Little White Lies

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘I told you it was nothing to worry about,’ Tash said, draining her glass. ‘Silly thing. All that fuss. You’re such a worrier, Annie. I’d say you’ve done better out of this than any of us.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Tash stood up suddenly. She yawned widely, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Yves is a lovely man. I can’t imagine him doing anything to hurt you or Didi. Even unconsciously. I wish I could—’ She stopped abruptly, her expression clouding over. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘You’re drinking rather a lot,’ Annick began hesitantly.

  ‘Are you keeping tabs on me as well?’ Tash asked.

  ‘No, no . . . of course not,’ Annick hastened to assure her but it was too late. Tash had already turned away. She watched her walk across the polished, gleaming expanse of floorboards, her back very straight but her balance betrayed her once or twice.

  The door at the far end of the living room closed behind her and Annick was alone. Rebecca hadn’t come back downstairs. Everything was quiet. She ran her hand slowly around the sharp rim of her wine glass. Was Tash right, she wondered? Was there really nothing to worry about and was it, as she’d been roused to say, all a silly misunderstanding? She stroked the glass back and forth. They were leaving for New York on Friday night – her, Yves, Julian and Rebecca. Tash had insisted. The couples ought to have at least a weekend together alone. Adam and Julian had some business to attend to in the city and she would spend the weekend with her godchildren, alone. It was the least they could do, she’d said laughingly, making it sound as though they were doing her a favour by leaving the children with her, not the other way round. Having brought them all this way out, surely their parents wouldn’t begrudge her a couple of days on her own with them? And she’d have plenty of help, she pointed out. Clea, Adriana and a housekeeper at the very least. Four adults to look after four children. What could possibly go wrong?

  115

  ANNICK

  Manhattan

  The lobby of the Crosby Street Hotel in SoHo was unlike any hotel lobby she’d ever set foot in. From the giant delicate white wire sculpture of a human head standing in front of the reception desk to the recycled plastic dogs seated docilely at the foot of a grey velvet sofa with beautiful thick purple and yellow cushions that complemented the wild streaks of colour in the paintings surrounding them, this was a hotel with a difference. It was Tash, of course, who’d recommended it. Julian and Rebecca were staying further uptown, in the sort of old-world elegance that Julian favoured but this . . . Annick looked around her, pinching herself hard every few moments to make sure it was all true, all real and that she was experiencing it, just as her eyes seemed to be telling her.

  They were shown into the bar area as their bags were taken upstairs – a riot of colourful, striped banquettes, polished silver tables and the most exquisite collection of African-inspired artworks and sculptures on the walls. Annick gasped as they walked in and clutched Yves’ arm in delight. ‘Oh, look!’ she squealed, pointing to a large carved mask behind the bar. ‘They’re like the ones at home,’ she said excitedly.

  ‘Home?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘We don’t have one of those over the fireplace, if I remember rightly.’

  She smiled. ‘You know what I mean. In Togo.’

  ‘Ah. In Togo. You’ve never called it “home” before,’ he noted amusedly.

  ‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

  They looked at each other, faces less a collection of well-known features than a concentration of emotion that both tried to suppress. The knowledge of who they both were came up between them. She could see it in his eyes. He put out a hand; it came to rest on her forearm. She looked at it, and then back up at him, and although there was the wonderful reassurance of his sameness and familiarity, there was something profoundly different in the air between them. It was as if, in turning to look at the artwork over the bar together, a private, deeply intimate space had opened up in which whatever previously couldn’t be said, now was. ‘Let’s go,’ he said quietly, giving her arm a little shake. ‘Upstairs.’

  She followed him mutely, aware of the quickening of her heartbeat as the sleeping giant of desire woke in her. It had been months since she’d felt such desire. They almost ran into the elevator, ignoring the amused but tolerant glances of the hotel staff. Theirs wasn’t the illicit passion of the Mr-and-Mrs-Smith variety for which the hotel was a suitably exotic and erotic backdrop. But the staff were not to know and probably couldn’t have cared less. By the time the lift doors opened on the fifth floor and Yves had impatiently fumbled the key-card out of his pocket, Annick was beyond thinking – or caring – what others thought.

