Little White Lies (17 page)

The receptionist looked her up and down slowly, her eyes resting on Tash’s regulation school shoes. ‘D’you have an appointment?’ she asked finally.

Tash shook her head. ‘No, I . . . I just . . . I was just passing by,’ she stammered. Now that she was here, in the dark, gloomy oak-panelled reception room, the bravado and confidence that had brought her from King’s Cross to Waverley overnight was quickly seeping away. ‘I just thought . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I’ll have to see. Mr McKenzie’s awfully busy at the moment. Take a seat, Miss Bryce-Brudenell.’

She disappeared through the connecting door to the office behind her. Tash looked around her. The room was quiet. Outside, the sounds of George Street coming to morning life filtered up from the ground. A clock in the far corner of the room slowly counted out the minutes. She was bursting for the loo. She looked around; the toilet was probably in the hallway. She hesitated for a second or two. There was no sound from the adjoining office. She jumped up, unable to hold it in any longer. Leaving her satchel on the chair, she quickly nipped out of the door. She was right; the second door on the left was indeed a toilet. She locked the door behind her and sat down, relieved.

It took her a second or two to understand the conversation going on in the room behind her was actually about
her
.

‘But I can’t just send her away.’ It was the frosty receptionist.

A man’s voice. Deep, with the barest hint of a Scots accent. ‘Which one is it? The Lithuanian?’

‘No, well . . . I don’t know. Tash, she said. I suppose she
could
be Lithuanian . . . Natasha?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake. Well, you’ll just have to deal with her. His instructions have always been the same. No contact. School fees until they’re eighteen, no more.’

‘She’s come all the way up from London . . .’

‘Silly girl. What on earth did she expect? To find him here?’

Tash didn’t wait to hear another word. She stood up, forgetting in her haste to flush the toilet or wash her hands. She opened the door and ran down the stairs. It was only when she was out on the street, her whole body burning with embarrassment and shame, that she realised she’d left her satchel behind. No matter. She’d stuffed her train ticket and a crumpled ten-pound note in her blazer pocket. Mortimer & McKenzie could keep her schoolbooks, her house keys and the cellophane-wrapped M&S knickers. She ran all the way back to Waverley Station, ignoring the curious glances of passers-by. She was in luck; there was a train leaving in twenty minutes. She bought herself a can of Coke and a baguette and boarded, her lips drawn into a tight, angry line.

A tap at the door brought her abruptly back to the present. She sat up, rapidly scrubbing at her cheeks. ‘Come in,’ she called out, hoping her voice was steady. It couldn’t be Rebecca or Annick – they would simply come barging in.

It was Embeth. She was carrying a small tray on which two tiny espresso cups were balanced, together with a plate of pale, crisp almond
biscotti
. ‘I thought you might like some coffee,’ Embeth said with a smile. ‘Luisa made a batch of these this morning – the smell woke me up. Too delicious for words.’

Tash struggled upright. One plimsoll was still on; there was a dusty streak on the pristine white counterpane. She hastily brushed at it with her hand, embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, kicking it off and drawing her legs up underneath her.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that . . . it’ll go in the wash tomorrow. Now, how d’you take your coffee?’ She perched elegantly on the side of the bed and passed over one of the small porcelain cups. ‘Milk?’

To Tash’s horror, for the second time that day her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head, praying they wouldn’t overspill and slide down her already-damp cheeks. ‘No, no milk,’ she said shakily.

Embeth said nothing for a moment. A light breeze came in through the window, stirring the sheer muslin curtain so that it billowed into the room, then was sucked back out again, a mouth opening and closing with the wind. Against the perfectly still blue Tuscan sky, a line of dark cypresses stood as though they were painted. They could hear the faint shouts of the younger children in the pool and the silvery tinkle of splashing water. ‘Is it your first time to Italy?’ Embeth asked gently and they both understood a different sort of question was being asked.

Tash nodded slowly. ‘It’s my first time . . . well, anywhere,’ she said. ‘My . . . we don’t really . . .’ She stopped, embarrassed, and picked at the counterpane instead.

Embeth smiled. ‘You don’t have to explain,’ she said gently. ‘Not everyone’s as fortunate as we are. You work hard, Tash, and that’s the main thing. Not whether you go on expensive holidays.’

