Little White Lies (17 page)

“I do . . . I mean, I’ve just been promoted, too, which is really nice. Good money and everything. But this . . .” Chloe looks around my flat. “This is different. You’ve taken a leap, and it’s really paid off.”

“Promotion? You didn’t tell me!”

Chloe looks at me like I’ve completely missed the point. “Yeah. Account director of a little agency in Bath. Big fucking deal. You’re a member of Soho House and get to hang out with film directors.”

I take a deep breath. “Chloe, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Account director—that’s amazing. It usually takes years to get that kind of job. And look, getting into Soho House is hardly life changing. So you get to see Zoe Ball having a drink. It’s not that great, really!”

“You used to think it was great,” Chloe says pointedly.

She’s right, I did. I do. I moved here for the very reasons that Chloe is talking about, so why do I think she’s so foolish to give up what she’s got? Having moved to London to be cool and to hang out with the beautiful people, am I now actually saying that it isn’t what it’s cracked up to be?

“Maybe,” I say. “I just think right now, with your new job and everything . . . well, it’s probably not a good time.”

“You mean you think I’d cramp your style.”

I look up at Chloe, shocked. “What did you say?”

“Oh, come on,” she says crossly. “You’ve got it sewn up here. You think that if I moved down, I’d show you up. I saw that look you shot me in the reception at Soho House. Like I was acting way too excited. Well, I was excited—what does it matter? You used to be like that, too . . .”

“I still am!” I say, surprised.

“No you’re not. You’re really different. It’s like you don’t want me meeting your friends because I’m not cool enough. You didn’t even want to go into Soho House with me until your London friends arrived. What’s the matter—am I too square for you now? Not good enough to hang out with? I suppose that’s why you wanted to leave early—you thought your friend Serge might think less of you because I was there . . .” Chloe almost looks like she could burst into tears.

I stare at her, completely shocked. “Chloe, is that really what you think? Jesus, you’ve known me long enough, haven’t you? You know I’m not like that. I was trying to get away from Serge, not to get you away. He’s a total creep.”

“You didn’t seem to think he was a creep when you waltzed into Soho House with him, leaving me to follow behind,” Chloe retorts. “I may not live in London, Natalie, but at least I’m not a jumped-up pretentious cow.”

Chloe shoots me a meaningful look. I can’t believe her. How can she be so cruel when I went through hell to give her a good night out in London?

“If that’s really what you think, why did you come and stay with me?” I ask angrily.

“I keep asking myself the same question,” Chloe retorts. “You’ve even become a Reiki healer, for God’s sake. I mean what’s that all about? It’s like you’ve become someone else, Natalie. And I don’t like this new person very much. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go home now, back to some normal people.”

Chloe starts throwing her things into a bag. I stand up silently and clear away the coffee cups and breakfast bowls. A heavy tension hangs in the air as both of us refuse to say anything. Ten minutes later she’s at the door.

“You know, you and Pete have got more in common than I thought. When you’ve stopped being quite such a show-off, maybe I’ll see you around,” she says bitterly.

“Don’t count on it,” I reply coldly.

And before I can say anything else, she’s gone. I move over to the window and watch as she appears on the street below, walking to the tube. She looks up and catches my eye, and for a moment I nearly throw open the window and shout down to her not to go. I don’t want her to leave me here on my own. But I don’t. I’m not sure I should be the one to apologize. And I don’t know what I’d say even if I did.

  12

“Tell me,” says Simon thoughtfully, chewing on a chicken leg, “do cool London girls like you ever get down and dirty in the country?”

I look at him uncertainly and have another swig of champagne. It’s a bit cold for a picnic really, but he has gallantly given me his coat. I’m wearing it over my beautiful new Alberta Ferretti dress and a big jumper, which was failing to keep me even semi-warm. Not that I care—as soon as Simon saw me in the dress, he insisted on taking me back to my flat and taking it off me and we nearly didn’t make it to the park at all. But I still put it straight back on afterward. I don’t ever want to take it off, if I’m absolutely honest. And in spite of the early evening chill, Simon seems determined to make the most of our little picnic.

“Depends what you mean by down and dirty,” I say, shivering slightly.

“My parents want me to come down again next weekend and I wondered if you’d be able to come, too.”

I look up, shocked. I thought he was going to suggest a dirty weekend in the country, not an invitation to meet the parents. I haven’t told Simon about the whole accidentally-pretending-to-be-someone-else thing yet. I can’t meet his parents until he knows the truth.

“Really?” I say, trying not to sound as alarmed as I feel.

“You don’t have to,” says Simon, looking a bit put out.

“No . . . it’s not that. It’s just . . .”

“A bit soon? No, I know. Bad idea. Look, forget it, okay?”

