Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  He shook his head again. As urbane and polished as he was, doing business with the patriarchs from Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Qatar and Jordan was difficult for him, a Jew. It was Lionel who’d first taught him to ‘put all of that aside’, as he called it. Lionel would do business with anyone, so long as they adhered to the gentlemanly rules of the game. He had little time for politics. ‘Ach, underneath it all we’re all the same,’ he always said. But Julian found it hard. If anything, he found the younger generation more difficult. There was something in the older men that he found he could more easily identify with. For all the ways in which they were different, they were also curiously alike. Polite, inscrutable, patient, cautious . . . much like him, in fact. The old ways appealed to him. The younger men, like Al-Rasool and Mansour, he found almost impossible to read. These were men who’d been to Harvard and Cambridge; they wore designer suits and expensive sunglasses and their mobiles seemed permanently clamped to their ears. Their casual, easy familiarity with Julian’s world only showed up his ineptness in theirs and it made him uneasy. Miranda seemed to have no such insecurities. Despite the fact that she was a woman – and a Western woman at that – she appeared to float easily between all their worlds. He’d even overheard her speaking Arabic at breakfast – somewhat accented, of course, but Arabic nonetheless. It was enough to put him off his omelette.

  The whole trip had left him out of sorts, he realised, as he made his way upstairs to pack. He didn’t like the way Miranda had subtly taken charge of things, or the way she’d left his business associates speechless with admiration. And what of last night? They’d left the restaurant, leaving Jeff and Barry and the two Arabs to make their own way back to their rooms. He thought it had been his idea to have a nightcap on the rooftop bar, but perhaps it had been hers? He wasn’t sure if it was he who’d made the first move. Yes, they’d wound up in his room but perhaps that was what she’d wanted all along? Dammit. He’d woken up feeling so confident and strong, as though life couldn’t possibly get any better. He’d been absolutely sure they’d sign the deal over breakfast and he could go back to London, confident that there’d be another few million coming into the company coffers before long. And now? Now he was questioning everything. Miranda had them all eating out of her hand. It wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

  81

  TASH

  London

  Lyudmila was fast asleep by the time Tash let herself in, just after ten. She opened the front door cautiously, acutely aware she was several hours late. It was the third time in as many weeks that she’d left the office after nine thirty, too late to have dinner with Lyudmila, who ate around seven, if she ate at all.

  She closed the front door and tiptoed into the flat. There was another scent overlaid on top of the usual smell of home, a faint sourness that made her wrinkle her nose. In the living room, the TV was on but soundlessly. Lyudmila lay sprawled out on the sofa, the remote still in her outstretched arm. She hung up her coat behind the door and looked around. The flat was a mess. There were dirty plates on the coffee table, the usual assortment of empty bottles and glasses left lying around, a new fur coat thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa. She sighed. She’d begged her mother to let Yvette, the woman who cleaned twice a week for her, come in and do the same. ‘At least once a week, Ma,’ she’d said only the other night. ‘Just to help with the dishes and things.’

  ‘What dishes? I live alone!’

  ‘I know you live alone, Ma. But everyone needs a cleaner. Even you.’

  ‘You saying I’m dirty? House not clean enough for you, now you rich girl?’

  ‘No, Ma, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying—’

  ‘Nyet. I don’t need cleaner. Here, you clean.’ She picked up a dishcloth and thrust it at Tash.

  ‘Ma—’

  ‘Always you nezgovorchivaya. Always.’ Tash held her tongue.

  Now, surveying the aftermath of Lyudmila’s day, in all likelihood spent in front of the TV, she blew out her cheeks in frustration. How long had the plates on the coffee table been lying there? But to begin clearing the place up would mean waking Lyudmila and there was no telling what sort of mood she’d be in. She tiptoed out, eased off her own boots and walked into the tiny kitchen. Things weren’t much better in there. There were piles of plates in the sink, three or four empty wine bottles on the counter and countless saucers thick with cigarette butts. She sighed. Short of bringing Yvette in by force, there was nothing she could do. She opened the fridge, pulled out a half-full bottle of Chenin Blanc and picked a glass from the cupboard. She switched her phone to silent and walked back into the living room. She carefully pushed aside a few magazines and weeks-old newspapers from the chair opposite her snoring mother and sat down, leaning back against the cushions. She took a sip of wine. Considering it wasn’t a bottle she’d bought, it wasn’t bad. Across from her, Lyudmila made a funny kind of half-groan, half-sob, turning herself uncomfortably on the sofa, her face now thrust into the cushions. She groaned again, then sank back into sleep.