  The room was shrouded in darkness by the time either of them was seeing again. Yves’ hand lay across her stomach; every now and then, his fingers moved lightly across her skin, touching her with infinite tenderness. It had been months since they’d made love in the middle of the day like this – and years since it had taken place in a hotel. He was both rough and gentle with her, sensing the unspoken question that had been gnawing at her was about to be brought into the open, and with it, a kind of healing that they’d never dared express.

  ‘I thought of sweet things, just now,’ she whispered, her own hand going up to touch the soft tight curls that began at his forehead. ‘Condensed milk. D’you remember it?’

  He nodded. His eyes were still tightly closed. ‘From the marketplace at Asigamé,’ he murmured.

  She opened her eyes. They were talking, now. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked, rolling over and propping herself up on one arm to look at him. ‘I found the letter, you know. The one where you tried to change your name.’

  He took in a deep breath. ‘You once said to me, “It’s complicated, my life.” Well, so’s mine.’

  ‘But I told you everything about me.’

  ‘I already knew. I already knew who you were before we even spoke.’

  She was aware of a faint hackle of fear settling itself around the back of her neck. ‘So is that why you spoke to me?’

  He nodded. ‘Sort of. In the beginning. The guy I worked for – Big Jacques – you remember him? He was after something . . . some information.’

  ‘About my father?’

  ‘About his money.’ He was awake now, his whole body slipping into another kind of alertness. As if to compensate for the distance his words were about to put between them, he reached out and drew her down beside him.

  ‘Wh-what did he do to him?’ Annick whispered, her teeth already beginning to chatter. ‘My father, I mean. What did he do to your father?’

  There was a long, carefully held silence. Yves took a long time choosing his words. ‘I think,’ he said, turning round to face her, cupping her face in his hands, ‘that you already know.’

  116

  REBECCA

  Upper East Side, New York

  The Hotel Plaza Athenée on East 64th Street was exactly the sort of hotel her father would have stayed at, Rebecca thought to herself as she and Julian were ushered through the revolving doors. The thought filled her inexplicably with dread. Julian didn’t seem to notice. He strode on ahead; his mind already on the evening’s meeting, no doubt. It was with the awful Miranda Grayling and some associates of hers that she’d dragged over from the Middle East, another round of sheikhs and princelings whose names Rebecca couldn’t even pronounce, let alone remember. She wished, not for the first time, that she’d gone with Annick and Yves. In the car driving to the small airport at Martha’s Vineyard, Annick pulled out her phone to show her the pictures of the little boutique hotel that Tash had recommended to Yves and she’d had to clamp down firmly on her tongue to stop herself from blurting out to Julian, ‘But why aren’t we staying there?’ It wasn’t the sort of place Julian liked.

  This was. She looked around her in dismay. Julian was already a few paces ahead of her, arguing with the receptionist about the size of the room they’d be
en given. He wanted a suite, overlooking the park. ‘We’re completely full, sir,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘I’m terribly sorry. Suite 603’s taken.’

  ‘I don’t care. I always stay in 603.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t exactly throw another guest out.’

  ‘Julian, it doesn’t matter. We’re only here for a couple of nights,’ Rebecca whispered, coming up beside him. She hated it when he made a fuss.

  ‘I don’t care if we’re only here for the afternoon. D’you know how much we’re paying?’

  ‘Oh, Julian.’ Rebecca moved off, irritated. She stood to one side and pulled out her phone. She glanced at the screen – still nothing from Tariq. No message, no missed call . . . nothing. Nothing but silence. She swallowed, trying desperately to keep her face as neutral as she could. She’d left another miserable message on his answering service the night before, to no avail.

  ‘Right, that’s sorted them out. Come on. We’ve got the suite.’ Julian walked briskly towards her.

  Rebecca didn’t bother asking how. Julian invariably got what he wanted. She picked up her bag and followed him to the lift. ‘What time’s dinner?’ she asked as they sped upwards to the thirtieth floor.

