Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Annick?’ Frances’ voice interrupted her musings.

  She looked up nervously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve stopped writing. Unless you’ve got total recall, which I very much doubt, you’re going to miss something. I’m going to go back a point or two and I’d advise you to do the same. It’s all in the detail, Annick. But you should know that.’

  Annick bent her head back to her notebook. Her cheeks were already reddening. Could she keep up?

  The brain, Annick soon discovered, was like any other muscle. Was it a muscle? No matter. Whatever it was – muscle, organ, thing – it needed exercise, fresh air, and exertion. In other words, it needed to be used. Her brain, unused to doing anything more taxing than working out room rates or adding up the night’s takings, refused at first to step up to the plate. Her first few days at Clinton Crabbe passed in a haze of panic. She felt as though she was sleepwalking and with each passing hour, the feeling intensified. She couldn’t manage the simplest of tasks, like remembering where her office was. Fourth floor, exit lift, turn left (not right), second corridor on the left, fifth office down. She whispered the directions to herself like a mantra and still managed to take the wrong corridor, wrong turn, wrong office. She’d lost count of the times someone on the fourth floor had seen her coming, rolled his eyes and pointed her back in the direction from which she’d come. Of the six pairs of shoes Tash had thrust upon her, none had anything less than a four-inch heel and they clacked. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Frances wore low-heeled sensible black court shoes, not stilettoes, and she approached in silence. Annick came down the corridors sounding like the Charge of the Light Brigade.

  Every morning, a pile of legal briefs would appear on her desk threatening to topple over. Her job was to go through them with a magnifying glass, checking facts, figures, dates, conflicting accounts . . . making sure, in other words, that whatever landed on Frances’ desk was watertight and in perfect order. ‘If you can survive six months with her, you can survive anyone,’ someone helpfully told her as they both stood waiting for their coffees one morning. Annick nodded uncertainly. At this rate, she thought to herself, she wasn’t sure she’d survive another six days. She went to bed after midnight every night, woke up at five, usually in a cold sweat worrying if she’d forgotten something or misspelt something or omitted something, and was at her desk by seven thirty each morning, long before Louise and Katie. There was so much to learn. ‘Experience is everything,’ Frances tossed out over her shoulder one afternoon. ‘A tax lawyer who doesn’t know her taxation is useless, so you’ve got to be committed to acquiring that knowledge.’ Annick could only nod. Her first few months were crucial, she knew. She had to establish herself not only as credible in Frances’ eyes, but as a team player, someone who could roll up her (Chloé) sleeves and get down to business alongside everyone else. She felt as though she’d suddenly been thrown a lifeline and she was determined not to let it slip.

  Compared to what she’d been earning in Paris, her new salary was an absolute fortune. Tash wouldn’t hear of her contributing to her rent or her clothing. ‘Pay me back later, darling. When you’re properly on your feet.’ And that was the end of that conversation.

  Six months, Annick vowed to herself. In six months’ time, she’d move out of the lovely little flat on Queen Anne Street and into something that, as a junior solicitor, she could properly afford. In the meantime, there were so many other things to worry about. At the end of her first week she walked into Lewin’s, the shirt-makers on the corner, and bought three plain white shirts. One more raised eyebrow from Ms Karol and she’d die.

  83

  REBECCA

  London

  It was their third argument in as many weeks, and, as usual, it was conducted over the phone. Where was Julian? Vancouver. No, Toronto. Ottawa? She struggled to remember.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Julian said tetchily. ‘It’s all organised. What’s the problem?’

  ‘But you said you’d be in Israel next week. And I . . . I made arrangements.’

