Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  Half an hour later, the four men he’d been desperately trying to woo stood up. Sheikh Al-Soueif adjusted his robes with an impatient, practised switch of his arm. His snowy-white ghytra was held firmly in place by a double band of thick, black rope; its long, tasselled corners fell in billowing waves over his shoulders. He wore the traditional white thawb, with a long overcoat of embroidered gold. He was a short man, perhaps a whole head shorter than Julian, but there was such power in his stance and his calm, slow gaze that Julian felt he should be looking up towards him, not the other way round. His nephew and the two advisors arranged themselves on either side as the party made their farewells. The nephew, a smooth-talking, smooth-faced young man of around thirty, had translated for his uncle throughout. Julian sat back, listening to the Arabic flowing over them, and was reminded yet again of how close the language was to Hebrew – despite not speaking a word of it, the rhythm and cadence was closer than he’d thought. He sneaked a quick look at Miranda; she understood more than she let on, he thought to himself. Once or twice their eyes caught and held. Don’t panic, she seemed to be signalling. Let me handle this. It was hard not to panic. He was sweating profusely again by the time they shook hands.

  The four Arabs had started walking back slowly towards the exit when the sheikh turned round suddenly. The three younger men held back respectfully.

  ‘One last thing, Mr Lovell,’ the sheikh said in perfect English. ‘Just to satisfy my curiosity. Do you race?’

  Julian gaped at him. Not only did the question take him by surprise – what sort of racing was the man referring to? – but he’d spoken English. Perfect English.

  ‘Er, n-no, sir, your Highness,’ Julian stammered. ‘If you mean horse-racing?’

  ‘No other kind, I’m afraid.’ He looked up at Julian from under those deep, hooded eyes and then smiled. ‘I thought not.’ He turned to his aides and waved his hand imperiously. ‘Ya’alla.’ They moved off immediately, as one.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ Julian turned to Miranda, almost speechless with surprise. ‘He just spoke English!’

  ‘Eton,’ Miranda murmured. ‘Then Oxford. PPE, I believe. Or PPP . . . can never remember. Or tell the difference,’ she smiled. ‘Drink?’

  Julian nodded vigorously. ‘Christ, I need one. What an afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get the clause put in. It’ll happen, Julian. I don’t know why you’re so worried. I’ve never seen you this tense,’ she said, stroking his arm lightly. ‘You need to relax, darling.’

  The urge to confide in someone almost knocked him sideways but he steadied himself. Confiding in Miranda would be a mistake. No matter how chummily intimate Miranda might get, her first instinct was self-preservation. If the chips were down she’d use anything and everything to make sure she’d come out unscathed. Miranda would throw him to the dogs if she had to. ‘I’m fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Lot going on.’

  ‘Has Rebecca had the sprog yet?’

  He winced. ‘It’s not a sprog, Miranda. It’s a little girl.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He glanced at her. In her grey business suit with the pink silk blouse and those oversized tortoiseshell glasses, she looked like the sort of sexy schoolteacher he’d have had a crush on, had there been a schoolteacher like Miranda at his all-boys’ prep school. His cock began to stir. ‘Join me in a drink?’ he motioned towards the bar.

  Miranda shook her head. ‘Sorry, darling . . . I’ve got plans.’ She gave him a coy little smile, patted him condescendingly on the bottom in much the same way he’d have patted her if he’d had half the chance, and moved off. He was left alone in the bar of the Intercontinental in Dubai, surrounded by braying, semi-drunk ex-pats. He scratched his beard. His wife had just given birth, his business partners had no idea where he was, or what he was up to, or what he’d done . . . it wasn’t quite adding up. He was fifty-seven years of age and he was horribly over-extended. It wasn’t where he’d planned to be. How d’you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.

  ‘Give me another,’ he signalled to the bartender. ‘And make it a double.’