  ‘Seven thirty. Wear something nice, will you? Miranda’s bringing the sheikh and a couple of his advisors.’

  ‘Thrilling.’ Rebecca couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  ‘Look, I know it’s hardly your idea of fun, darling, but it’s important,’ Julian said earnestly. ‘If we pull this deal off, Tash won’t be the only one with a house in the Hamptons.’

  ‘We could buy one now, if that’s what you want,’ Rebecca said, surprised.

  ‘I don’t. I’m just saying.’

  Rebecca shook her head at him as the lift doors opened and they followed the bellhop out. She would never understand him. Julian wanted to win, that was all. For him, the competition was the thing, the prize. Nothing to do with what he really wanted. She wondered what he did want, as they were ushered into the over-done, over-decorated and overly stuffy suite. She knew what she wanted . . . and it wasn’t him. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll just have a shower first,’ she said, escaping into the bathroom. ‘And then I’ll phone the children.’

  ‘The children’ll be fine, Rebecca. Christ, Tash has got an army looking after them. Relax. Come here.’ He put out a hand absently to grab hold of her. She knew exactly what he was after. She dodged it and closed the bathroom door behind her. She leaned back against it, overcome with both sadness and guilt. Back at Tash’s, things were easier between them. The kids were a distraction, as were the others . . . here, in the hotel room, with just the two of them, the feeling of wanting to be anywhere else but there, with Julian, intensified. It was only a matter of time before he saw through her thin veil of polite interest and asked her outright what was wrong. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep the truth from him, from anyone. The longing to say Tariq’s name out loud was growing in her . . . soon, like a dam whose flow couldn’t be controlled, it would spill out, flooding her and everything she held dear, including, and most especially, him.

  ‘Will you kiss them for me?’ she spoke softly into the telephone, shielding her face from Julian. ‘Especially Maryam. She likes a bit of a cuddle before she goes to sleep. I know, I know—’

  ‘Rebecca?’ Julian appeared in the doorway. His voice carried with it an almost comic arch and loop of a lament. ‘You’re not ready yet?’

  She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘Just give me a moment. I’m just saying “goodnight” to the kids.’

  ‘It’s seven fifteen!’ Blood suffused his brow; he was fiddling with his cufflinks. ‘We’re meeting them in ten minutes!’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ Rebecca hissed. She turned back to Tash. ‘And will you see that Josh goes to the loo before he goes to bed? He’s . . . yes, I know Clea’s there, but . . . oh, all right. Tell them I love them. We’ll see you on Monday. Monday afternoon – around three, I think. Yes, yes . . . he’s fine. We’re just going down to dinner now and—’

  ‘Rebecca! We’re late!’

  ‘I’d better go,’ she whispered hastily into the phone. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow, see how they’re doing, and—’

  ‘Rebecca!’ It was less of a plea and more of a roar.

  She hung up the phone quickly and turned to him. ‘What’s the panic? I’m sure bloody Miranda can entertain them for a few minutes. Isn’t that her speciality? Entertainment?’ She was gratified to see Julian’s eyes drop, as though he couldn’t quite meet her gaze. Not for the first time the thought flitted across her mind . . . what if Julian and Miranda . . . ? She turned the thought over in her mind but found she didn’t even care.

  Dinner was an interminable affair, made bearable only by the distraction of listening to the sheikh and his associates speak Arabic, reminding her acutely of Tariq. If either Julian or Miranda noticed her reticence, neither made any comment. Julian seemed happy enough for her to sit calmly beside him, eating and drinking automatically, smiling prettily when the odd remark or question was addressed to her, letting her eyes and attention slip when it was not. She sipped her wine, her mind elsewhere. Once Julian looked up and caught her eye; she suddenly saw herself reflected in his gaze and brought up a hand to touch her forehead self-consciously, where a lock of hair had come loose. That too only served to remind her of Tariq and she had to turn her face away once again in case anyone present were to catch her out. How much longer could it all go on?

