Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  Annick looked at her blankly. She’d forgotten how.

  61

  TASH

  London

  Tash put down the phone and stared at her hands. They were trembling. Her heart was pounding. She ought to lie down. For a bit. Just to let it all sink in. She got up and walked over to her sofa. She sat down. Her hands were still shaking. She locked her fingers together and shoved them between her knees. Two million pounds. Two million pounds! That was how much Julian and his colleagues were willing to invest. ‘We’ve looked at it from a number of angles,’ he said. ‘Charles thinks you’re mad. It’s only been a few years since the bubble burst on the dotcoms and online businesses haven’t picked up as quickly as everyone hoped. If you’d come to me five years ago I could’ve raised triple that . . . but, still, two million’s a start.’

  A start? It was almost twice as much as she’d dared hope. She stared at the phone. Whom should she call first? Rebecca, of course. She pressed her fingers together even more tightly. Her mother. What would she tell Lyudmila? How would she tell her? I’ve just been given two million pounds. Well, it wasn’t quite true. She’d been given two million pounds of someone else’s money in the hope that she would make it back. And more, of course. She unlaced her fingers and ran a hand through her hair, pulling it back ever more tightly. She rubbed her eyes. Then she got up, walked to the refrigerator and quickly poured herself a glass of cold white wine. She looked around uncertainly. ‘Well,’ she said out loud after a moment. ‘Here’s to you, Tash Bryce-Brudenell.’ She raised her glass to herself. ‘Here’s to your idea.’ She laughed self-consciously and brought the glass to her lips. She’d just been given two million pounds. She raised the glass again and polished it off. She looked at her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. It was time to get down to business. Her own.

  There were four of them around the beautifully laid table at the Orrery. Herself, Edith, James and Colin, one of James’s closest friends from university and an authority on all things internet. All three were staring at Tash.

  ‘Just like that?’ James’s eyes widened to the point of bursting. ‘He gave you two million quid . . . just like that?’

  ‘Why not?’ Edith asked mildly. She was nearly sixty; she’d been in the business long enough to have seen investments of this scale, including her own. ‘It’s a good idea. A bloody good idea.’

  Tash smiled. It wasn’t like Edith to swear. She raised her glass. ‘Well, it wasn’t quite “just like that”, but yes, we’ve got two million quid of other people’s money to play with, starting now. So, here’s to F@shion.com. We’ve got four months to get it up and running.’

  ‘You say “we”,’ James said cautiously. ‘What exactly d’you have in mind? Where do we come in?’

  Tash nodded slowly. ‘Okay. So here it is. Here’s what I’m thinking.’

  It took her thirty minutes to outline her vision for the new company. Fifteen positions, ranging from admin to sales, fifteen people working out of her tiny Bloomsbury flat and four directorships, offered to each person at the table. Of the four, only Edith had anything other than ambition and passion to contribute – she’d offered three hundred thousand pounds of her own money to get F@shion.com off the ground.

  ‘I know you’ll never leave Eden,’ Tash said, looking directly at her when she’d finished. ‘But if you’d consider coming on board not just as an investor, but as a director, I’d . . . well, I’d sleep easier at night,’ Tash said, laughing nervously. ‘I’ll be completely honest. I need your fashion savvy, not just your contacts list. You know better than almost anyone what sells, what’s hot, what’s not. I could do it without you; I’d just rather not have to.’

  It took Edith a few minutes to answer. There was a faint but discernible tremor of emotion in her voice as she spoke. ‘I’m sixty-one years old,’ she said, looking around the table at the three young people sitting there. ‘I’ve been in the fashion business for nearly forty years and I’ve enjoyed every moment. But it hasn’t been the same since Seth died. Oh, the shop’s still going . . . we’ve got such a loyal group of customers. But it’s not the same. I don’t have the appetite for it anymore. Our two sons aren’t interested . . . it was never their thing. If we’d had a daughter, maybe . . . who knows?’ She stopped and took a small sip of her wine and looked directly at Tash. ‘I’m in. Properly in, I mean. You need an editor-in-chief, it seems to me. And you need somewhere a little bit nicer to work. Working in your flat’s all very well if you’re trying to save money, which we should do, no question. But there’s a perfectly good shop on Moxon Street going . . . why don’t we work from there?’