Tash looked up at her uncertainly. It wasn’t the sort of conversation she usually had with anyone, least of all a friend’s mother. There was a deep and kind expression in Embeth’s eyes that suddenly left her feeling out of her depth. She wasn’t used to tenderness; it was a breath of something she’d somehow missed. ‘It’s just my mum and me,’ she said slowly, looking up nervously to see if Embeth understood what she herself was unsure she was trying to say.

‘And your father?’

She hesitated before answering. ‘I’ve never met him. He . . . he has another family.’

‘Ah,’ Embeth nodded sympathetically. ‘It happens. It’s hard, especially for the children. But it doesn’t alter the fact that you’ve done well, Tash. From what Rebecca tells me, you’ve achieved a great deal.’

Tash looked down at the bedspread. She knew Lyudmila was grudgingly proud of her, despite her inability to show or say it, but hearing the words from someone else was almost too much to bear. ‘Th . . . thanks,’ she stammered, cursing the awkwardness that had crept over her.

‘Have another one,’ Embeth smiled, proffering the
biscotti
. ‘No one makes them like Luisa. Now, I’d better see about dinner. Mr Harburg’s arriving tonight and I’d better make sure there’s no
pancetta
in any of the recipes. Luisa seems unable to cook without it.’ She gave a low, warm chuckle, dispelling any awkwardness between them. The bed springs creaked gently as she got up; when she closed the door behind her, a faint trail of her perfume followed her, like a delicately scented cloud. Tash remained where she was, her whole being suddenly lightened.

REBECCA
The Courtauld Institute, London

‘Just stop here, Garrigan, please,’ Rebecca said, nervously clutching her bag. ‘Here’s fine.’

‘Are you sure, Miss Rebecca?’ Garrigan, her father’s elderly chauffeur, turned his head to look at her. ‘We’re still a couple of streets away. Why don’t you let me drop you at the front entrance?’

‘Oh, no, this is fine, honestly.’ Rebecca’s hand was already on the door handle. ‘This is perfect.’

‘But what about your bags?’

‘I’ll manage them,’ Rebecca said and hurriedly got out of the car. There was no way she was going to make the mistake of arriving for the first day of her course in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. She’d made
that
mistake in her first year at the Slade and she would never do it again. She’d driven up Oxford Street to Goldsmid House in the Bentley and run into three new fellow students coming out the front door.
Poor little rich girl
. The charge had stuck. This time it would be different. This time, she’d arrive on foot, like everyone else.

She hauled her bags out of the boot before Garrigan could even get out of the car and breezily waved him on his way. She watched the Rolls glide out into the traffic and gave a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, she looked up at the entrance to the Courtauld and, had her hands been free, she’d have hugged herself in delight. A one-year, postgraduate degree in Art and Renaissance Society – she could hardly wait for the course to begin. Her parents were planning to bequeath a number of their artworks to the Tel Aviv Museum of Modern Art and her choice of study suddenly seemed absolutely fortuitous.

She grabbed her bags and stepped under the archway. She had to register with the departmental secretary, find the study that had been allocated to her and find a locker. She looked down at her outfit. A tweed, dark-brown A-line skirt, tan knee-high leather boots, a cream sweater and a faded denim jacket. Tash had chosen it. For someone who had such disdain for fashion, Rebecca often thought, Tash had an uncannily good eye. She could size up a situation, fling open your wardrobe doors and put together a ‘look’ in less time than it took Rebecca to wriggle out of her jeans. She drew in a deep breath, hoisted her leather satchel onto one shoulder and followed the signs to the Registry.

ANNICK
College of Law, Store Street, London

Sitting in the second-to-last row, trying very hard to look as though she belonged there (or at least not as though she so patently
didn’t
), Annick struggled to follow the lecturer. Equity and trusts. Tort. Contractual law. She felt like burying her head in her hands and howling. It was hopeless. Sooner or later they’d find out that she wasn’t supposed to be there. The phone call that her father had had to make to the dean in order to get her onto the course would be exposed as a complete and utter waste of time. The president’s daughter was too stupid to have been allowed
in the door
, never mind enrol on the bloody course. She’d
never
be able to keep up. Her mind drifted back to that fateful conversation she’d had with her parents at the beginning of the summer. If it hadn’t been for that odious little creep Traoré, the foreign minister from Burkina Faso, the conversation might not have taken place at all. He’d turned to her in that idiotic,
faux
-chummy way her father’s friends and associates had, pretending to take an avuncular interest in her, yet staring openly at her breasts. ‘So,
mademoiselle
,’ he’d chuckled, his eyes slipping from her face. ‘You’ve finished your studies, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what did you study, if you don’t mind me asking? Ha, ha.’

