Little White Lies (2 page)

He walked down the stairs, his heels clipping out a sharp, crisp rhythm that slowly faded to silence. Somewhere on the ground floor a door opened; there was an exchange of voices but she couldn’t hear what was said. There was the short, staccato burst of a walkie-talkie or a radio. A car swept into the driveway, scattering gravel; the dogs barked wildly. More voices. The house was beginning to fill up with people. More police. She struggled upright. Her knees and hands were shaking; her mouth was bone dry. It was time to call Rebecca.

‘Adolescence: a stage between infancy and adultery.’
Ambrose Bierce

TATIANA BRYCE-BRUDENELL
Chelsea, London

With the sort of anxious concentration that only teenagers can muster, seventeen-year-old Tash Bryce-Brudenell carefully examined herself in the tiny bathroom mirror. Things weren’t looking good. Mousy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail (a style she’d sported since the age of six); pale blue eyes (set much too far apart); short, barely there eyelashes (blonde, not brown, highlighting their absence even further). At least
her
skin was reasonably clear – a few spots, a few freckles – not as bad as some of the girls in her class. Not Annick, though. Or Rebecca. She sighed. What kind of malicious deity had made
her
so goddamn plain and her two best friends so goddamn pretty? She had no answer.

She soldiered grimly on, baring her teeth in an approximation of a smile. She grimaced. Her teeth were dreadful – too many, too long, too crowded, too crooked. Smile
only
when absolutely necessary. Chin? Weak, but at least it wasn’t receding. She’d been lucky there. She’d never met her father but in the few photographs her mother had shown her, he had an unmistakably receding chin. She turned slowly sideways. Her nose now came into its problematic own. It was large and long with an uncomfortably high bridge that made it difficult to keep her glasses on. Another typical Bryce-Brudenell feature (or so her mother said).

‘Tatiana?’ Her mother’s voice came barrelling through the door. ‘
Chto ty tam delaesh?
What you doing in there?’ As ever, Lyudmila said everything twice, once in Russian and then (as if Tash didn’t understand) in English.

‘Nothing,’ Tash yelled back unconvincingly. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’ She hurriedly turned on the taps.

‘
My budem pozdno
. We gonna be late.’

We’re
going
to be late
, not
we
gonna
be late
, Tash automatically mouthed. Not that Lyudmila would take any notice. She’d lived in England for almost twenty years but her voice, syntax and grammar had lost none of their sensual, throaty Russianness.

‘What you
doing
in there?’ Lyudmila asked again, exasperated. Hers was a voice that could penetrate lead.

‘I’m
coming
,’ Tash hissed. She rinsed her hands and yanked open the door. ‘What’s the bloody rush?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she surveyed her mother. Lyudmila was dressed as though ready to go out – a long, floor-sweeping fur coat that, although it had clearly seen better days, was still impressive; black high-heeled boots and a soft black beret over her blonde, waist-length hair. Almost every penny of the meagre allowance that came through every month from the Bryce-Brudenell family solicitors in Edinburgh was spent on clothes – Lyudmila’s, not Tash’s. Lyudmila spent
more
than enough on Tash’s school fees, she lamented. Daily. ‘Why you not ready,
dushen’ka?
’ she asked, impatiently tugging on her gloves.

‘Ready? What for?’ Tash frowned. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

Lyudmila rolled her eyes. ‘
Dushen’ka
, I
told
you. We have invite. Lady Soames invite us. You and me. We must to go
now
.’

Tash groaned. ‘Oh, God, Ma, no! Not Lady Soames! Why do
I
have to come? No one’ll even notice if I’m not there. Why don’t you go by yourself?’

Lyudmila shook her head firmly. ‘
Nyet.
I promise her you coming. Hurry up. You know she doesn’t like it when we is late.’

‘When we
are
late,’ Tash corrected her sulkily.

Lyudmila shrugged. ‘Is. Are. No difference. Come. Where is coat?’

‘Where I left it.’ Tash sighed. She followed her mother reluctantly down the corridor. Lyudmila was up to something; she could tell by her excited, distracted air.

‘
Dushen’ka
, why you always so
nezgovorchivaya
?’ Lyudmila paused to view her reflection in the mirror before opening the front door.
Nezgovorchivaya.
Disagreeable. It was her favourite word, especially when it came to Tash.