  Tash closed her eyes. It had been a long day, not helped by her decision to break it off halfway through and spend most of the afternoon looking through Annick’s new wardrobe. She’d rushed from Annick’s new flat to Selfridges for her meeting with Henrietta Wheeldon, the hot new designer who’d agreed to a F@shion.com exclusive, arriving twenty minutes late. Fortunately for her, Henrietta was also running late; by the time the two women met, it wasn’t clear who was waiting for whom. From there, she’d jumped in another cab to Bailey’s for a quick drinks meeting with the head of women’s fashion, the utterly charming Sally MacKenzie, who not only had a cold bottle of Dom Pérignon but some chocolate biscuits as well. She had two. Two bottles of champers and two chocolate biscuits – the sum total of her daily intake. No wonder she still looked like a rake, she thought to herself wryly as she closed her eyes and took another sip of her wine. Yes, it had been a long day, but worth it. For the first time since they’d started, designers were ringing her up, courting her instead of the other way round. She’d turned down three well-known fashion houses in the past week, much to Edith’s amusement.

  She poured herself another glass. ‘Cheers,’ she whispered, raising it to herself. What an odd scene, she thought to herself. There she was, at the age of thirty-two, well on her way to making her first million, sitting alone in a darkened, dirty basement flat in Kensington drinking cheap white wine whilst her mother lay sleeping on the sofa opposite. She’d just installed her best friend in a beautiful little flat close to hers, the sort of flat her mother ought to be in if only she could get her to agree to the move. Just what was it that made her so damned stubborn?

  She felt a painfully familiar ache, deep in her chest, as she looked at Lyudmila. She was the most maddeningly difficult woman on the damned planet. She’d do anything for her and Lyudmila knew it. She was happy to accept the generous monthly stipend that Tash discreetly arranged for her, but aside from shoes and clothes and her weekly trips to the salon on Beauchamp Place where she had her hair and nails done, she didn’t want much else. She refused outright to move. ‘Is my home,’ she said stubbornly. ‘No move.’ In desperation, Tash had once offered to move her into her flat. She’d looked at Tash as though she were crazy. ‘No move,’ she repeated firmly. ‘I like my home.’

  Lyudmila’s relationship with money was impossible to fathom, Tash realised finally. It had something to do with her upbringing, of course, which Tash knew very little about. She was also exceedingly proud. It was an odd, uncomfortable equation, lots of pride, no money. Not that having money necessarily entitled one to be proud, Tash thought to herself in one of those sudden flashes of insight that always seemed to accompany a bottle of wine. But it certainly helped. What was the point of Lyudmila’s stupid insistence that the house didn’t need cleaning, or that the TV could do with being replaced? Lyudmila seemed to view herself – her own face, body, clothes – as the only thing worth trusting and therefore investing in. In that department,
sadly, her own daughter had spectacularly let her down. It was as though she’d been slapped in the face twice. Once, by life – zhizniu, in Russian, which loosely translated to ‘fate’ – and then by Tash, who refused to honour the things that Lyudmila held sacred: her looks. Tash had always been determined to make it using a different set of criteria – her brains. Not that she had much choice, she thought to herself wryly, polishing off the last of the wine. If she’d done as Lyudmila wanted and tried to trade on her looks, she’d be homeless by now. She put the empty glass down on the floor and stood up. She’d never quite managed to balance tipsy insight with maudlin, hard-hitting truths. The last thing she felt like doing was sitting up until midnight, waiting for Lyudmila to wake up, going over things she’d rather not think about. She walked over to the sofa and laid an arm on Lyudmila’s.