  Tash’s mouth dropped open. Aside from the stunning news that Edith had fully bought into the new venture, what was she saying? That she was about to close Eden’s down? ‘But . . . you can’t,’ she spluttered eventually. ‘You can’t close Eden’s.’

  ‘Says who?’ There was a sparkle in Edith’s eye that was entirely infectious. Everyone around the table was smiling, even the rather reserved Colin. ‘It’s my shop. I can do what I like.’

  ‘I think it’s a bloody marvellous idea,’ James said slowly. ‘I’ve always rather liked that end of town.’

  ‘Good sandwich shops.’

  ‘Lots of boutiques.’

  ‘Easy to find.’

  ‘Good address.’

  ‘Close to the tube.’

  ‘Lots of taxis.’

  ‘Okay, okay . . . I get the point,’ Tash said, laughing. ‘Edith . . . are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  By the end of the meal, it was all decided. Tash would be CEO of F@shion.com. Edith was editor-in-chief. James would be the director of e-commerce and IT and Colin would be operations director. In addition to their small salaries, each would receive a fifteen per cent share. Julian had recommended a lawyer; the next job would be to draw up the formal legal documents that bound them to their vision and to one another. The premises had been found; fifteen positions had been created . . . they had four months to pull it off.

  She had four months to pull it off, Tash thought to herself as she waited for the bill to arrive. It felt good – no, it felt marvellous – to have such a talented, passionate team behind her. She trusted Edith and James implicitly and Colin, despite the fact that she hardly knew him, seemed the perfect antidote to the flamboyance and gregariousness of the other three. But in the end, it was down to her. She would be the one to hold it all together; it was her baby. Hers. She signed the credit-card slip with a flourish, savouring the rush of pride that swept over her as the waiter deferentially handed her card back. At just under three hundred pounds, it was more than she gave Lyudmila in a month. If she played her cards right and worked all the hours God sent, she would, one day, be able to give her mother far more than three hundred pounds a month. She wanted to be able to give Lyudmila everything she’d ever wanted and so spectacularly failed to earn for herself.

  62

  REBECCA

  At about the same time that Tash was walking back to Marchmont Street along the now-deserted streets of Soho, Rebecca was lying next to Julian listening to how he’d given her best friend two million pounds. Rebecca was shocked. Not by the amount but by the fact that neither Julian nor Tash had said anything to her about it.

  ‘When did she come to you?’ she asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I told you, darling. About a month ago.’

  ‘And you didn’t say a word to me?’

  ‘It’s business. That’s the way it’s done. It would’ve been premature to talk about it until I’d put the whole deal together.’

  ‘But she’s my best friend! I can’t believe the two of you didn’t talk to me about it!’

  ‘Why should we?’ Julian sounded genuinely baffled by Rebecca’s anger. ‘It’s business, Rebecca, that’s all. It’s not like I was seeing her for any other reason. God, no,’ he gave a short laugh.

  ‘Why d’you say it like that?’ Rebecca pounced on him.

 
‘Like what?’

  ‘The way you said it just now. “God, no.” As if the very idea—’

  ‘Rebecca, you’re being unreasonable. It was a business deal; that’s all there is to it. And yes, the very idea of there being anything more is absolutely ridiculous. Aside from the way she looks, she’s your best friend, as you keep pointing out.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her looks?’

  Julian sat up. It was dark; Rebecca couldn’t see his expression properly, which was probably just as well. His voice, when it came out of the darkness, wasn’t a voice she’d heard him use before. ‘I’ve had enough. Deal with whatever ridiculous insecurities you have, Rebecca. I’m sleeping next door. I’ve got a six a.m. flight. I can’t be bothered with this.’ And with that, he slid out of bed, picked up his dressing gown from the back of the door and banged it shut behind him.

  Rebecca lay where she was, too shocked to move. What had she done wrong? She’d only been asking a question! She could hear him pulling out the sofa bed in the study. Should she go after him and apologise? He’d got it all wrong. She hadn’t meant to insinuate that there was anything between him and Tash that wasn’t strictly business – it was just that she felt left out of the loop. A very important loop, too. Suddenly she heard his voice; he was on the phone. She struggled upright. It was just after midnight. A cold, unreasonable wave of fear swept over her. Who was he talking to at this time? She strained to hear – was he talking to Tash? No, don’t be silly, she admonished herself severely. Why would he be talking to Tash at midnight? It was probably just another business call – Julian seemed to do most of his business with people on the other side of the world – Shanghai, Bangkok, Tokyo. His phone was always at his side, always going off at odd hours. It was only natural that he’d be talking to someone at midnight. It was in the middle of the working day in Tokyo.