She didn’t understand what was so funny but she answered demurely, ‘French, sir.’

‘
French
?’

‘Well, French and Modern European Languages. It’s . . . it’s a joint honours degree.’ It wasn’t worth telling him that she hadn’t quite made the honours grade.

‘
Qu’est-ce-que c’est que ça
?’ He turned to her father for clarification.

Sylvan waved a spoon. ‘Some nonsense they study over there at the undergraduate level. She’s going to do law.’

‘Ah. Law.’ Traoré nodded knowingly. ‘You’re going to become a . . . how do they call it in England? A barrister?
C’est bien ça, non
?’

‘No, I’m actually going to be a solicitor,’ Annick hastened to correct him. There was no way in hell she’d ever survive a pupillage to become a barrister.

‘A solicitor? No, surely not? If I understand the English system correctly, it’s not quite as, shall we say, prestigious,
non
?’ Traoré was keen to show off his understanding of the finer points of English law.

‘Oh, no, no, it’s practically the same thing—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Her father looked up from his plate. ‘You’re going to be a barrister, not a solicitor.’

Annick’s heart sank. She looked quickly at her mother, who quickly looked away. ‘Er, well, the thing is, I’ve had a think about it . . . I spoke to the tutors at the Law College and they all agreed—’

‘A solicitor?’ Her father spat the word out again like a piece of gristle. ‘No. No. No daughter of mine is going to become a second-class lawyer.’

‘But it’s not like that, Papa,’ Annick began, feeling the hot blood rush into her cheeks. ‘Not any more. It’s not like—’

‘Silence. You are going to become a barrister.’

She should have recognised the threatening finality in his tone. She didn’t. She began to try and explain again but was stopped by his fist banging down on the table like a thunder crack. Even the servants jumped. There was a moment’s startled pause, then one of them rushed forward to try and mop up the wine that had accidentally spilled from Anouschka’s glass.

‘
Chérie
,’ Anouschka murmured, trying to divert his attention before his temper got the better of him. ‘Shall we switch to the Bordeaux?’

Annick watched her father draw in a deep breath. Despite his anger, she felt almost elated. The attention he’d shown her that evening was more than he’d shown all year. Her own breath was shallow and tense as she waited for the explosion. But it didn’t come. Nothing further was said. Her mother got up from the table and the sight of her taut bottom in skin-tight white jeans and the thick curtain of wavy blonde hair that fell down her back distracted both men. When they turned their attention back to the table – and to talk of a different kind – Annick and her career choices were forgotten.

So, now here she was, in the second-to-last row, fingers tightening nervously around her pen, surrounded by students who were more eager, more qualified, more intelligent and certainly more motivated than she was. Criminal law. Land law. Public law. Not only were her eyes glazing over, her brain had suddenly stopped working. The lecturer droned on. ‘You’ll need an analytical, enquiring mind and the ability to draw out key issues from a mass of information. You’ll need clear verbal, listening and written communication skills to gather information and pass it on, articulately, to others.’
An analytical, enquiring mind?
She had nothing of the sort.
The aptitude to solve problems in a practical way that helps your client?
Nothing could be further from the truth. She had no practical skills whatsoever. She couldn’t even change a light bulb and it wasn’t for the reasons Tash once claimed: it wasn’t because she’d grown up with an army of servants who catered to her every whim. It was because she couldn’t be bothered. Annick’s world was neatly divided into two categories: things that were of interest to her and things that weren’t, and unfortunately the latter seemed to outweigh the former. She’d once assumed the whole point of university was to somehow redress that balance, to make the world more interesting and students more curious. It hadn’t quite worked in her case. It was her own fault, really. She’d gone for the easy option at university. French. She
ought
to have done well. French was her mother tongue, after all. Only studying it wasn’t quite as easy as speaking it, as she soon found out. Study required learning, and learning took effort.