Little White Lies (16 page)

‘Come on, dozy,’ Rebecca giggled at her, leading the way. ‘I’ll show you to your rooms.’

‘But . . . what about our bags?’ Tash roused herself to ask.

‘Oh, don’t worry . . . Stefano’ll bring them up. He knows where everyone is.’

Tash glanced at Stefano, who was already busy directing two other young lads with the mountain of luggage that had come with the various guests who’d just arrived. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties, she guessed, with limited English but a ready smile. He’d already noticed Annick in that way that all men noticed Annick – staring at her for a fraction longer than necessary, eyes locked on her when speaking to others . . . Annick had that effect on everyone, not just men. She’d been an outrageously pretty teenager; now, at twenty-one, she’d grown into the promise of her mother’s beauty, coupled with her father’s dark colouring. Masses of light brown, tightly curled hair, hazel-green eyes, clear coffee-toned skin
without a single blemish
, a figure to die for . . . life, Tash reflected to herself as she followed Rebecca under the stone archway and into the main house, was generally unfair.

She gave the water another vigorous poke. It was their fourth day of a fortnight’s stay – ten days to go until they returned to London. Someone had asked her the night before, ‘And what do you plan to do with yourself when you get back?’ She’d been unable to answer. A degree in economics seemed about as useful to someone in her circumstances as a degree in geography. Useless, in other words. ‘Get a job’ seemed to be the correct – and only – answer, but even then . . . what sort of job?

And that, mused Tash, flinging the stick onto the opposite bank, was the difference between her and her two best friends. Wealth was nothing other than freedom: freedom to choose, freedom to think, freedom to do whatever the hell you liked. Well, there were no such freedoms for her. She had to find a job, and quickly, too. Lyudmila had been dropping hints like boulders – it was time for her to either move out or start contributing in a more meaningful way to the family economy. She’d been indulged for long enough.

‘Tash? Tash?’ Someone was calling her. It was Annick. She could see her curly head bobbing above the geraniums that lined the terrace edge. ‘Where are you? It’s lunchtime.’

‘Coming,’ Tash yelled, pulling her feet out of the water with a ‘plop’. She scrambled onto the bank and picked up her plimsolls. She walked back up the short track to the house, the voices from the terrace becoming stronger and louder as she went.

As usual, a vigorous discussion was underway. The Harburgs loved to argue. No meal was complete without raised voices, flashes of wit and laughter, complaints from those members who were either hard of hearing or who knew too little to join in. In contrast, mealtimes with Lyudmila, when they occurred, were usually silent affairs, Lyudmila’s full concentration spent on making sure she didn’t overeat. Tash usually had her nose in a book – when they did speak, it was usually only to ask for something. Pass me the butter. Where’s the salt? Here, it was different.

—What time did he say they’d be open? I was there yesterday – no one, not a soul! Eleven o’clock in the morning. No wonder you can’t get anything done in this country.
One of the aunts pulling a face
.

—Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Embeth. It’s never going to happen. Never.

—Don’t listen to him. That’s what they said in ’39, remember? Why, I still recall . . .

—Who’s asking you?
The scraping of a chair as someone moved back from the table
.

—Don’t start all that again.

‘Oh, there you are! Rebecca, look who’s here. It’s Tash. Such a lovely name, don’t you think? Come, my dear . . . sit. Sit next to me. That’s it. Now, what can I offer you?’

Great plates of food were carefully passed down the length of the table. Enormous platters of salad, green leaves so light and delicate they appeared almost translucent; purple-red radishes, split open to reveal their creamy, frilled flesh; long languid tongues of grilled sweet peppers, their flesh glistening with oil like sweat. A local woman from one of the neighbouring farms supervised a clutch of young girls bringing food from the kitchen to the table and back again. Down below by the swimming pool, thousands of wasps clustered around the rock-hewn steps, seeking some relief from the heat in the spray that bounced off the boulders. The younger children – Deborah, Rosalie, Gabrielle – rushed back and forth in bare feet, squealing as they narrowly escaped being stung.