‘Because that’s the way you made me,’ Tash said, tightening her ponytail defiantly.

‘Not true,’ Lyudmila said calmly. ‘I try everything make you nice girl.’ She opened the cupboard door and pulled out Tash’s coat, a sensible black woollen schoolgirl number. ‘Okay, here is coat. Come. We late.’ She marched ahead.

We
are
late
, Tash mouthed silently, crossly. She followed her mother disconsolately out the door.

‘Taxi!’ Only in Lyudmila’s mouth could the word come out as ‘texy’. A black cab on the opposite side of the road, spotting the long blonde hair and fur coat, turned immediately and screeched to an abrupt halt.

‘Where to, love?’ The driver looked Lyudmila appreciatively up and down. Tash hung back instinctively.

Lyudmila grasped the door handle and climbed in. ‘Christchurch Street. You know where is it?’

‘Christchurch Street? What . . . the one round the corner?’ The driver sounded disbelieving. Tash’s face began to burn.

‘Yes.’

‘You’d be quicker walking, love.’

‘I like drive.’ Lyudmila pulled out her compact and started powdering her nose. For a second, Tash caught and held the driver’s incredulous gaze. She looked away. He pulled out into the traffic without a word.

‘
Dushen’ka
, be nice today, hmm?’ Lyudmila turned her attention away from her own face just briefly. She reached across and tucked a stray lock of lank hair behind Tash’s ear. Tash only just resisted the temptation to smack her hand away.

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Lyudmila answered cryptically.

Tash turned her face back to the window. Yes, her mother was definitely up to something. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection. She looked down at her hands. It wasn’t easy being Lyudmila’s daughter, especially not her
ugly
daughter.

‘Lyudmila! How
lovely
to see you, my darling! What a surprise! Do come in! Come in. It’s absolutely
perishing
outside! And here’s the lovely little Tatiana. How
splendid
of you to come! You know the way – of course you do!’ Lady Pamela Soames stood in the hallway, practically (and inexplicably) rubbing her hands in glee. She looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and a poodle, Tash thought to herself uncharitably. How on earth could it be a
surprise
when she was clearly expecting them? And who in the world would ever call her ‘lovely’ – or, even more ludicrous, ‘little’? Her height was the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. At seventeen she was nearly six feet tall. ‘How
are
you, darling?’ Lady Soames looked up at her indulgently.

‘Who? Me?’ Tash scowled down at her and was rewarded by a sharp prod from Lyudmila.

‘Teenager,’ Lyudmila said helplessly, making it sound like a terminal illness. ‘What I can do?’

‘Oh, don’t I know it,’ Lady Soames said conspiratori
ally
, tucking her arm into Lyudmila’s as she led them towards the conservatory. ‘It’s a dreadful time, absolutely dreadful. For
all
concerned.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Now, listen, darling. I’ve asked Rupert to come downstairs but he’s a bit reluctant, I’m afraid. You know what they’re like at his age.’

Tash stopped dead in her tracks. Rupert? Rupert was Lady Soames’ eldest son. So
that
was why she’d been dragged along. Oh, Christ. Lyudmila was playing matchmaker. A wave of embarrassment washed over her. She could have
killed
her! Wasn’t it enough that she had to endure the pitying glances of all Lyudmila’s friends? Did she have to endure their sons’ sniggers as well? She glared daggers at her mother’s rapidly disappearing back. Not that Lyudmila would notice. Or care.

‘So what’s he like?’ Annick was eager to hear all the details. It was half past ten and the most embarrassing day of Tash’s life was finally drawing to a close. ‘Is he good-looking?’

Tash snorted derisively. ‘God, no! He’s about half my size.’ She wedged the phone between her chin and neck, attempting to talk and paint her toenails at the same time. ‘And he’s got ginger hair. He’s repulsive, actually. Besides, I don’t
want
a boyfriend, and even if I did, I’m hardly going to ask my mother for help. I’m perfectly capable of getting one on my own.
If
I wanted one. Which I
don’t
.’ She enunciated her words clearly, keen for Annick to get the point.

‘Darling, if we wait for you to sort yourself out in that department, we’ll be waiting for ever. You’re so bloody picky.’

‘I am not. Besides, I’d rather be picky than a slut.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes, you did. Anyhow, we’re not talking about me. Can we get back to the subject, please?’

