium rare.’

  Julian raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘Right, let’s see what you’ve got.’

  Tash pulled a copy of her report out of her bag and laid it on the table. ‘It’s only the first draft. I’ve covered most of what I think are the basics but I’ve probably left out a fair bit. There’s a summary right at the end.’

  Julian fished his reading glasses out of his breast pocket. He read quickly, a frown of concentration on his face as his eyes slid from top to bottom. He said nothing, just occasionally reached for his glass of water and drank.

  This is my best friend’s husband, Tash thought to herself, watching him. He was terribly good-looking, his age only adding to his charm. His face was tanned and deeply lined, with spidery laughter lines that radiated from the corners of those extraordinarily cobalt eyes, made even more striking by his olive-toned complexion. This is Rebecca’s husband, she thought to herself again. She tried to imagine him and Rebecca together – she’d heard some of the details of how they’d met, but, she wondered, what were they really like together? What did they talk about? Her mind skittered on dangerously. What was he like when he was—?

  ‘It’s pretty comprehensive.’ Julian’s voice brought her abruptly back to her senses. ‘I’m impressed. One question. Times are tough, as you know. The dotcom bubble’s already burst and investors are wary. Something’s in the air, though we’re not quite sure what. D’you think there’s enough room in the pocket, so to speak, for luxury goods?’

  Tash sat up very straight. Whatever else, it was clear that Julian was taking her proposal seriously. She felt a rush of excitement. ‘I think so,’ she said eagerly. ‘One of the people I’ve been talking to for the past couple of months is Edith Berman. You probably wouldn’t know her – she owns Eden, the boutique. It’s small but she’s pretty influential in the fashion world. It’s just off Marylebone High Street. We’ve looked at sales over the past eighteen months and there’s a clear rise, month on consecutive month. It was actually in her shop that the idea came to me.’ She quickly outlined the conversation she’d overheard. ‘The real issue, insofar as I can see it, anyhow, isn’t whether women have enough disposable income to afford the clothes. Women will always spend money on clothes, almost irrespective of the general economy, especially these sorts of clothes and this type of women. No, the bigger question is whether they’ll go online to do it. Online shopping’s always been associated with bargain shopping – that’s the problem and the real challenge. How do I take it up a level? How do I make our online experience genuinely rewarding?’

  Julian leaned back in his chair. He brought his hands together in a stiff, peaked ‘V’. ‘Well, how do you?’

  ‘It’s all in the packaging,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘If you turn to page thirteen . . . there, that’s it. Beautiful packaging, not just of the goods themselves, but the whole thing. Website, boxes, customer service, speed of delivery . . . everything. Ideally, it shouldn’t take more than forty-eight hours between clicking on a dress online and having it delivered to your door. And in a beautiful box. It’s got to be luxurious or it won’t work.’

  Julian looked intently at the page she’d pointed out. ‘Nice,’ he said finally. He looked up. ‘Very nice. So . . . what are you looking at? How much?’

  ‘A million. Ideally a million and a half.’ Tash didn’t even blink.

  ‘And how much have you got?’

  ‘Three hundred thousand. Edith Berman’s my only investor. So far. But I’ve got a lot of in-kind help, especially around the website . . . there’s a guy I used to know at college—’

  ‘Couple of tips,’ Julian interrupted her, but gracefully, not rudely. ‘In-kind help’s all very well and good, particularly when you’re starting out, but I think you’re onto something here, Tash. Let me have a think about this before you go too much further cap-in-hand. Who else have you approached? Have you asked Rebecca?’

  Tash shook her head. ‘No. I . . . I don’t want to. I wasn’t sure about approaching you, to be honest . . . but when you mentioned it at the wedding . . . I thought, well . . . why not? You’re an investor . . . you probably have people pitching ideas to you every day. I just thought it would be good to hear what you think. And I don’t want you to think you have to be supportive just because of my friendship with Rebecca.’

  ‘I appreciate your reservations, but don’t think for a second that I’d compromise an investment just because you happen to know my wife,’ Julian chuckled. ‘Okay. Leave it with me. Where are we today? Wednesday? I’ll get back to you early next week.’

  Tash suppressed an enormous, heartfelt sigh of relief. She was sweating. ‘Thanks,’ she said, hoping her voice wasn’t shaky. ‘Really.’

  ‘Nothing to thank. The idea’s the easy bit. You’ll see.’

  59

  ANNICK

  Paris

  Annick looked up at Yves as if he’d spoken Greek. Either that or she’d totally misheard him.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Dinner. Would you like to have dinner with me?’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Yes. You’re not married or anything, are you?’ he asked, glancing quickly at her hand.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, would you like to have dinner with me?’ he repeated patiently.

  ‘Wh-when?’

  ‘Whenever. When do you have a free night?’

  ‘Well, I . . . I guess . . . I guess you could . . . we could . . . um, maybe on Saturday? I’m not working on Saturday.’ Annick said finally. Dinner? What on earth would she wear?

  ‘Saturday it is. Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes, where would you like to eat? What sort of food do you like?’

