Little White Lies (18 page)

“And shoes, soon.” He winks. “We’re expanding.”

“That’s fantastic! I’ve always wondered why you didn’t. Make shoes, I mean. I used to tell . . . oh, what’s his name—your marketing guy . . .”

“Steve Bidwell?” Giovanni interjects.

“Yes, that’s it. Anyway, I used to tell him all the time that you should do shoes. It just makes sense—the bows and buttons on your bags look like they belong on shoes anyway . . .”

“And now you work here, doing marketing?” Giovanni asks me interestedly.

“No . . .” I pause, thinking about making something up and then changing my mind. “I work on the shop floor,” I tell him.

He looks at me curiously.

“The thing is,” I continue, “I want to have my own shop one day.” It feels really good saying it. Like it’s actually a possibility.

“Ah, I see,” says Giovanni, his face breaking into a smile.

Suddenly I think of something. I mean, it’s not every day you meet the managing director of your favorite bag designer, is it?

“Um, Giovanni,” I ask tentatively, “do you think you might ever launch a diffusion line? You know, one that us mere mortals can afford?”

He laughs. “I’m not sure that our designs could be re-created for the mass market,” he says.

“Why not?” I persist. “Marc Jacobs has done it. Dolce and Gabbana have done it. It’s no big deal. Just use different buttons. And maybe fewer. I’d buy one of your handbags with a quarter of the buttons if it was a quarter of the price. Actually, that’s still a bit much for me, but you know what I mean.”

But before Giovanni can answer, I feel a shadow move over me. It’s Laura, standing a couple of feet away. “Natalie, would you mind coming back in please?” she says icily.

I look up, irritated—how long has she been there? Reluctantly I stand up and wave good-bye to Giovanni. As I slope past Laura, she eyes Giovanni suspiciously, then jumps back slightly when she realizes who it is.

“Mr. Tivoli, is that you?” she asks with an awkward laugh. “Please, do come in. Can I get you a coffee?”

Giovanni gets up slowly. “Just enjoying your English sunshine.” He smiles graciously. “And, yes, I would love a coffee.”

Of course, I end up having to make the coffee. And then I get sent down to the stockroom, as if Laura’s worried I’m going to embarrass her or something. Before he leaves, though, Giovanni sticks his head round the stockroom door.

“I enjoyed meeting you, Miss . . . ?”

“Raglan,” I interject. “Natalie Raglan.”

“Thank you for your advice.”

Advice? What’s he talking about? But before I can ask him, he’s gone. Who knows, maybe he’s going to launch a diffusion line, after all, I think to myself as I tag up a batch of Miu Miu skirts. Maybe he’ll send me a bag as a token of his appreciation.

“You could always call in sick.”

I stare at Stanley with mock disapproval. We’re sitting on my sofa on Friday evening trying to decide how to fill the half hour between Easties and
Friends.
He’s been round pretty much every evening this week, and we’ve become a bit like old friends. “Really, Stanley, I thought more of you,” I tell him. “Anyway, what if Laura calls me back and I’m not at home?”

“You could say you went to the doctor.”

Now, there’s an idea. “Stanley, you’re a genius,” I say, grinning. “She can hardly argue with that, can she? So how come you’re so good at making up excuses?”

Stanley smiles conspiratorially and turns back to the TV. None of the major channels have much to offer, so we’re flicking between Paramount, where
Married . . . with Children
is showing, and another channel hosting a surprisingly compulsive quiz show where family members bet against how far other family members will go to win the grand prize, and lay booby traps for them along the way. But I haven’t really been concentrating too much because Simon is meant to be coming to pick me at ten tomorrow morning, and Laura thinks I’ll be at Tina T’s by nine. Now that Stanley has come to the rescue, however, I’m prepared to commit fully to the quiz show.

“So what would you do to win five thousand pounds?” I ask Stanley, after a brother reveals a confidence to his sister to see if she’ll reveal his secret to the film crew in order to win the prize. Only he’s lying to her, so if she cracks, she’ll actually lose.