  ‘Ma,’ she whispered, bending down close. ‘Wake up.’ She wrinkled her nose again. The smell she’d first noticed when she walked in was stronger now. She looked down the length of her mother’s slumbering form. Her legs were covered with a thin blanket that she must have yanked off her bed. She peeled it back slowly and then stood up, a hand going automatically to her mouth. Her mother had wet herself. The sour smell was urine. She swallowed. The dark stains appeared all down her cream woollen trousers.

  A wave of profound, primitive despair flowed over Tash before she could stop it. She stared at her mother. All her life there’d been things she felt but couldn’t name, fears she couldn’t utter. Not having a father was one of them. Yes, she always trotted out the cheerful, well-worn phrase, ‘oh, you can’t miss what you never had’ and she repeated it so often it was almost true. Almost. Then there were the other fears. Worrying that she’d never blossom, the way Rebecca and Annick had. That she’d never be even remotely attractive. That she’d always be mouthy and smart but never, ever desirable. That she’d be successful but unloved, or that she’d always be alone. Looking down at her mother, it was the last fear that sent a tremor of despair running through her. Something was happening to Lyudmila – was she sick? No, that wasn’t it, unless it was some hidden, secret illness no one, not even Lyudmila – could see. It was more a letting go . . . it came to her now, that, in spite of Lyudmila’s inherent selfishness, especially when it came to choosing between a luxury for herself or something for Tash, her mother had always been there. She’d more than made up for the absence of a father. She was always there when Tash returned home, always there at night when she went to bed. She never once spent the night away from home, not even back then when she’d had every opportunity. No, her gentlemen friends always came to the house, never the other way round. The sudden, painful realisation opened out onto a deeper one. What would become of her when Lyudmila was gone?

  Lyudmila’s eyes opened suddenly. She struggled to focus. ‘Oh. Dushen’ka . . . w-what time is it?’

  Tash, for the first time in years, laid a hand on her mother’s hair. It felt soft to the touch. ‘Ma, it’s late. You’ve had a small . . . accident. You must’ve spilled something on your trousers. Come on, let’s get you into bed.’

  Lyudmila looked down at herself, frowning. ‘Wh . . . what? Oh, oh, nyet.’ She struggled upright, brushing Tash’s hand aside. ‘Nyet . . . it must’ve—’

  ‘Must’ve been the tea,’ Tash interrupted briskly. ‘Come on, get up.’ She helped Lyudmila stand. Together, they made their way rather shakily to Lyudmila’s bedroom.

  ‘Ya sama! I manage,’ Lyudmila said impatiently as Tash tried to help her unbutton her shirt.

  ‘Fine. D’you want some water?’

  ‘Nyet. Da. Yes, bring me water.’ Lyudmila peeled her shirt off and unbuckled her trousers. There was a second’s hesitation as they looked at each other, mother and daughter, neither wishing to admit to what clearly couldn’t be said.

  Then Tash turned and went into the kitchen. She filled a glass from the tap and took it back in. Lyudmila was already in bed. She took the glass over, setting it carefully down on the bedside table. She looked at her mother. Lyudmila’s eyes were closed. She stood there for a second, and then bent down to pick up her discarded clothes. ‘Dushen’ka,’ Lyudmila murmured suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  Lyudmila’s hand went out, catching hold of Tash’s. She held it for a second, and then brought it gently towards her own head. Tash held her breath for a second, fighting down the ache in her chest. Then she began gently stroking her mother’s hair.

  82

  ANNICK

  London

  ‘Someone from the IT department’ll be up shortly. He’ll sort you out with email access and all that. Oh, and he’ll programme your ID card so that you can get into the canteen and the library. I think that’s everything. I’m only down the hallway so shout if you’ve got any questions. Shall I take you to your office?’

  ‘Yes, please. Th-thanks,’ Annick stammered. Her hands went automatically to her sides, as though she were trying to smooth her hips away. The black skirt with its kick-flare hem at her knees felt uncomfortably wrong. Clinton Crabbe might be one of the biggest and most prestigious law firms in London but her Burberry suit felt all wrong. Too stylish. So far, she’d met approximately ten of her new colleagues, ten men and women in almost identical grey and black suits without even so much as a hint of colour between them. She’d worn the beige Chloé suit to her interview with the baby-blue shirt, of course and had been told kindly, but firmly, that ‘We generally stick to black at Clinton Crabbe. Sometimes grey. Maybe navy-blue.’ She’d immediately relayed the intelligence to Tash. ‘Bo-ring.’ Tash was unrepentant. ‘Get the job first, though. They can’t sack you for wearing nice clothes.’