  107

  TASH

  London

  The brochures were spread across the breakfast table, each one glossier, more beautifully photographed and styled than the next. She cleared away a space and fanned them out in front of her. She looked at the breakfast table and sighed deeply in pleasure. The saucers that were part of the beautiful porcelain set Embeth had given them for their wedding held the remnants of breakfast – a plain scone for her, jam and toast for Adam. Two months into their married life and it sometimes felt as though they’d been married for ever. Their routines were remarkably similar. They both got up around the same time, just after dawn, took it in turns to shower in the bathroom that was the size of an entire flat and met downstairs in the pretty kitchen on the ground floor, where the maid would have laid out the breakfast table before disappearing upstairs to restore order to the rooms they’d just vacated. An assortment of honeys and jams, sometimes the odd slice of ham or prosciutto that she’d chosen at the delicatessen around the corner or some cheese. A cafetière of freshly brewed coffee. They read the papers, checked emails and messages and then left the house separately, Tash in her chauffeur-driven car since they’d moved to the new King’s Cross offices, Adam to the office he shared with his business partners. Even after two months it was still a little unclear to Tash what Adam actually did: ‘investments’, he said airily, but she still had no idea what that meant. Whatever it meant, it kept him busy. He was gone from seven thirty in the morning until six or seven at night and seemed pleased enough with the progress.

  She picked up the first brochure. She looked at the image on the cover and her heartbeat immediately quickened. Oversea: set in an unbeatable location on Lincoln’s Circle, Nantucket’s premiere neighbourhood, this classic waterfront home exudes early Nantucket charm, with unobstructed views of the Sound and beyond. Oversea has been an island landmark for well over a hundred years. Eight bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, private beach stairs, a bargain at 15 million dollars, according to the estate agents. She picked up another leaflet. Tranquillity sets the stage for this striking new home, set on 3.6 acres in Sconset. Designed both for domestic comfort and gracious entertaining, this richly detailed property . . . Six bedrooms, six bathrooms, black granite pool, a guesthouse . . . it looked divine. She picked up another. And another.

  It took her two hours to go through all fourteen brochures and by the time she was finished, her head was spinning. She had a meeting at eleven – just under an hour to go – and all she could think about was low-ceilinged barns, wooden rafters, kitchens the size of whole houses and wild grass lawns. Nantucket Sound, Katama Bay, Menemsha Pond, Squibnocket Bight. What on earth was a ‘squibnocket’?

  She hummed to herself as she tidied everything away. She didn’t want Adam to see what she was up to. She wanted to surprise him. She couldn’t remember when the idea of a second home had come to her. Perhaps it was hearing him talk about New York? She’d suddenly had a longing to visit New York again. It had been almost ten years since her trip with Rosie. All she could remember was the sheer excitement of it all – the yellow cabs, the vertical canyons of buildings, the lights, the buzz, the atmosphere. It was true what they said – New York was less a city than a feeling. She suddenly wanted to feel it again and what better way than to have a place there? Not in the city, per se, but somewhere just outside it. Somewhere beautiful, calm, tranquil . . . a place to entertain family and friends, to invite her godchildren.

  It was at this last that her pulse really began to race. She and Adam hadn’t had that conversation. She wouldn’t have even known how to bring it up. Did she actually want a child? She’d never taken any precautions against having one, and neither had he, but nothing had happened. She was thirty-seven: old enough to wonder, too young to panic, as Annick delicately put it. It’ll happen, she assured her blithely, ‘just when you least expect it.’ Tash
wasn’t sure quite what was meant by ‘when you least expect it’, but she let it pass. It seemed odd to be taking advice from Annick and Rebecca when she was always the one dispensing it.

  She stowed the brochures away in the dresser in the hallway and made her way upstairs. She had a photo shoot in the studio to oversee at eleven, then an afternoon meeting with her accountants. She pulled a face. Meetings with accountants she endured; a photo shoot was a much more interesting way to spend a day.

  By four o’clock, she was struggling to stay awake. Cash flow; balance sheets; off-shore investments; her portfolio; tax breaks; insurance policies; over- and under-exposure . . . she had to keep nudging herself as the accountants droned on and on. Every so often her eyes fell to her BlackBerry, nestling in the palm of her hand. Across from her sat Colin, calm and capable as ever. She trusted him to grasp the finer points of whatever it was they were discussing. Did they have enough to do what she wanted? That was all she cared about. How they got there was Colin’s business.