Tash helped herself to a simple but delicious dish of tagliatelle, seasoned with olive oil, torn basil leaves and small, bittersweet anchovies, topped with flaked almonds. ‘It’s a speciality of the district,’ Rebecca’s mother explained, making sure everyone had enough food and wine before settling herself at the head of the table. ‘Luisa makes it at least two or three times every summer. Do you like it?
Te gusta?
’

Tash nodded, swallowing quickly. She marvelled at the way Embeth moved graciously from guest to guest, always making sure everyone was comfortable and provided for, without ever making it seem like a chore. She dutifully divided her attention between her guests but seemed to reserve a special welcome for Tash. There was something in her frank gaze that implied a special awareness. Embeth had only once met Lyudmila, at a school play, some years earlier – an unhappy event that Tash had tried to ban from her memory – but she could see now that Embeth remembered it only too well. She took extra special care to make sure Tash felt at home and Tash was grateful. ‘It’s delicious,’ she mumbled, hoping none of the sauce had escaped her mouth.

‘Some more wine? We’ve got a Sancerre that’s particularly good,’ Embeth motioned to Rebecca to pass the bottle. ‘Or there’s a Pouilly-Fumé somewhere . . . where’s the Chamoux?’ she called down the table. ‘Have we finished it already?’

‘Luisa!’ someone shouted. ‘
Può portare un’altra bottiglia, per favore
.’

‘
Va bene
,’ came back the answering shout. Seconds later, one of the girls came running out with another ice-cold bottle. Glasses were quickly topped up, toasts made and the conversations resumed.

Tash finished off her pasta and took another sip of her wine. She leaned back in her seat, aware of the conversations and activities that were taking place around the table, but she also felt oddly separate from them, as if viewing them from afar. Rebecca and Annick were engaged in an earnest discussion with one of the aunts; there was an argument further down about whether or not some cousin or other was going to show up; the old, hard-of-hearing uncle was dozing quietly at the other end. It was a family gathering of the sort she’d never before encountered. She felt a sudden unexpected clawing at her heart and to her horror, felt her eyes growing wide with tears. She blinked quickly, but not before Embeth had caught her eye.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Embeth laid a hand on Tash’s forearm.

Tash nodded, unable to speak. She got up, avoiding everyone’s concerned glances and practically ran from the table. Her rubber-soled plimsolls made the searing squeak of fingers dragged across a blackboard. Her chest was rising and falling in an effort to control the tears.

She pushed open the door to the pretty, low-ceilinged bedroom that had been hers for the past four days, closed it firmly behind her and lay down on the bed. She thought of Lyudmila at home in the small flat, carefully cutting out coupons from the free magazines that floated through their letterbox every day. In the large wooden wardrobe that blocked the door to the living room were her clothes, her ‘investments’, as she called them. Lyudmila would sooner go hungry than pass up on a new pair of shoes (in the sales, of course), and she frequently did. For years Tash had wondered at her mother’s priorities – hair, clothes and make-up before everything else, including Tash – all in the vain hope of catching a man who might, just
might
, provide some of the same comforts. She loved her mother – of course she did – but that afternoon, sitting amongst those rich women of an entirely different order, she’d experienced an ache of sympathy for Lyudmila that was mixed with shame. Lyudmila longed for the kind of lifestyle that Embeth Harburg had, but she had none of the skills or tools at her disposal that would have secured it. Rebecca’s father had yet to make his appearance; he was in Israel, overseeing one or other of the vast projects that bore the family name, but Tash knew instinctively that he too would be a man of an entirely different disposition from the men whom Lyudmila so desperately entertained.

She rolled over onto her side, hugging the lavender-scented pillow to her chest. Something was being told to her. Part of it had to do with wealth, and the getting and display of it – and her mother’s failure to either grab hold of it or keep it, but there was another side to it that she hadn’t quite grasped. She would never be like Lyudmila – she had neither the looks nor the temperament – but she had none of the advantages that Rebecca did. She didn’t envy Annick either. In many ways, Annick was just as lonely as Tash, perhaps even lonelier. Although her parents were both undeniably rich and glamorous, they were absent. Tash knew all about absence. She’d never met her father and as far as she could work out, Lyudmila had barely known him either, yet his shadow was upon them both. When she was younger, in an attempt to make the situation seem more acceptable, perhaps, Lyudmila would sometimes evoke his presence in a way that Tash hungered for but was never convinced by. Little things, little off-hand, tossed-aside comments – ‘your father likes milk in his tea’, or ‘he doesn’t like marmalade’. Trivial details that, spoken in the present tense, made it seem as though his absence was only temporary. Tash understood her mother was pretending – for one thing, the details never changed or deepened. What Lyudmila knew of Tash’s father was the sort of thing an
au pair
or a cleaning girl might know; how he took his tea, what sort of scones he liked, whether or not his socks were to be ironed. She sensed it was for her sake, and it hurt her to think her mother thought it necessary.