“I’m not sure I’d do very much, to be honest,” Stanley says thoughtfully. “When you get to my age, if you have enough money to be comfortable, that’s all that’s really required. Now, if someone offered the elixir of eternal youth, I’d sell anyone up the river . . . And you? What would you do for five thousand pounds? Lie, cheat?” He laughs, and offers me a chocolate Hobnob.

I shift slightly uncomfortably in my chair. Lying has become second nature to me in recent weeks. And not even for money. I’m about to go on a romantic weekend with a man who thinks I’m someone else, having lied to my boss about being ill. And then there’s Stanley who’s here for Reiki, and I’m fobbing him off with soap operas. Although at least I’m saving him money on healing fees.

“Money?” I say with an awkward smile. “Money’s not really that important.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Stanley says warmly. “Friendship. People you can rely on. That’s what really matters.”

I try to feel comforted by this, but the mere mention of the word
friendship
makes me think of Chloe and I can feel tears pricking at my eyes. She’s my absolutely best friend, and now she hates me. I’m a liar and a cheat and I’m not even going to win £5,000 for my trouble.

Blinking furiously, I try to push Chloe and my web of deceit from my mind.

“Does it count if the only friends you have are on television?” I ask Stanley as cheerfully as I can, changing the channel just in time to catch the
Friends
theme song starting up.

  13

Okay, I can do this. All I need to do is:

1. Call Laura and tell her I’m really ill and that I have to go to the doctor. Even though I was fine yesterday.

2. Pack a suitcase for the weekend. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I don’t know what the weather’s going to be like (it’s one of those days that could easily turn out to be a scorcher, but could also go overcast. By tomorrow it could be freezing). And what if we go for a walk?—do I wear pretty little shoes and look sexy, or do I take practical walking shoes and be comfortable? Not that I have any walking shoes, but you see the dilemma. And anyway, I’ve hardly got any nice clothes. Only my jeans and West Village top, and I’ve worn those twice now. And my Alberta Ferretti dress, but that needs to go to the dry cleaners—it’s got grass stains on it from the picnic. And anyway, I’m not sure it’s really the most appropriate piece of clothing for a weekend in the country.

3. Practice sounding ill so that I sound convincing when I call Laura.

4. Find something to pack my stuff in. I’ve only got a huge big suitcase and lots of handbags. Why, oh, why did I not ask my mum for a cool little weekend bag for my birthday last month instead of a toaster? Actually I use the toaster all the time, but I really need a bag. I wonder if I could make one out of my curtains in time . . .

5. Think of lots of interesting things to talk to Simon’s parents about.

I know the list isn’t that long, but it’s the contents that count. And talking of contents . . . I need to think straight about the packing situation. It really isn’t that hard. But the trouble is, I can’t even think about packing while I’m still worrying about calling Laura. I’ll have to do that first. But what if Julie picks up the phone? I’d prefer to tell her I’m ill, of course, but I don’t think I’d be able to lie as convincingly. Or rather, she’d know right away that I was lying because she knows how hard I was trying to get Lucy to do my shift.

I wish I knew Laura’s mobile number—then I could text her. You know, like I was feeling so poorly I couldn’t actually talk.

I pace around the flat for a while, working out the exact words I’m going to use and practicing them in a croaky voice. Then I start questioning whether a croaky voice is the right way forward—she might just think I’ve got a slight cold, and I need her to know I’m properly all-weekend-off ill. Maybe a stomach problem would be better. Unexplained pains . . . rushing to casualty . . . no, too complicated. Migraine? No, no, no. Okay, so croaky throat, then. Suspected tonsillitis. Lots of white spots all over my throat. I’ve actually had tonsillitis, too, so I know what I’m talking about. Earache to boot. That’s always a good one—it suggests all sorts of complications.

Right. Pick up the phone, dial the number . . . Or, I could pack first. You know, get it out of the way, and make the phone call afterward. Couldn’t I?

I wipe my hands on my dressing gown. I’m so hot and bothered I might as well be ill. Oh God, it’s nine-thirty. Shit. I’ve got to pack, have a shower, make the phone call, and make myself beautiful in half an hour.

I pick up the phone again and press redial.

“Hello, Tina T’s.”

