Little White Lies (6 page)

“Yeah, well, it’s unisex,” Alistair says slowly.

“Unisex! Like
Ali McBeal.
”

Stop talking, I will myself. You can only make things worse.

“Er, yeah, I suppose so. I don’t watch it myself.”

“No, well. So, er, how are you?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do know.” I’m sure Alistair smirked when he made that last comment. Oh, God. He saw me dancing, he heard every word I said, and he’s going to tell everyone. My life might as well be over.

“I don’t usually talk to myself in the loo, you know,” I say pleadingly. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here.”

“I usually sing, so I wouldn’t worry,” Alistair says, grinning, and winks as he walks out of the door.

My heart is beating quickly and my face is all flushed. Why couldn’t I have kept my big mouth shut? And why did I have to say “boy next door.” Alistair lives upstairs from me. He’s going to know exactly who I was talking about, and rather than thinking of me as sophisticated and sexy girlfriend material, he’s going to think I’m a crazy woman who carries her belongings round in an old shopping trolley and warns people to beware the Ides of March or something. Inwardly cringing, I make my way out of the loo and back to the table, hoping against hope that I don’t have to see Alistair again for the rest of the evening. And that maybe he’ll move out of my building tomorrow.

But as luck would have it, Alistair is sitting with Julie and Lucy, with another guy I vaguely recognize as a friend of Alistair’s—I think I’ve seen him going into Alistair’s flat. I try to look as normal as possible as he is introduced to me as Michael. It turns out he works at Joseph.

“I’ve seen you on the stairs, haven’t I?” he asks me. “At Alistair’s place?”

“Yeah.” Please swallow me up, I beg the ground. Please let me wake up and discover this was all a dream.

“Drink?” Michael asks, and I nod gratefully. I could actually do with a drink of water or something—the vodka is going to my head. Although that’s not necessarily a bad thing. As far as I can tell, no one’s laughing at me—so Alistair can’t have told them . . . yet. In the meantime, I think a drink might just help me forget how embarrassed I am.

But instead of going up to the bar, Michael pulls a bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and fills up my glass.

“Cheers!” he says, grinning, and I take a gulp.

I notice Julie slip off in Jason’s direction and take another gulp of vodka. There’s sixties Motown music coming out of a speaker just above us, and I look around the room trying to think of something to say to Michael.

“Do you live nearby?” I ask after a while.

“What?” Michael asks, unable to hear me because of the music.

“You. Live near. Here,” I shout in his ear. He nods and sort of smiles.

Oh, God, he’s bored. He’s bored because I have no idea what to talk to him about. But why would I? I’m a crazy person who talks to her own reflection. Not for the first time this evening I wish I were more debonair. Julie and Lucy’s conversation is so different from the conversations I have with Chloe—it’s all “blah blah guest list” or “blah blah cool-band-I’ve-never-heard-of.” It’s like learning a new language, and I don’t even have a phrase book.

Lucy comes over and sits on Michael’s knee, while I look on enviously, although relieved she’s created a diversion.

“More vodka?” Michael asks me. I put my hand up to say no—I’ve already had too much—but then I put it down. Fuck it, why do I always play by the rules? For five years I’ve been the sober one, getting Pete home and trying to ignore his leching at every girl around. Maybe it’s time I let go a little. Lucy isn’t saying no, is she? And I bet Cressida wouldn’t, either.

I grin at Michael, going into Cressida mode. “I would love some, thank you,” I say with a big smile. “Fabulous idea!”

He grins back, as Lucy gives him a quick kiss on the forehead and gets up to dance with a guy in a tight-fitting pinstripe suit and Adidas trainers. “Guess who we had in our shop today?” he asks me conspiratorially.

I look at him with raised eyebrows in reply. “Kate Moss!” he says gleefully. “Right there in front of me, she was.”

“No!” I gasp. “Did she look amazing?”

“What do you think?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

I pretend to sigh, then I tell him about the actress I sold the Missoni dress to, and he giggles hysterically when I tell him about the larger sister buying the same dress and looking dreadful in it. See, I tell myself. It’s not bad to sell people unsuitable clothes—it’s funny. And what’s more, I’m having a good time. Maybe it isn’t such a different language, after all.