  She lay back, her heart beating faster than usual. She felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. She was envious, she realised with a growing sense of shame. Jealous, even. She was jealous of the way Julian talked about Tash. What was the expression he’d used? “She’s got balls, your friend. Cool as a cucumber. She’ll make it, mark my words.” Who would ever say that about her?

  She slid out of bed and almost ran to the study. Julian had just hung up the phone. He looked up at her, puzzled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out before he could speak. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She found, to her amazement, that her cheeks were wet. ‘I d-don’t know what came over me,’ she stammered.

  ‘Hey . . . it’s nothing,’ Julian got up and came towards her. ‘It’s nothing. Not worth crying over, at any rate. Rebecca . . . it’s nothing.’

  She was crying openly now, unable to stop herself. What was the fear that had broken out all over her like a light sweat? That Julian would find her disagreeable? She turned her face into his chest, felt his arms tighten across her back. She breathed in deeply, desperately seeking some reassurance in his broad, still oddly unfamiliar body that she hadn’t ‘blown’ it – a phrase and sentiment from her schoolgirl days. ‘Julian?’ she whispered. ‘Are you angry with me?’

  He shook his head vigorously. His chest heaved, as though he were laughing. ‘Angry? Whatever for?’

  ‘Because of just now . . . what I said. About Tash and the deal and everything,’ she hiccuped, like a child.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Rebecca. I was irritated, that’s all. Come here,’ his fingers went under her chin, drawing her face firmly up to meet his. ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s just a little disagreement, that’s all. It happens.’ He kissed her, slowly, deeply, his tongue thick and urgent and forgiving.

  Her relief was so great it was almost orgasmic. She felt herself opening up, quite literally, all through her body. His hands were in her hair, pulling her even closer to him. There was a sudden urgency in him that she hadn’t felt before, a need that he’d never shown her. His next moves happened so fast she didn’t have time to think. One minute her head was in his hands, the next he’d pushed it down to his waist. It was so out of character – in all the time they’d been together he’d never once indicated that he’d even so much as heard of oral sex, never mind expect her to perform it. But he was certainly expecting it now. He thrust himself into her mouth impatiently, his hands still gripping her hair. His mood reminded her of Jeremy Garrick and his odd, frequently unpleasant sexual demands. What surprised her was her willingness to perform. At some obscure, deeply subconscious level, she was desperately trying to atone for something she wasn’t even sure she’d done.

  Her face in the mirror. There was a faint bruise already beginning to show up underneath her skin. Her mouth was swollen and her lips felt numb. Nothing had been said. When she’d finished and brought her face back up to his, he’d pushed her away from him suddenly. ‘Julian?’ she’d whispered. ‘Julian?’ But he seemed very far off from her. He’d belted his dressing gown and walked into the bathroom, then beckoned her back to bed. She’d followed obediently, leaving the un-slept-in sofa bed in the study for the maid to clear away the following morning.

  She brought her fingers up to her lips again. There was nothing wrong. She looked down at her wristwatch, a beautiful Ballon Bleu de Cartier. He’d given it to her just after their wedding. Its cold, steel-silver face glinted in the semi-darkness. It was almost four o’clock. She’d lain awake for hours after he’d fallen asleep, unable to sleep herself. She cast her mind back again over the events of the evening. Dinner, a good bottle of wine, the conversation about Tash and the small argument that followed . . . so far so good. She had a handle on that. But the way he’d left the room had left her in a state of panic so great she’d almost been unable to breathe. And then the sex . . . it was strange, urgent, and horribly crude. So out of character. But her willingness to perform, to do whatever he wanted, shocked her even more. In that instant where he’d grabbed her hair and she’d felt herself melting into submission, she was ashamed to admit that it excited her. She wanted more. That was it, she realised suddenly, a flush that was both shameful and exciting rising up through her belly and breasts. She’d wanted his roughness. Julian was quick to pick up on it. When he’d held her face in both hands, pushing her away from him, she’d seen from his eyes that he’d caught her moment of weakness. It was that she was afraid of, she realised slowly. She’d allowed him a glimpse into herself and into something she wasn’t yet sure of. She let her fingers fall. Some fearful aspect of herself was out there, between them, waiting to be filled.