It’s Laura. Well, that’s something at least.

“Laura, it’s Natalie.”

“I was wondering where you were.”

“Yeah, well, I’m ill, I’m afraid. I feel like shit, so I’m not coming in,” I say quickly. “You know, sore throat, earache.”

“Feeling like shit is a technical term, is it?” Laura asks sarcastically.

“No,” I say, thinking quickly, “but tonsillitis is.”

“What, in your ears?”

I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned earache. It was just asking for trouble.

“No, my throat. I mean, my ears just hurt, too. But I’ve got white patches and . . . and shooting pain.”

Shooting pain—she can hardly argue with that, can she?

“I see. So you’re going to the doctors, are you?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m going now.”

“So you don’t know that it’s tonsillitis yet? Okay, well call me afterward. Let me know the real diagnosis, and whether you’re going to be in later.”

“Later?”

“After the doctor.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I hope so.”

I feel myself go white. What was Laura thinking, suggesting I might go in after the doctor? Is she mad? Like I would go to work with tonsillitis. Unless she doesn’t believe me . . . Oh, bloody hell, now I’ve got to call her again and make up a whole diagnosis.

I sit down on the sofa and slump for a few minutes. Bloody Laura. How would she feel if I was really ill? If I got admitted to the hospital with some really rare disease. That would show her. I can’t believe she expects me to come in to work when I’m really ill.

Except I’m not really ill, am I? And I still haven’t done any packing.

I decide that a shower should be my next priority—and I can decide what to take while I’m having it. By the time I’ve washed my hair and exfoliated all over I begin to feel a little bit better about things. I can call Laura when we get to Simon’s parents’ place. I’ll just tell her my parents are on their way to collect me. That the doctor said to rest for two days at least. Or, I could say three days and get Monday off, too . . . Everything is going to be fine. I don’t know what I was worrying about.

And then, just as I begin to slather body lotion on my thighs, the doorbell goes. Wrapping a towel round my torso, I nip over to the window. I can’t believe it—Simon is twenty minutes early. What was he thinking? Did he really expect me to be ready?

I open the window.

“Simon!”

He looks up, squinting against the sun, and I see his mouth breaking into a grin as he spots me. “Cress! You ready to go?”

“Give me a couple of minutes, okay?” I yell down to him. Can’t he see that my hair’s wet and I’ve got a towel draped round me?

“Okay, but I can’t find a parking spot, so I’m in a resident’s bay. Can’t wait too long or they’ll slap a parking fine on me.”

Parking fine? He expects me to worry about a parking fine when I don’t even know what to wear?

“No problem. Won’t be long. Where’s your car—round the corner?”

“Yeah—Cornwall Crescent. See you in a tic!”

And then he gives me a little wave and walks off down the road. I slowly close the window, look down at the body lotion that is now dripping onto the floor, and panic.

Right. Blow-dry hair. Shit, where’s my brush? I manage to find a comb, and desperately jab at my hair while holding the blow-dryer in my left hand, but it doesn’t really work, and soon my hair is distinctly frizzy and not at all the smooth, ironed look I was hoping for.

I put on my jeans and stare at my wardrobe, hoping that some beautiful top will suddenly appear out of nowhere. It doesn’t, so I resort to my sleeveless black tank that gets worn at least five times a week. Now I just need some shoes—I fish out the lovely espadrille wedges I got on holiday last summer—and things are looking okay.

Except that I still haven’t got a bag. Suddenly I have an idea. I pick up my laundry bag and tip everything out onto my bed. It could be a weekend bag, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s not like it’s got “Laundry Bag” written on it or anything. My eyes rest on a small label sticking out at the bottom, with the word “Laundry” discreetly sewn onto it. But still, it’s flowery, it’s a bag, and frankly I’m running out of options. Hell, I’ll just say it’s vintage—Simon doesn’t know a thing about fashion.

I quickly grab my nail scissors and cut off the label. Unfortunately I’m cutting so fast I end up cutting into the bag itself, but I haven’t got time to worry about details like that. I ignore the slightly musty smell emanating from the bag, throw in my other jeans, my nice top, some trainers, a jumper, some knickers, a bra, my bath bag, and then pick up my handbag. I’m ready. In record time, I’m ready.