And then, of course, the day arrived when she stopped believing the myth and the whole absurd circus came to an end. She decided to seek him out. It had actually been Rebecca’s idea. ‘Why don’t you just go and see him?’ she’d asked one Friday afternoon as the three of them trooped home from school.

‘Where? I don’t even know where he lives.’

‘Thought you said he was Scottish?’

‘No, that’s just where the money comes from. He’s got solicitors in Edinburgh.’

‘Well, why don’t you start there?’ Annick’s eyes lit up. She loved happy endings. ‘Just go up to Edinburgh and tell them you won’t go away until you’ve seen him . . . or they tell you where he is.’

‘How? I haven’t got any money. How’m I going to get to Edinburgh? And what would I tell my mum?’

‘We’ll give you the money, silly. And tell your mum you’re staying with me,’ Rebecca scoffed at her excuse.

‘Why don’t we all go?’ Annick broke in excitedly.

Tash shook her head. ‘No, I’d rather go alone.’ She turned to them hesitantly. ‘Are you sure? I’ll pay you back—’

‘Don’t be daft. Come on, let’s go to the cashpoint. How much d’you need?’

‘I’ve no idea. How much is a train ticket to Edinburgh?’

Three hours later, she was on her way. She took the sleeper train from King’s Cross with nothing in her schoolbag other than a three-pack of underwear purchased at Marks & Spencer and a ham sandwich that Rebecca had pressed into her hands just before the train pulled out.

She got out at Waverley Station at seven a.m. the following morning, having slept almost all the way – a combination of nerves and fear. It was cold. It was autumn in London but early winter up north and she pulled her school blazer tightly around her as she made her way up the steps towards Princes Street. She had only the foggiest idea of where she was going. She knew the law offices of Mortimer & McKenzie were at 114 George Street, Edinburgh . . . but where was George Street?

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside a dark blue painted door with a large brass ring and a small brass plate announcing the presence on the second floor of Mortimer & McKenzie, Solicitors-at-law. It was just past seven thirty and George Street was still practically empty. Well, at least now she knew where it was, she reasoned, looking up and down the wide, handsome street for a cafe. There was one at the end, just before the square . . . she could see people hurrying in and out with Styrofoam cups. Her stomach rumbled angrily; she’d had nothing to eat since the rather soggy ham sandwich almost twelve hours earlier.

‘Mornin’, darlin’, what can we get ye?’ A plump, cheerful-looking woman turned as Tash approached. ‘Brrr,’ she mimed a shiver. ‘Nippy out there, isn’t it? You warm enough wi’ only that on?’

Whoever it was who’d claimed Scots weren’t friendly clearly hadn’t been to Edinburgh. She nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I’m quite warm, thank you. Could I have a coffee, please?’

‘From down south, are ye?’

Tash nodded again. ‘I’ve just arrived. I’ve come to visit my father.’ The words slipped out.

‘Oh? Lives up here, does he?’ the woman asked as she began the complicated-looking process of making a coffee.

‘Yes. He lives just up the road,’ Tash said confidently.

‘On George Street?’

Tash nodded firmly. ‘At 114 George Street.’

The woman paused and looked more closely at her. ‘Didnae think there was anyone left actually living on George Street,’ she said after a moment. ‘They’re all offices now. Oh, well . . . he must be very wealthy, your father, then.’

‘Er, yes. Yes, he is. How . . . how much is that?’

‘That’ll be a pound, love.’ She made a great pretence of holding up Tash’s English fiver. ‘Ooh, d’you think I ought to take it?’ she turned to her colleague. Everyone laughed. Tash took her coffee, mumbled her thanks and fled.
My father lives just up the road
. She had no idea why she’d said it – it had just popped out. She hurried along George Street. At the opposite end was another small garden, now filling up with office and shop workers beginning their day. She took a seat on a bench at the far end and slowly sipped her coffee, waiting for Mortimer & McKenzie’s offices to open.