  She looked down at the message list on her Blackberry again. There were half a dozen emails from the various estate agents she’d contacted in Cape Cod. One was marked ‘highest priority’. She glanced around the table; the four men were busy discussing the finer points of balance sheets. She surreptitiously clicked on it and her heart began to race. 12 Pohoganot Road, Martha’s Vineyard. This signature home is sitting high on a bluff with breathtaking water views in three directions: the Atlantic Ocean to the south, Paqua Pond to the east and Ripley Cove to the west. It was the photograph that caught her attention, tiny as it was. It was of a grey shingle, two-storey house with whitewashed trim, three or four chimneys, a beautiful sweep of lawn and beyond, the bluest, freshest skies she’d ever seen and an ocean view to die for. She stared at it. 6,900,000 dollars. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a pool, tennis courts, a guest house and – best of all – a beautiful old barn on the northern slope, away from the house. She swallowed hard. She scrolled across the screen, her pulse accelerating by the second. Hi Ms Bryce-Brudenell. Please call me as soon as you can. This property’s just come on the market and we’ve had a lot of interest already. It’s totally special, even though it needs quite a bit of work. It’s a bargain at the price! Look forward to speaking. Yrs., Janine van Wolmer.

  She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five: eleven in the morning in Martha’s Vineyard. She’d better get to it before anyone else did.

  ‘Tash?’ Colin’s voice brought her abruptly back to the meeting at hand.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We were just wondering . . . there’s a transfer amount here,’ Colin pointed to some random figures on a spreadsheet. ‘It’s into your private account, not one of the company accounts. It seems a little odd.’

  Tash had no idea what he was talking about, but all she wanted to do was look at the pictures of the house she’d just received. She’d never wanted anything so badly before. She got up from the table, clutching the phone. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. Must’ve been something for my mother. I’ve got to run, I’m afraid – something’s come up.’ She grabbed her bag and practically ran from the room. She heard Colin’s calm, measured voice as she closed the door behind her.

  ‘Well, you heard her. She often transfers large amounts to her mother. They’ve been thinking of setting something up in Russia, I believe. I’ll get the details later.’

  She galloped back down the stairs to her office, fingers already dialling Janine’s number. On the third ring, it was answered. ‘Is that Janine? Tash Bryce-Brudenell here. Has it gone? The house on Pohoganot Road? Is it still available?’

  ‘Well, hi there,’ Janine’s friendly voice crackled down the line, shaming her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, fine . . . has it gone?’

  ‘No, not yet. It’s a very special property, Tash. May I call you Tash?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. When can I see it?’

  ‘You’re in London, England, right? I just love London. In fact, I love England. I was there—’

  ‘Janine, we can talk about England when I get there. Give me two days and please, please don’t show it to anyone else. I’ve got a really good feeling about the property – I can’t explain it. Can you do that for me? Just keep it under wraps for a couple of days. I’ll be able to tell you straight away if I’m taking it.’

  ‘Why, of course, Tash.’ Janine was practically purring. Tash could hear it down the line. ‘Two days, you say? Today’s what, Thursday?’

  ‘I’ll be there by Saturday morning. I’ll get my secretary to forward my itinerary.’ She put the phone down before Janine could extract any further promises. She hugged herself tightly. It would be her secret to everyone. She’d have to make up some reason why she had to be in the US that weekend but she knew in her heart of hearts that it would be hers. A holiday home for everyone – Adam, Rebecca, Julian, Annick, Yves, their kids, her mother . . . everyone. She could already picture it. Long summer evenings by the pool; Christmases when the beach was knee-deep in snow; autumn walks as the children grew older, kicking at red and gold leaves, mulled wine and gingerbread cookies by the many fireplaces. The barn could be converted into a studio or an office for Adam; the guest house could be Lyudmila’s pied-à-terre . . . it would be open all year round to whomever wanted it. They could use it as a location, entertain clients if she felt like it when she went over for the shows. Anna Wintour had a home nearby. Hell, half of New York’s fashion world summered in Martha’s Vineyard. It was perfect. The perfect backdrop for all the different facets of her life. She hugged herself in giddy, half-nervous anticipation. Was this really her life?