Simon pours himself some more champagne. Actually it’s sparkling wine, but that’s all I could find. I left buying food till the last minute and had to get it from the corner shop because the supermarket was closed. So we’ve got sparkling wine, chicken drumsticks, and lots of samosas, which Simon is happily munching his way through. I’m not really that hungry—that whole business with Chloe has left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I study Simon’s face. He’s looking all “I couldn’t care less,” but I can tell he’s disappointed. Maybe I should agree to go. I’ve already fallen out with my best friend today. Can I really afford to alienate Simon?

“I’d love to come,” I say, taking his hand, and promising myself that I’ll tell him everything before we go.

“Really?” Simon’s face lights up. “It would be really great. I mean, they’re lovely people. And . . . well, I need to tell them something this weekend. And it would be really good if you could be there.”

“Tell them what?” I ask curiously.

Simon opens his mouth as if to say something, then thinks better of it. “Just . . . nothing really. I mean, it’s nothing interesting. It’s something I’ve been thinking about work-wise, that’s all. But they’ll be really excited to meet you. Particularly as you know Leonora. My dad just loves Leonora.”

I feel the prickly sensation of dread creeping through my body. “He knows her very well, does he?”

“God, yes. Their families were really close when he was growing up. We don’t see her much since she started her work in India, but he loves talking about her.”

India. She’s in India! There is a God, after all. Warmed by the thought that with Leonora thousands of miles away I’ll easily be able to handle a few bluffed conversations about her, I help myself to a samosa.

“Such a shame she won’t be able to be there,” I say with a little smile. “Now, are you still enjoying this arctic picnic, or can we go home now?”

“I’m sorry, Natalie, but the answer is no.”

I can’t believe it. Laura has got me working Saturday and Sunday, and Lucy is refusing to swap with me. She has the whole weekend off and no particular plans except some club on Saturday night that she could go to any day, and still she’s refusing to help.

“Fine,” I retort, but it isn’t fine. There is just no way I can work this weekend. By hook or by crook, I will be leaving with Simon at ten
A.M.
on Saturday. I’ve been getting really excited about it. I mean, meeting the parents—that’s pretty serious, isn’t it?

I try Julie, but as expected there isn’t much she can do. “Sorry, Natalie—I’m working anyway on Saturday. You can rearrange, can’t you? I’m sure he’ll invite you down another weekend.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be on weekend shifts again, no doubt,” I say sarcastically.

“You had last weekend off, didn’t you?”

I look away. Julie’s right; I did have last weekend off. But I need this weekend off, too. And anyway, last weekend was so awful I don’t think it should count.

I’m still really shaken by my argument with Chloe. Ever since she left, I’ve been feeling very far away from home—first the lies, now falling out with my best friend. I feel very alone. Simon’s the only one who makes me feel better about everything. So there’s no way I’m turning down his offer of a weekend away.

Julie gives me a sympathetic grin and walks off to help a client, leaving me to even out the hangers. It involves walking round the entire shop making sure that the hangers are all just under half an inch apart. It takes forever, and as soon as you’re done, someone comes in and messes it all up again. But Laura’s got some big designer coming in today to check out our displays, and she wants everything looking perfect.

I look at my watch and decide to take my coffee break. I go down to the stockroom and pour myself a large milky coffee with sugar, and spot Julie’s cigarettes on the table. That’s what I need, I decide. A cigarette to calm my nerves.

I call up to Julie to ask if she minds me bumming a ciggie, and she sticks her head round the door, bemused.

“Didn’t know you even smoked,” she says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“I don’t. Not really. But needs must,” I say dramatically.

“All right, but not down here, okay? Laura’ll smell it. Take it outside the shop.”

Feeling like a rebellious teenager (that’s the last time I smoked, largely because all the cool boys at school used to congregate behind the bike shed to smoke at break time and it was a surefire way to meet them), I wander out onto Ledbury Road and sit down on the curb just outside the shop, slurping my coffee. Then, taking out Julie’s lighter, I light my cigarette and inhale deeply.

Big mistake. My lungs, unaccustomed to anything but passive smoking, rebel and before I can take the cigarette out of my mouth I’m gripped by a huge coughing fit.

“Ees very bad for you, you know?”

Startled, I look up to see a slim man in his fifties bending down to sit next to me. “May I?” he asks, and I nod. He takes the lighter from me and lights up his own cigarette. Far more coolly than I managed. No coughing or anything.

“I don’t actually smoke,” I say matter-of-factly. I am in no mood for a lecture on how unhealthy smoking is from someone who smokes themselves.

“Me, neither,” says the man, smiling.

I shuffle up the pavement a bit. He has a thick accent—I think it’s Italian. Maybe in Italy it’s standard practice to talk to strangers in the street, but I’m really not in the mood.

“I’m just on my coffee break,” I say, looking pointedly at my cup of coffee. I don’t want him sitting there. I want him to get the hint and go away. But he shows no signs of leaving.