Michael’s shouting so loudly in my ear that it tickles, and when he suggests heading for the dance floor, I agree enthusiastically. I may be a little bit drunk, but the Alistair incident feels like a distant memory, which in my book is a very good thing and should be encouraged.

The place is now packed and it’s impossible to do more than shimmy slightly to the music. Michael puts his arms round my waist and attempts a sort of samba, but we knock into too many people, so we stop after a couple of minutes. I wonder vaguely where Alistair is, but can’t see him anywhere, and soon Michael and I are dancing around each other, shaking our hips and holding our hands up in the air. After a while, Julie reemerges, and joins us on the dance floor.

I’m elated. This is the stuff I dreamed of back in Bath. I’m here with my new London friends, in a cool Notting Hill bar. And I’m dancing with Alistair’s friend. Who is nearly as good-looking as Alistair. I would love it if Pete were here now—would love to see his face. Hah!

I’m also a bit drunk. Maybe a bit too drunk. I head for the bench, passing Julie, who is dancing with her arms wrapped round Jason. Michael is continuing to dance around the place on his own, knocking people’s drinks over.

Sitting down, I shut my eyes, then open them again when I feel the room begin to spin. God, I’ve drunk more than I thought I had. There was the first vodka and tonic, then the double that Lucy bought; then there was the bottle of vodka that Michael had produced and poured into our glasses . . .

With a jolt I realize that I might throw up. I mean, I’m not saying it’s a definite, but it’s been known to happen. And there is no way I can let anyone see me. Not here. Not in front of my friends.

I sway over to Julie. “Jules, Jason, I’m going home,” I slur. “Got an early start.”

“All right, darling, see ya later,” Julie says with a smile, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Be good!”

I stagger toward the door, hoping to catch Lucy so I can say good-bye, but focusing more on getting as far away as possible before my stomach does its worst.

I can’t see her anywhere, so I walk up the stairs toward the bouncer. As I make my way up the stairs I hear laughter.

“In the loo? Are you serious?”

“Totally. I saw the whole thing!”

“Fantastic, mate. We’re going to have to get CCTV in there. It’d be a riot!”

Alistair, Lucy, and the bouncer are standing at the top of the stairs, and to my horror I realize they must be talking about me. So Alistair told them everything, and they think it’s hysterical, do they?

As I emerge at the top of the stairs, they stop talking quickly. Lucy looks at me and I’m convinced I can see pity on her face.

“You all right, Natalie?”

“Yeah. Fine. Going home,” I manage to say. I can feel my stomach gurgling and I don’t think I’ve got long before I hurl. That’s the problem with being the one in a couple who doesn’t get drunk, I think to myself, then smile at the thought that I can even blame my drunkenness on Pete. Oh, God, why didn’t I stop after the last double vodka?

“You want me to get you a cab?” asks the bouncer. I can’t believe he’s pretending to be concerned when he’s just suggested getting CCTV so he can catch me on camera making a fool of myself, dancing and talking to my reflection in the mirror.

“No. Short. Walk. Home.” Between each word I swallow furiously. My eyes are having trouble focusing.

“Walk with her, Alistair,” suggests Lucy, but I shake my head—realizing too late that this is not a good thing to do when you are on the verge of being sick.

“No. Really.”

I do a sort of wave and walk off down the street, trying my best to walk in a straight line and failing dismally. Then as soon as I get to the next corner, I make a quick left and walk quickly to a rubbish bin where I throw up violently. Not so debonair and fabulous now, are you, Natalie Raglan? I think to myself sadly.

Feeling like death, with watering eyes and a runny nose, I slowly stand up straight again and attempt to make my way back home. Except, I realize a few minutes later, I’m now walking in the wrong direction. I do a quick one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, but to my horror, I see Lucy and Alistair are standing at the corner looking at me. They must have seen everything.

Humiliated, I try to ignore them, but they walk up beside me and take me firmly by each arm, walking me the two hundred yards to my flat. Alistair opens the door downstairs, and Lucy manages to get the key out of my bag for my front door.

“I’m fine now,” I manage to say. “Really. Thank you. Please go now.”

“Are you sure?” Lucy asks.

“Absofuckinglutely,” I mutter as I fall face-first onto the bed.