  Annick blinked slowly, the heat rising up through her face like a blast. ‘Um, anything,’ she mumbled after a few agonising seconds.

  ‘Anything? So, you’re handing me the responsibility of choosing not only the restaurant, but presumably the wine, the food, the decor. Will you at least take charge of the conversation?’

  She looked up at him in alarm, wondering if she’d offended him. But no, he was smiling. Her head was swimming. Wine. Food. Conversation. She felt the sudden onset of tears. She blinked furiously. ‘I . . . yes, I’ll do my best,’ she said, struggling to smile.

  If he noticed there was anything a
miss, he chose not to show it. Instead he tapped lightly on the counter-top as though to indicate a deal had been struck. ‘So . . . look forward to Saturday. I’ll pick you up . . . where do you live, by the way?’

  ‘Oh. Why . . . why don’t we just meet here?’ Annick said hastily, a fresh wave of panic sweeping over her. There was no way she could allow him to see where she lived. ‘I’ll be working during the day, anyway. It’ll just be easier to meet here.’

  Again his expression was kind. ‘Bon. Well, see you on Saturday, then.’ He gave her a mock salute and sauntered out the door. She watched him go, struck dumb. A complete stranger had asked her out on a date. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, she thought to herself dazedly. She knew Yves just about as well as she knew anyone else. Which was to say she didn’t know anyone. At least not well enough to even contemplate sitting opposite them at a table, a glass of wine in hand . . . she got up suddenly. Thinking about the upcoming evening was more than she could handle. She ran into the toilet before one or other of the chambermaids came upon her crying into her palms.

  The rest of the week passed in a blur of anxious anticipation. She’d stupidly left the choice of restaurant to him, which meant she didn’t have a clue where he was taking her, what sort of restaurant it would be, what sort of outfit would be suitable . . . not that it would have made the slightest bit of difference. She had nothing to wear anyway. Her wardrobe consisted of two pairs of black trousers, two long black skirts, one of which had been darned so many times it was a miracle there was any fabric left; two white shirts, a long grey cardigan and (an absolutely ridiculous purchase) a frilled summer smock with spaghetti straps which she wore under the cardigan, making her look at least six months pregnant. She’d worn it only once. How was she supposed to fashion something to wear on a date out of that?

  As Wednesday merged into Thursday, and then Friday, her anxiety grew. By Friday evening, she was in a fury of resentment.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Claudette, one of the chambermaids, stopped by the front desk.

  Annick opened her mouth to say her usual ‘nothing’, but instead burst into tears. She couldn’t help it. She’d been in such a state all day that the question caught her off-guard. Out it all came. Yves. The date. Her wardrobe (or lack thereof). Claudette leaned her ample hip on the wall, cupped her chin in her hand and simply listened.

  When she judged Annick had quite finished, Claudette looked at her calmly. ‘So . . . you need something to wear. Why didn’t you just ask?’

  ‘Ask who?’ Annick looked at her uncertainly.

  ‘Me, you idiot.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Come on, I’ll wait for you. Wasis’ll be here soon and then we can go.’

  ‘But I haven’t got any money,’ Annick began in alarm. ‘I can’t afford to go shopping and certainly not just for one date. I mean, he’ll probably never ask me out again and—’

  ‘Who’s talking about going shopping? I’ve got a whole wardrobe full of clothes I never wear,’ Claudette laughed. ‘You’re a bit bigger than me, okay, but we’ll find something. And some make-up, too. You’ve got such a pretty face, I never understand why you don’t make more of it . . . what’s the matter? Oh, non . . . don’t start crying again, ma petite. We’ll find you something, don’t you worry. That nice young man won’t recognise you tomorrow night, I promise. I’d better finish up the bathrooms. I’ll come and get you when I’m done. I only live up the hill – it’s not far . . . just below the Basilica. Here, dry your face before Wasis sees you. He’s such a nosy little bugger, isn’t he?’

  Annick took the weakly perfumed handkerchief Claudette proffered and dabbed at her eyes. Her week was rapidly turning into the most surreal one she’d spent in the last few years. A date, the promise of a new outfit, an invitation to someone’s house . . . she choked back a sob. Yeah, he is,’ she agreed. She wiped her eyes and handed it back. ‘Th . . . thanks,’ she said, at once shy and embarrassed.

  ‘Nothing to thank. See you later,’ Claudette said briskly. She picked up her bucket and mop and moved off, leaving Annick staring dazedly at her retreating back.

  60

  ‘Come in, come in . . . have a seat, Annick. Here, move . . . move, I said!’ A pimply, sullen-faced youth of about eighteen was lounging on a sofa whose shape had long ago taken on the imprint of various backsides the way a pair of favourite trousers holds an oft-ironed crease. He got up reluctantly. ‘This one’s my sister’s first-born, Raoul. Say hello, Raoul. This is my friend, Annick.’

  ‘Bonsoir.’ The teenager’s gaze slid past her to the television show he’d been watching.