  108

  REBECCA

  Jerusalem

  Under heavy, rain-sodden skies, the last of the mourners made their way across the stony path, away from the graves and the spectacular views over the Old City. To her right lay Yad Vashem, the memorial to the Holocaust that she dimly remembered visiting as a child, with her parents. Rain fell in small, sharp needles, hitting the taut fabric of her umbrella before sliding down in pearly, crystal droplets, falling towards the ground. Maryam was struggling a little; snuggled up against her mother in a red parka with a fur trim around the hood to keep her warm, she sucked her thumb, humming to herself as she often did. ‘What’re you singing, darling?’ Rebecca would often ask her, searching those beautiful, mysterious eyes that held her own captive as she searched for what lay behind. But Maryam would only look at her, deeply, then smile and turn away.

  The party who’d come to bury Bettina Harburg, the last of Lionel’s sisters, had gathered in small groups at the entrance to the cemetery, huddled under umbrellas. Julian walked slowly beside her. She felt his gaze turn from the mourners to a tall figure in a dark grey overcoat who stood on the other side of the turnstile. Who’s that?’ he asked, jerking his head in the man’s direction. ‘Why doesn’t he come inside?’

  Rebecca looked across the square. Her heart missed a beat, a whole, entire beat. She thought she might drop Maryam. ‘Wh-who?’ she stammered, knowing full well who it was.

  ‘Him . . . there, over there by the turnstile.’

  She forced herself to look round and look away again. ‘No idea,’ she said quickly. She bent her head to Maryam’s, praying her cheeks weren’t the colour of her coat.

  ‘He looks a bit suspicious. Is he an Arab, d’you think?’

  ‘Oh, Julian . . . don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not. Hang on a moment. Here, take this.’ He passed the umbrella to her and moved off, heading for a small group of men in black coats – the rabbi who’d come to officiate and a few others. She could see her mother talking to someone; another relative whom she’d never met. Her heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Maryam must have sensed it; she stirred restlessly in her arms. She didn’t dare go across to where Tariq stood. She didn’t even dare look at him. She stood there, cold rain dripping down the back of her own coat, unable to think straight. She knew why he was there. He wanted to see his daughter. She was ne
arly three months old now and he hadn’t yet seen her. It was Rebecca’s first trip back to Israel. She’d baulked at the idea of Tariq coming to London. The night before their departure, she’d left Maryam with the nanny and rushed out to the shops along Hampstead High Street, her mobile clutched to her ear. ‘I can’t,’ she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘I just daren’t risk it, Tariq. Please don’t ask me. Please.’

  ‘Just tell him you’re going to visit a friend,’ he’d exploded. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Rebecca? I haven’t even seen her yet.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ll . . . I’ll try. I can’t promise anything. You don’t know Julian . . . I sometimes wonder if he suspects.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about Julian. She’s my child, Rebecca.’

  ‘I know.’ She began to cry in earnest, like a child. Her face would be all blotchy and swollen by the time she got back to the house, she knew, but she didn’t care.

  And now, here he was, standing on the other side of the barrier that separated them, waiting for her. She saw Julian ask something of one of the older men, who looked over at Tariq. Something was going to happen; she could feel it. She held onto Maryam tightly as Julian and two others broke away from the group and moved towards the gate. Tariq stood his ground, watching them as they walked purposefully towards him. Her heart was thumping as they drew near. She was too far away to hear what was said but, from their expressions and gestures, they were less than welcoming. She stood by helplessly as one of them – not Julian, she was pathetically grateful to see – pushed a finger into Tariq’s shoulder, much the way one would chastise a child. He jabbed at Tariq several times until Tariq caught hold of his finger, forcing him to stop. Behind them, two young soldiers, their guns strapped across their chests, began to move towards them, clearly wondering what was going on. Her heart in her mouth, she watched as Tariq slowly brushed his overcoat with his palm and then turned around and walked off, leaving Julian and the three or four men who’d joined him, watching after him, obviously wondering who the hell he was.