  ‘What sort of arrangements? Cancel them.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t. It was just going to be the three of us. It’ll be the first time we’re—’

  ‘Rebecca.’ Julian’s voice was dangerously quiet. She could feel a storm coming on. ‘You need to make up your mind here.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’re married to me, Rebecca, not those damned girlfriends of yours. Now, I’ve got two clients coming over with me, and Jeff and Miranda, of course. I’ve already spoken to your mother. We’re going down to Brockhurst. She’ll have the place ready for us; the servants will organise lunch and dinner. Jeff and I will take the clients out for a round of golf on the Saturday morning and I’m sure you can find something to do with Miranda and—’

  Rebecca slammed down the phone. Her hands were shaking. She’d been so looking forward to spending the bank holiday weekend in Cavezzana with Tash and Annick. It was to be a surprise for Annick’s birthday. They’d planned to show up at Annick’s flat early on the Saturday morning with presents. Embeth’s driver would wait for them downstairs. They wouldn’t tell Annick where they were going until they’d reached Heathrow. First-class tickets, a driver waiting for them in Genoa, the drive down to Cavezzana . . . it had all been organised, right down to the last detail. And now Julian had gone and ruined everything . . . and the worst thing was, he wasn’t even apologetic! He seemed to regard it as his right! And her mother seemed to be in on it, too. She’d known for weeks what she and Tash had planned . . . how dare she just give into Julian’s demands without saying a word?

  The phone rang again. She ignored it. She got up off the bed and walked into her cavernous walk-in closet. She yanked a denim jacket off the rails and shrugged it on. Flicking her hair back into a ponytail, she slipped on a pair of sandals and picked up her handbag. She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror – no make-up, an angry set to her lips and a frown that seemed etched between her brows . . . but for once, she didn’t care. She had to get out of the house.

  The bar at the Stag and Hound was packed. It had been years since she’d been in here, she thought to herself as she pushed her way forward, trying to catch the eye of one of the bartenders. The three of them had often sneaked in as teenagers when they were staying at Harburg Hall. Like all the pubs in the vicinity, it had gone decidedly upmarket. The walls were painted a lovely, deep raspberry and the wooden floors had been stripped back and varnished to a deep, golden sheen. The clientele had changed too. It was louder and a lot more dressed up than she remembered. Rock music blared from the ceiling in the bar and in the dining area, just behind the bar, huge, sparkling chandeliers cast a soft, pretty glow over the diners.

  She spotted a stool right at the end, next to the serving hatch and quickly pushed her way over. She slid gratefully onto it, and pulled her slouchy handbag onto her lap, like a pet. She squinted at the bottles behind the bar – what did she feel like?

  ‘What can I get you?’ A good-looking young bartender was suddenly in front of her. ‘Glass of white?’

  ‘Er, yes. That’ll do.’

  He put the glass down in front of her with a small flourish. ‘Let me see . . . I’ve got a lovely Felton Road Chardonnay. From New Zealand. You look like the sort of woman who’d go for that.’

  Rebecca smiled, her first smile of the evening. ‘And what sort of woman would that be?’ she asked. He was clearly flirting with her.

  ‘Someone with a bit of sophistication, I’d say. No, make that a lot of sophistication.’

  Rebecca had to laugh. She gestured down at herself. ‘In jeans?’

  ‘Ah, it’s the bag that’s the giveaway. Looks expensive. Might not be. It’s hard to tell these days. But it looks it.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘It was a present,’ she said quickly.

  ‘From?’

  She looked up. ‘My husband.’

  ‘Lucky man.’

  ‘Why not “lucky me”?’<
br />
  ‘Anyone can buy a bag,’ he said easily. ‘You, on the other hand? Like I said, lucky man.’

  ‘Christian! Are you going to stand there all night chatting up poor defenceless customers?’ A harried-looking man brushed past, carrying a tray of steaming glasses. ‘There’s a couple down the other end . . . they’ve been waiting for ages.’

  ‘Sorry, boss.’ Christian grinned at Rebecca. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Sally.’ The lie popped out before she could think.

  ‘Funny. You don’t look like a Sally. Well, see you later, Sally-or-not.’ He winked at her and was gone. She stared after him. It had been so long since she’d had the occasion to flirt she’d almost forgotten how. And what on earth had made her lie about her name? She picked up the very large glass of white wine he’d set in front of her and took a gulp. He was right. It was delicious.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ She looked up in surprise. He was back.