“Interesting bag,” says Simon, grinning.

I have to admit, it does look a bit like a flowery bin bag. I smile sheepishly as Simon reaches down to give me a kiss. I immediately start feeling a lot better about everything.

“Interesting car,” I say with a grin as he opens the door for me.

“Ah, yes, the car,” says Simon, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s not so much interesting actually as unlikely. It’s a bright red roadster—a Porsche. I mean, I didn’t doubt that Simon would have a really expensive car, but this looks like something a boy racer would own.

“It’s not actually my car,” continues Simon. “I had to borrow it from a colleague, who, um, wanted my car to go on a date.”

“The person who owns this car didn’t think it was good enough for a date? What on earth do you drive?” I ask unbelievingly.

“A Volvo.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“So not a very hot date, then?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated, really. He’s sort of trying to put his girlfriend off. She seems desperate to marry him, and he isn’t, you know, ready to settle down yet. And he seems to think that taking her out in a Volvo will put her off. You know, convince her that he’s really boring and that she should find someone else.

I laugh. “Simon, do you really think that a woman desperate to get married will be put off by a Volvo? What an idiot. If he drives a Volvo, she’ll immediately think that he wants to settle down, have babies, and drive to IKEA on Sunday mornings.”

“I see.” Now it’s Simon who’s raising his eyebrows.

“I didn’t mean you . . .” I say quickly. “I mean, Volvos are great cars. I mean . . .”

I break off as I realize that Simon is smiling.

“Just for the record, I hate IKEA,” he says, winking, leaving me wondering if he’s trying to tell me something about the settling-down bit.

Still, this car may not be Simon, but it’s certainly fast. And cool, if you like that sort of thing. I’m not sure I do, but it’s like silk sheets—you may not buy them, but it’s fun trying them out.

We whiz along the motorway and with each mile that passes I feel safer, further away from my problems. Laura seems insignificant, my lies about my name a mere administrative detail. It’s not until we pull into the drive of Simon’s parents’ house that I remember I haven’t called Laura back. And what’s more, I left my mobile phone on my coffee table.

“Darling, it’s so lovely to see you!”

There’s an attractive middle-aged woman coming toward us, along with several dogs, two small children, and a slightly older, plumper man.

Simon squeezes my knee. “Ready to meet the parents?”

“Definitely!” I say brightly, wondering when I’m going to get the chance to borrow Simon’s phone and call Laura. Why didn’t I do it on the way up? I could have pretended I was in the back of my parents’ car. It would have been perfect. You know, so long as Simon hadn’t heard what I said. He thinks I work in marketing. And high-flying marketing executives don’t have to call their boss on a Saturday and pretend to be ill.

I smile and try to keep my balance as, once out of the car, the dogs start jumping all over me and Simon’s mother—or rather his stepmother, but I don’t suppose she’ll know I know that—grabs me to plant a kiss on my cheek all at once. His father is slightly more reserved, holding out a hand to shake, but as I take it, he also pulls me in for a bear hug. Once released, I kneel down and stroke one of the cocker spaniels as it tries to lick my face. The place is alive with noise and commotion, and I watch Simon’s face visibly relax as he surveys the scene.

“Splendid to meet you, dear girl. Very good of you to come down and see us. Good drive? Simon, what’s that monstrosity you’re driving? Now, are you able to wait another hour or so for lunch? Kitty’s on holiday and the new girl has no idea where anything is. Driving your mother mad.”

Simon’s father aims his comments and questions at no one in particular, and I follow him and Simon to the front door, which is wide open. It’s a bloody enormous house. Not enormous like those big detached houses near where I grew up, but enormous like the houses you see in Agatha Christie films, where there are about fifteen people staying in one house, all with a motive for murder. I mean, it’s got loads of land around it. And a big drive. And about fifty windows just on the front, which suggests quite a few rooms. I look in shame at my bag, which is hoisted over Simon’s shoulder. His family probably travels with ostrich-leather suitcases or something, not an unwashed laundry bag.