“I, too, am on a break,” he says with a smile. “But I have no coffee.”

“You can get one at Tom’s,” I suggest. “It’s just round the corner.”

“Alas, I have an appointment in a few minutes,” he says. “You work here?” His eyes look up at the Tina T’s sign.

“Yes.”

“I see. And you like it?”

“I don’t like having to work weekends when I’ve got plans with my boyfriend. But apart from that I do.”

“Why?”

I look at him curiously. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m sorry. It is just my way. Am I insulting you?”

The guy looks really apologetic, and I feel a bit bad. I suppose he’s only being friendly. And it’s not his fault Lucy won’t swap shifts with me.

“Sorry. I’m just not in the best of moods today,” I say quickly.

“Ah,” he says. “A bad mood. I understand. I am very sorry—I will leave you alone.”

His sad tone of voice makes me smile in spite of myself.

“Not that bad a mood,” I say, grinning at him.

“So, then, you can answer my question, no?”

“Your question?” I can’t remember what he asked me. Please let it have nothing to do with white and pink noise, I beg silently.

“The shop. Why you like working here.”

“Oh, right,” I say, pleased to have a question I can answer authoritatively. “Well, I like the people. Apart from my boss, that is—she’s a total bitch. And of course the clothes are lovely, if a little expensive for my budget. Plus it’s in Notting Hill, which is pretty fantastic . . .”

He raises his eyebrows at me as if he doesn’t believe me.

“Don’t you think so?” I ask incredulously. “God, you should see Bath. That’s where I grew up. Near there, anyway. I only left a few months ago, to come here. I can’t believe you don’t like it.”

“Oh, I do like it. It doesn’t seem very busy, though.”

“Hmmm,” I say in agreement. “But that’s just this shop. To tell the truth, if it was my shop, I’d move it round the corner. There’s loads of cafés and stuff there, so you’d get more passing trade.”

“On Westbourne Grove itself?” says the Italian, seemingly interested. God, he really must want someone to talk to. Maybe I should introduce him to Stanley.

“Maybe,” I say, indulging him. “Or one of the roads just off it. One of my friends works in Joseph and they’re busy all the time. People spending huge amounts of money, too.”

“But the shop is okay apart from that?”

“Oh, yes, you know,” I say, not very enthusiastically. “I mean the window displays could be better—but my boss insists on doing them herself and her taste is . . . well, it’s a bit old-fashioned. And we’re not allowed to wear the clothes, which is just mad—I mean it’s a great advert for the clothes to have us wear them, isn’t it?”

“So you like the clothes?” He smiles.

“God, I love them. Just can’t afford them . . .”

“You don’t get a staff discount?”

“No, we don’t. Which I think is very shortsighted. Particularly as we’re not exactly raking in loads of money at the moment.”

“Business not good?”

“A lot of people are on holiday,” I say with a wry smile.

“So, tell me, what do you do?” I venture. He’s actually all right, this guy. And talking to him beats having Laura breathing down my neck. I suddenly remember Chloe’s incredulity when I told her that I’d met Stanley on the street, and smile. Maybe it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, after all.

“I am in fashion also,” he says. “On the design side.”

“Really?” I exclaim excitedly, then check myself. It’s not that exciting—not in Notting Hill, anyway. Everyone round here seems to be either a fashion designer or film director or something supercool.

“Do you work around here?” I ask, then realize how stupid the question is. “Oh, no, you can’t do, otherwise you’d know about the area . . .”

He smiles wickedly at me. “I may be soon. Well, not me—my clothes. I am coming to see someone about stocking my clothes at your shop!”

I look up, shocked. “Oh God, are you the designer coming in to see Laura? Shit, don’t tell her what I said, will you?” I beg. This is all I need—for Laura to find out I was moaning about the cost of the clothes to a designer. Oh, and telling him what a bitch she is.

“Of course, it is between us,” the designer guy says, smiling.

I look at his face properly. It’s tanned and weather-beaten, like he’s been on a boat in the Caribbean for months.

“Are you some really famous designer?” I ask, then immediately wish I hadn’t. I mean how crass a question is that? I should know who he is.

“I don’t actually design,” he says with a smile. “My name is Giovanni. I work with designers. I manage the company. You may have heard of Stallioni?”

“Of course I’ve heard of them,” I breathe excitedly. “I used to work on your account. At Shannon’s, the marketing agency.” Shannon’s won their account years ago, and I jumped at the chance to work on it. Never got any freebies, though, which is a shame because that’s the main reason I wanted the job.

Giovanni looks at me curiously.

“You were on the team at Shannon’s?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “I loved your account. God, you make the most beautiful bags ever!” It’s true—but then they should—their bags sell for over £800 retail. I actually thought up the campaign Shannon’s ran for them last winter—“A Stallioni bag is not just for Christmas; it’s for life.” They shifted loads of bags after that.