  She nodded. ‘Very.’

  ‘What did I tell you? No rush – plenty more where that came from.’ And he was gone again, whistling some damn tune, obviously mighty pleased with himself. Rebecca sat up a little straighter in her chair. She wished she’d taken time to put on some make-up.

  ‘Your name’s not Sally, is it?’ He turned towards her, groping for the bedside light. She put out a hand to stop him. She liked the fact that she couldn’t see him properly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what is it, then?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He paused. She could feel his chest expand as he slowly exhaled. ‘It’d be nice,’ he said after a moment.

  Rebecca shook her head and reached for her handbag, which was lying on the floor beside the bed. His bed. An untidily made bed in a shared house somewhere in Camden. She almost giggled out loud. Christian was twenty-three. A student. Anthropology. From Dorset. Those were the facts. Oh, and that she’d gone home with him after the pub closed. She fished around for her cigarettes. The room was illuminated briefly as the match flared. ‘Want one?’

  He nodded. They lay back against the pillows, smoking together. ‘So what’s your story?’ he asked her, rolling over to face her.

  ‘Haven’t got one.’

  ‘Course you have. Dunno how old you are. Not much older than me, I don’t think. You’re married and your husband’s clearly not around. You come into the pub for a drink, wind up having most of the bottle and then you come home with me. I’d say there’s a story in there, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Christian, can we just leave it at this?’ Rebecca asked, smiling at him to take the sting out of her words. He seemed nice. ‘You’re very sweet . . . I had a good time tonight. But I . . . look, it’s complicated.’

  He was quiet for a bit, concentrating on finishing his cigarette. He stubbed it out and turned to her again. His hand went round her shoulders, burrowing underneath her hair, pulling her back towards him. His brow was creased but he didn’t seem angry. They lay facing each other, touching lightly as he stroked the hair away from her face. ‘Fine,’ he said quietly. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’ His other hand moved slowly down the length of her naked body, teasing her as he went. He slid a finger between her hot, damp thighs, gently stroking her back to excitement.

  ‘Harder.’ Again, the words slipped out before she could think.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘No, harder. Harder than that. You can hurt me, if you like.’

  His finger stopped its rhythmic stroking. ‘Hurt you?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

  She nodded. ‘Hurt me. Please.’

  She turned slowly in front of the mirror. It was nearly five a.m., although it was still pitch black outside. She’d walked from Christian’s flat on Castlehaven Road all the way up Haverstock Hill to the top, before winding her way through the backstreets until she reached home. It had taken her nearly an hour but she needed the fresh air. Several lone taxis had spotted her, slowing down as they passed her, but she’d made no move to hail one down. She needed the time to think.

  Now, safely back at home, she took off all her clothes and stood naked in front of the long mirror in the bathroom. She examined herself carefully from all sides. She bruised easily; already she could see faint marks beginning to show up underneath her alabaster skin. There, on her upper arm, where he’d gripped her and on the inside of both thighs. She touched the marks lightly, as though testing a piece of fruit for ripeness, wincing in pain. Why had she asked him to hit her? She had absolutely no answer save one: she’d enjoyed it. Every single minute. The couple of hours she’d spent in Christian’s bed had been the most exciting of her life. She was free to do what she liked, how she liked. He had no idea who she was and never would. She was free. Absolutely, utterly free.

  She turned on the shower and stepped in. She angled her face gratefully up to the powerful water jets, enjoying the sensation of being lightly hit and pummelled for the second time that night.

  84

  TASH

  There was something odd about Rebecca that wasn’t just to do with her distracted air and the way she kept fiddling with her hair. Tash frowned, trying to put her finger on it. ‘Have you been on holiday or something?’ she asked her suddenly. ‘You’re tanned.’ The three of them were having dinner at Carluccio’s, on Westbourne Grove. Tash had just come out of a meeting around the corner and had somehow managed to persuade the other two to join her close by.