“Don’t talk in your sleep,” says Alistair, laughing, as they shut the door behind them.

I must have passed out, because the next thing I know it’s three
A.M.
and I’m gasping for a drink of water. I stagger to the kitchen and pull a glass out of the cupboard, splashing water on my face before pouring it into the glass. As I gulp the water down, the evening’s events flood back into my head and I shudder with embarrassment. I can’t face my work colleagues or my neighbor ever again. I am a total joke. Alistair thinks I fancy him, and everyone now knows I was dancing in the loo.

I walk into the sitting room and sit down on the sofa. In front of me is Cressida’s letter.

“ ’S all your fault,” I say to the letter in a slurred voice, as if it were Cressida herself. “Hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been dancing, or drinking . . .”

Naturally the letter doesn’t reply. Actually, now I look at it, the red nail polish looks a bit like blood from here. Like I’ve wounded it. Like it’s bleeding.

“I didn’t mean to cover you in nail polish, you know,” I say. “Wasn’t my fault. You know that, right?”

I roll my eyes as I realize what I’m doing. I moved to London to lead a more exciting life. And here I am at three in the morning talking to a letter. Apologizing to it.

Well, sod that. It’s a letter. Just a bloody letter. And if I want to open it, I bloody well will.

Holding my breath, I reach for the envelope and run my finger underneath the flap, slowly ripping it open. A guilty pleasure seeps through me, like the feeling you get when you’ve just splurged on something too expensive and they’re wrapping it up in soft tissue paper. You know you’re going to feel bad in hours, maybe minutes, but right now you feel decadent, in control. The sound of the envelope ripping is so sumptuous, I string the opening out for as long as I can. Whatever’s inside is going to be good, I can feel it in my bones.

I feel inside and pull out a letter. I look at it closely, then move it away from my eyes. For some reason I’m having trouble focusing. Oh, I remember. I’m still pissed.

I blink a few times, then begin to read.

Dear Cressida,

As promised I am writing with details of Simon Rutherford. He fulfills your criteria; he has amassed a large fortune in the City and has an interest in alternative therapies; he is also a very charming man, so I am sure that you will get along famously. His address is below, or you can contact him care of Henderson Investment Management, on 020 7556 7000.

Wishing you all the best,

Leonora Stapleton

I feel a stab of disappointment. This isn’t an invitation to Madonna’s birthday party, or to Leonardo and Giselle’s wedding. It’s nothing more than a matchmaking letter.

Still, it shows that Cressida can’t be that perfect, after all—I mean she can’t even get a boyfriend for herself!

Enjoying the wicked thought that Cressida probably isn’t quite as sorted as I’d imagined, I look more closely at the letter. What sort of dating agency would a member of Soho House use? Might they have celebrity members? Maybe I could join up!

I stare closely at the address at the top—there is no sign of a company name, so I don’t think it can be a dating agency actually; not with a handwritten letter like this. So it must be an introduction from a friend or something. I read again: “he has amassed a large fortune in the City . . .” What kind of fortune? I wonder.

The “interest in alternative therapies” bit might also help to explain the phone calls I’ve been getting for people wanting Reiki healing. I also get calls from people wanting the local Chinese takeaway, so I never really thought anything of it, but I guess Cressida might actually have been a Reiki healer.

I had Reiki myself once, at this new alternative health spa that opened in Bath a year ago. People in the West Country love that stuff—we’re not far from Stonehenge and crop circles and everyone thinks they’re incredibly spiritual. Anyway, this hippie-type woman just put her hands really near me, but not on me, while I lay on a white leather couch. I didn’t really see the point of it, but evidently other people did, because it got raving reviews in the
Bath Gazette.

So Cressida’s a Reiki healer. I wonder if she used to do it here? I sniff the air to see if I can detect a spiritual energy, but instead I just make myself feel even dizzier than I did before. It’s weird, though—I’ve got this picture of Cressida in my mind as a real glamour-puss. I mean, come on, Soho House was in
Sex and the City,
and she eats at Nobu. Whereas Reiki healers wear sandals and purple, don’t they?

I turn back to the letter, wondering what Cressida’s prospective boyfriend is like. Simon Rutherford. Hmmm. Probably wears pinstripe suits and has a protruding stomach from all those business lunches.