  63

  ANNICK

  Paris

  ‘Try this.’ Yves reached across the table and motioned to her to open her mouth. Annick glanced quickly to her left and right – what if someone was watching? – closed her eyes and did as he asked. Her mouth was flooded with the taste and scent of something that was simultaneously delicious and strange at the same time. She chewed slowly . . . what was it? Duck? Chicken? Fish? ‘How’s that?’ he grinned at her, waiting for her reaction.

  ‘Um . . . it’s . . . it’s lovely,’ she said, swallowing quickly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Quail. With caviar. Good, eh?’

  She nodded. ‘Good’ was an understatement. She took another quick look around her. Chez Vong was the sort of small, known-to-a-few-important-people restaurant that her father had loved. It was in the Les Halles district of the city, close to the river. She hadn’t been down here in years, she thought to herself, half-guiltily. She’d often strolled with Anouschka down the rue Saint-Honoré or the rue du Pont Neuf, stopping off at the shops and boutiques, sometimes even stopping off for un café and petits-fours before Anouschka had to return home for a fitting or a visitor, frequently both. A memory of sitting in the Café du Pont Neuf with her mother suddenly came back to her. It was spring, but still cold, and they’d stopped to have a coffee. Anouschka was wearing a beautiful black leather coat with a fox-fur collar. Her blonde hair was tucked under her dark grey trilby, a few strands floating prettily around her face. She fish
ed in her handbag – a lovely, slouchy cream-coloured bag from Dior. She pulled out her cigarettes, tapped one out of the box, and looked around for the obligatory waiter to spring in front of her with a lighter.

  ‘Can I have one?’ Annick piped up suddenly.

  Anouschka’s eyes widened. ‘You’re only fourteen,’ she protested.

  ‘Fifteen,’ Annick corrected her. ‘And I’ve been smoking for ages. Everyone smokes at school. It’s no big deal.’

  For a second they stared at each other, Annick wondering if she’d gone a step too far. She was on the verge of blurting out something ridiculous like ‘only joking!’ or some such feeble retraction when she saw Anouschka smile suddenly. ‘Fifteen,’ she murmured, tapping out a second stick. ‘Déjà?’

  Annick nodded, taking the cigarette she’d been offered. ‘But I don’t smoke every day,’ she added. For a few minutes they smoked in silence together, a smile still playing around the corners of Anouschka’s lips.

  ‘Better not tell Papa, eh?’ she said finally, conspiratorially. It was a rare moment: mother and daughter, enjoying a moment together that neither would share with Sylvan.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Yves’s voice suddenly brought her back to the present. She blinked slowly, focusing her attention on him. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  She gave a small, wan smile, forcing herself to concentrate. ‘Oh, it’s nothing . . . I just . . . I was just thinking about something . . .’

  ‘Something sad?’

  She hesitated. They were only halfway through their meal. So far, it had been the most enjoyable evening she’d spent in the past three years. He’d met her outside the hotel, as they’d arranged. There was a car waiting; not the fancy BMW or Mercedes in which he waited whilst his boss finished up whatever ‘business’ he had in the hotel, but a small, clearly second-hand hatchback. He’d apologised for the papers on the back seat – not that she’d have noticed or cared. He complimented her on her blouse and if he’d noticed that she was wearing the same long black skirt that she usually wore at work, he’d said nothing. He drove to Les Halles; they parked close to the restaurant and walked up the street together, not touching or anything, but in the manner of two people clearly getting to know one another. Annick felt as though she were wading through fog. At one level, the game was so familiar to her . . . the shy sideways glances, the awareness of another’s presence, the faint but pleasurable scent of male aftershave every time he turned towards her . . . she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and wallow in it. But at another level, it was as unfamiliar to her as her life now was – alien, unnatural and unreal. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d caught sight of herself in a shop window or in a mirror in one of the wardrobes at the hotel and stopped – was that really her? She who used to spend hours examining herself from all angles – back, front, sideways – how long had it been since she’d seen herself in anything other than a passing glance? The strangest thing was, Yves didn’t seem to notice her size. Or if he did, it didn’t seem to bother him. Was it possible that he just didn’t care? The temptation to talk came over her like the urge to laugh or cry. It was so strong she had to clamp down on her lips to stop them opening of their own accord, forming words, sentences, paragraphs, her whole life history spilling out before she had the chance to think.