  Annick sat down gingerly. Claudette disappeared into the bedroom. She looked around. The flat was small but absolutely packed with furniture, goods, decorations, knick-knacks, rugs, photographs . . . family life. There was the smell of fried onions and something else – cardamom, cloves? – that wafted through from the tiny kitchen where two girls were cooking. Claudette re-emerged through one of those beaded curtains that clung to her face and hair like a veil, suddenly freed of the uniform by which Annick had known her for the past year and metamorphosed into someone else. Hard as it was to fathom, it was the first time in three years that she’d been inside another’s home, aside from Aunt Libertine’s, of course. She was carrying a baby on her hip. ‘And this is my youngest,’ she said, smiling. ‘Araminta.’ Too young to say anything, the baby clung adoringly to her, a tiny, delicately etched hand gripping her mother’s as she surveyed Annick’s unfamiliar face and shape.

  ‘How many children do you have?’ Annick asked, wondering how many people lived in the flat.

  ‘Four, would you believe it? Mariam’s the eldest – she’s at her dad’s tonight. Then there’s Fatima and Rawia . . . they’re in the kitchen. And then this one. She came along late,’ she laughed, chucking Araminta under her fat little chin. ‘We weren’t expecting her at all.’

  They were clearly not all from the same father, Annick saw. She’d never given Claudette much thought beyond being the friendliest of the three chambermaids who cleaned the hotel. Her world had narrowed to its barest essentials – work, food, sleep – and not always in that order. It left little time or energy for thinking about anything else. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she felt moved to say.

  ‘Ridiculous at my age,’ Claudette said happily. ‘Just ridiculous.’

  Annick wondered how old Claudette was. As with so many dark-skinned women, she could have been anything from thirty to fifty. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she repeated, meaning it. The two teenage girls who’d been cooking came through; shy introductions were made. The table was laid in a matter of minutes. Raoul, their cousin, did not budge from his position on the sofa and the girls waved away Annick’s offer of help with a giggle. ‘No, no . . . it’s fine,’ Fatima said, laughing. ‘We do this every night.’

  ‘Come, Annick. You’ll sit here,’ Claudette pointed to the head of the table. ‘Girls . . . bring a bottle . . . yes, a bottle of red. You drink, don’t you?’ Claudette asked Annick, suddenly anxious. ‘We’re not very observant, I’m afraid. The girls’ father is, but not me. Life’s too hard,’ she grinned, holding up the bottle. She turned to everyone. ‘À table,’ and everyone immediately complied, even Raoul.

  The warmth that sitting at the table with Claudette and her family produced stayed with her all evening. It was overwhelming to sit at a table without being made to feel that she somehow had to earn the right to be there. Raoul, once he’d dragged his eyes away from the television screen and had had a glass of wine, turned out to be more interesting than she thought and her two daughters were a delight.

  The girls all crowded into Claudette’s room after the meal was over, helping their mother bring out a selection of dresses – no, too fussy; tops – too colourful; and scarves – yes, okay, a possibility – for her to look at. They arranged the clothes on the bed, arguing over which might suit her best.

  ‘Look, Maman. Annick’s got a tattoo!’ Fatima and Rawia
pounced upon her hand as though they might eat it. ‘A tattoo!’ Fatima breathed reverentially.

  ‘We want to get one but Maman said she’d kill us,’ Rawia giggled, looking triumphantly at her mother.

  ‘Qu’est-ce-que c’est que ça?’ Claudette peered at Annick’s hand. ‘I’ve always wondered what it was. You don’t seem like the type of girl . . . well, it seems a bit strange, that’s all. What is it?’

  Annick fingered it self-consciously. ‘It’s just . . . it’s just something I did . . . a long time ago. There were three of us . . . my best friends . . . just something silly we all did.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’ Rawia gazed at her.

  Annick shook her head. ‘No. Well, a little bit. Anyhow, it was all a long time ago.’ She turned her head and concentrated on the shirts spread out in front of them. Getting the actual tattoo wasn’t what hurt . . . losing Rebecca and Tash had been infinitely more painful. It still was. ‘What about this one?’ she asked, pointing to a pale-blue blouse, determined to change the topic.

  ‘Non, celui-là,’ Fatima shook her head firmly, pointing to an orange, green and cream flowered blouse. ‘It’ll go great with your hair.’

  Annick looked at it doubtfully. ‘Isn’t it a bit loud?’

  Claudette chuckled. ‘Louder the better,’ she declared. ‘I don’t know why you always wear black. So depressing. You should wear colour, chérie, lots of it!’

  Annick was silent. There was a time she’d have agreed with Claudette, but not now. She eyed the shirt nervously. Aside from the usual anxiety over whether or not it would fit, now a whole host of new anxieties were beginning to surface. How should she do her hair? And what would they talk about? And should she offer to pay?

  Claudette and her girls listened to her with looks of incredulity. Her teenage daughters appeared to be more clued up than Annick was about how to behave on a first date. ‘Just be yourself,’ Claudette advised finally. ‘Just be yourself.’