  On her first day she’d carefully chosen the only black suit in her wardrobe. At home, in front of the mirror, it seemed conservative enough but now, catching sight of herself in one of the mirrors as she followed her new colleague down the corridor, it struck her as a little too . . . well, feminine. There was nothing feminine about any of the other female solicitors she’d encountered thus far.

  ‘Ms Karol should be here soon. She comes in from Brussels on Mondays.’

  ‘Brussels?’

  ‘Yeah. Her husband lives there. He works for the European Commission. She flies over every other weekend. Right, well, if there’s nothing else?’ He seemed in a hurry to disappear.

  ‘No, no . . . that’s great. Thanks,’ Annick hastily assured him. She couldn’t remember his name. Neil? Nigel?

  ‘Good luck.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She can be a bit fierce sometimes, but don’t let that put you off. She’s brilliant.’

  ‘Oh. Th-thanks.’ The door closed behind him and she was alone. She looked around the office. It was a decent-sized room with two desks and a small adjoining room off to one side where the two secretaries sat. Neither was at her desk; one had gone out to fetch coffee and the other was busy photocopying files. Whilst the secretaries – whose names she’d also already forgotten – were technically hers as well, it was clear Frances Karol’s wishes would always come first. She was the most senior woman in Clinton Crabbe and Annick ought to consider herself lucky to be working with her. So everyone said.

  A shadow fell across the carpet suddenly. She looked up. A young woman was standing in the doorway holding a large silver flask. ‘Oh, hello. You must be the new solicitor. I’m Louise. Ms Karol’s assistant.’

  ‘Hi. I’m Annick.’

  ‘Um, we don’t call the solicitors by their first names. Not in this department, anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, you’ll be Miss Betancourt to us. That’s myself and Katie.’

  ‘Oh.’ Annick didn’t know what else to say. She was saved any further embarrassment by the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

  ‘Good morning, Ms Karol,’ Louise practically dropped into a curtsy.

  ‘Morning, Louise. Ah, you must be Annick Betancourt.’

  Annick nodded. Frances Karol was a tall, flame-haired woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a grey pin-stri
pe trouser suit with a black silk shirt and a severe, no-nonsense look on her face. ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘Good morning. I . . . Neil showed me—’

  ‘Coffee? How d’you take it?’

  ‘For me? Oh, er, milk and sugar.’

  ‘Sugar?’ Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘Coffee for Miss Betancourt, Louise. This side of Christmas, if you can manage it. Now, I assume someone’s shown you the peripheral stuff?’

  ‘Peripheral stuff?’

  ‘Toilets, canteen, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes.’

  ‘Good. Then we can get started on the important stuff. Pull up a chair and grab a notebook. I’ve a list of things I’d like you to take care of. It’s going to be a tough week, I’m afraid. We’ve got several big cases coming up and I’ll be alongside the barristers in court for most of it. I’m told you’ve a fair bit of experience in wills and probate?’

  Annick swallowed nervously. It had been over five years since she’d even looked at a legal document, let alone a will, but something told her it wasn’t the time to admit to it. ‘Um, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘That’s mostly what I worked on at . . . when I last worked here.’

  ‘Good. Not a million miles away from what I do. Patience is key. Hard work, attention to detail and patience. Let’s hope you’ve got at least one out of the three.’

  Annick had no idea what to say. She struggled to keep up with the list of things Frances was rattling off. She’d only just managed to get over the shock of watching Tash at work. The brusque, no-nonsense manner that had characterised her personality for as long as Annick had known her had been transformed into a brisk professionalism that left Annick speechless. And now here was Frances Karol, several years older and several degrees frostier. The women Annick had either known or worked with before were of a much milder, more feminine disposition.