  ‘Oh. Yeah, I did a couple of tanning sessions. At the salon,’ she added, seeing both Tash’s and Annick’s puzzled faces. ‘I just couldn’t bear being so bloody pasty-faced any longer.’

  ‘Pasty-faced? You’re always pasty-faced,’ Tash couldn’t help herself. ‘Well, pale, I mean.’

  Rebecca shrugged. ‘I just got tired of it.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Tash asked, frowning again. Rebecca really did seem out of sorts.

  She nodded impatiently. ‘Yeah, yeah . . . everything’s fine.’

  ‘How’s Julian?’ Annick ventured. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t met him yet. I’ve been back a couple of months, you know. It’s gone by so quickly.’

  ‘He’s away. Again,’ Rebecca said tightly. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘It suits you, though,’ Annick said timidly. ‘The tan.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Tash shrugged and reached for the wine bottle. Fine. If Rebecca wanted to pretend that everything was okay, who was she to argue? ‘Where is he, anyway?’ she asked, somewhat changing the subject.

  Rebecca shrugged. ‘New York. Brussels. Tokyo . . . I lose track.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan for my birthday?’ Annick asked brightly.

  Rebecca turned a stricken-looking face to both of them. ‘I won’t be able to make it,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Tash’s mouth dropped open. ‘What’re you talking about? We’ve been planning it for ages,’ she said, astonished.

  ‘It’s Julian’s fault. He’s organised a weekend down at my parents’ place in Hampshire. We leave on Friday, back on the Tuesday morning.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Tash burst out. ‘We had plans, Rebecca!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Rebecca sounded close to tears. ‘I told him. But he’s bringing some clients down. He’s got these two guys coming with him and they want to spend a weekend in the English countryside. He rang my mum the other day and they organised it between them. The driver’s taking us down. And he’s bringing that awful woman, Miranda whatever-her-name-is. You know, the one who’s always in the news. I’ve got to entertain her whilst they tee off. It’s so fucking unfair.’

  Tash’s mouth dropped open. It was so unlike Rebecca to swear. ‘Why can’t he just go down on his own?’ Tash asked angrily. ‘Doesn’t sound as though he needs you there?’

  Rebecca looked even more guilty and miserable. ‘I . . . I can’t. I can’t not go. I’m his wife, Tash.’

  ‘And you’re our best friend.’ Tash glared at her.

>   Annick looked from one to the other anxiously. ‘It’s not such a big deal,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s fine. We’ll think of something, won’t we, Tash?’

  ‘But it was all planned,’ Tash began angrily, irritation written all over her face.

  ‘I know, but we’ll think of something else.’

  ‘Since when did you become such an arbitrator?’ Tash snapped.

  ‘Don’t take it out on her,’ Rebecca snapped back. ‘It’s not Annick’s fault. It’s mine, I told you. And I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, Annie, I promise.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Annick protested.

  The three of them glared at each other. Then, to everyone’s relief, Tash began to laugh.

  ‘Okay, okay . . . we’ll think of something, Annie, just you and me. It’s fine, Rebecca. You trot off and play the good wife. Me and Annick’ll get up to no good without you.’

  For a second, Rebecca looked as though she might burst into tears but she didn’t. ‘You’ve got no idea what it’s like,’ she muttered after a moment, pouring herself another glass.

  ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She looked at Rebecca sharply. Two tears suddenly rolled off her chin and landed on her plate. ‘Rebecca?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Look, it’s not that serious,’ she said, trying to lighten her tone. ‘It’s fine. We’ll do something else. Maybe we can get together the weekend after next. How about that?’

  Rebecca nodded, but seemed unable to speak.

  Annick’s eyes were like round, panicked saucers. ‘Don’t,’ she said, putting a hand on Rebecca’s arm. ‘Don’t cry, Rebecca. It’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘It’s n-not that,’ Rebecca stammered, wiping her cheeks furiously. ‘It’s n-not ab-about your birthday.’

  ‘What’s the matter, then?’ Tash asked, hoping her voice was gentle.

  Rebecca shook her head furiously. ‘N-nothing. I’m . . . I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’