‘There
is
no subject. He came downstairs, took one look at me and fled.’

‘Oh, Tash! He did
not
! You’re making it up.’

‘I’m
not
. You should’ve seen his face. I’d just stuffed a scone in my gob and a bit of cream oozed out, so I scooped it up with my finger and licked it off in front of him. He nearly
died
. His mother looked at me as though I’d gone mad. It
was
funny, though. You should’ve seen Ma’s face. Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve still got that history essay to finish. Have you done yours yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘Er, it’s due tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘You hassle me about boyfriends and I hassle you about homework. How does that
not
make you a slut?’

‘All right, point taken.’

‘I’d better get on with it, then. You’d be advised to do the same.’

‘I might. I’ll see how I feel.’

‘Fine, you’ll get an “F”. See you tomorrow.’

‘Mmm.’ Annick sounded about as interested in her essay as Tash had been in Rupert Soames. ‘Meet you outside the gates at nine.’

Tash put down the phone, lay back against the pillows and held out her hand. She looked at the tattoo nestling in the fold between her thumb and first finger. It was almost healed. A week earlier, she, Annick and Rebecca had walked past a tattoo parlour on the way home from school. Without saying a word, they’d all stopped in front of it. They looked at each other.

‘Won’t it hurt?’

‘Oh, Rebecca.’ Both Tash and Annick turned to look at her.

‘Sue Parker’s brother got one done the other day. She said he said it hurt like hell.’

‘Yeah, but I bet his covered half of his back, or something stupid like that. We’re only going to get something small.’

‘Like what?’

Annick shrugged. ‘How about a rose?’

Tash rolled her eyes. ‘Bo-ring. Let’s get something that actually means something. To all of us.’

‘Like what?’ Rebecca’s curiosity got the better of her.

‘How about something . . . something like that?’ Tash pointed at something in the window.

‘Which one?’ Annick stepped closer to see.

‘That one. The triangle. Three points – that’s us, right?’

‘How about a triangle set in a circle?’

‘Genius. Fucking genius.’ Tash grinned. ‘The three of us, together, always. I love it. Here, right here where we’ll always see it.’ She pointed to the spot between her thumb and forefinger.

‘Come on, before Rebecca chickens out,’ Annick laughed.

‘I won’t. Does . . . does it have to be right there?’ she looked at her hand. ‘Can’t it be somewhere more . . . well, hidden?’

‘Scaredy-cat. You’re afraid of what your mum’s going to say. Don’t worry, when your hand’s closed, you’ll hardly see it.’

And that was it. They exited the shop half an hour later, each looking a little paler than before, holding a little wad of cotton wool over their bleeding hands. They’d chosen the design together – a thin blue triangle, enclosed in a circle. ‘Best friends for ever, huh?’ The tattoo artist grinned approvingly at his handiwork.

‘Yup.’ They all spoke at once. The triangle had been Tash’s idea, the circle enclosing it, Rebecca’s. Annick concentrated only on not crying. Unbelievable how something barely the size of a ten pence piece could hurt so much, she said weakly. Lyudmila nearly fainted when she saw it, as did Aunt Mimí, Rebecca’s mother. Annick’s mother hadn’t seen it yet and probably wouldn’t notice it anyway. Her parents were barely there, and when they were, their attention was always claimed by someone else, someone more important.

Tash traced the still-puckered flesh with her fingers. She rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow. She didn’t like lying to anyone, least of all Annick. The afternoon hadn’t been quite as funny or as entertaining as she’d made out. Lyudmila and Lady Soames disappeared as soon as Rupert finally came down, leaving the two teenagers locked together in a silent agony of sullen resentment. Every so often, a tinkling laugh could be heard down the corridor, making the silence between them even more uncomfortable. Rupert looked at his shoes. Tash looked down at her hands. The silver tray of scones and tea lay untouched in front of them. Tash racked her brains for something to say.

‘So what’s Eton like?’ she asked finally.

He looked up. His expression hovered somewhere between boredom and disgust. ‘’S’all right,’ he muttered.

Tash felt a rush of feeling at the tip of her nose; any second now it’d turn red and shiny and she’d burst into tears. She forced herself to look away. ‘D’you want some tea?’ she asked after a moment.