  117

  TASH

  Martha’s Vineyard

  To say that her godchildren were exhausting was both an understatement and a lie. The truth was that, aside from the odd ruffle of hair or comment made in passing, she had little to do with them. Clea and Adriana, whose job and vocation it seemed to be, did most of what Tash would have described as the ‘looking after’. There were tears as their parents departed, mostly from Maryam, who was too little to understand the nature of the temporary separation. Didi behaved as though his parents’ disappearance were normal. For him, she mused, it probably was. Both Yves and Annick went to work every morning and in the evenings, they reappeared. Their departure that morning was nothing unusual. Still, Clea and Adriana knew just what to do. After the first twenty minutes of synchronised howling, during which Tash retreated to the study on the first floor with a large glass of wine, everything settled into a contented hum of activities, shouts, and – when their best friends Cliff and Dean finally made an appearance – delighted shrieks and gurgles of laughter.

  She stood at the study window, glass in hand, looking down on the goings-on poolside below. Would the four of them grow up to be as close as she, Annick and Rebecca? What lay in store for them? And would she and Adam ever have a child to add to the pool of potential best friends? In those odd moments of pensiveness, she saw the three of them as points of a triangle, exactly like their tattoos. She touched hers absently. Annick and Rebecca had gone ahead and made connections of their own while she remained stubbornly alone. There was Adam, of course, but she was slowly being made aware that there was nothing about Adam that felt quite as solid and dependable as the line that connected her to Rebecca and Annick. There were times when Adam felt like an interloper, a latecomer, a distraction from the real business of life. She sometimes felt herself stretching away from everyone else to some distant point over an unseen horizon, alone, always alone.

  She took a mouthful of wine, letting it slide to the back of her throat before swallowing. It was only eleven in the morning – too early to be having a glass of white wine – but the rest of the day stretched out before her, half-pleasurably, half-fearfully. After weeks of frantic preparation and the excitement of arrivals, the house seemed oddly empty. All her previous visits had been to a building site, not a home. Now, with everything in place, all the beautiful furniture and artworks, pieces that ought to make the place properly hers, it was time to think of it as a home. Her home. Hers and
Adam’s, she corrected herself for the umpteenth time. ‘Us, ours . . . not mine,’ she whispered to herself under her breath. ‘Us. Us.’ She looked at her watch; only eleven fifteen. She would make a few phone calls, check on the office in London, call her mother . . . and then what? It had been so long since she’d found herself alone in the middle of the day with nothing particular to do. What did people do on holiday? she wondered. A walk. A walk along the beach. Perhaps with the children? She would leave Maryam with the girls and take the boys. She brightened at the thought.

  Three bobbing shoulders and sunhats; that was all she could see of them as they surged ahead, eager as a pack of dogs, to be free of the constraints of playroom and pool. Something of their animal sense of the wide-open spaces of the beach came back to her like a half-forgotten, half-imagined scent. Family holidays by the seaside had never formed part of her own childhood repertoire of memories, but she must have inhaled something of Rebecca’s and Annick’s, like the shared cigarette smoke of their teenage years.

  There were few people about on the beach, even at midday. Her heels made a soft thudding sound that reverberated through her head. There was a young man standing ankle-deep in the water, inexpertly casting a line back and forwards, a graceful, silver arc of light that hit the water emptily, again and again. The boys ran down the grassy slope of the dune onto the wet sand to talk to him; Didi, singled out by his dark skin, no doubt, was given the dubious present of a small fish. He held it out in the palm of his hand, proudly, as though he’d caught it himself. The children were remarkably easy to supervise; they moved good-naturedly as one. A couple lay prostrate, sunbathing, a few hundred yards further along the beach. As the little troop passed, the man lifted his head, shielding his eyes from the sun and Tash was aware of her gait changing, the way a woman walks when she is being watched by a man. For a single, brief moment, she saw herself as someone else might: the harried, peripherally preoccupied look of a woman out with her children. She smiled to herself as they passed. It wasn’t a role she routinely imagined for herself.