Little White Lies (25 page)

It was a funny thing, she mused to herself as she waited for her computer to boot up. For years Lyudmila had nagged her to move out and find her own place. No sooner was she gone, however, than Lyudmila began to complain she was lonely. It was true. Lyudmila had few friends and, these days at least, even fewer gentleman callers. She spent most of her days at home, watching TV, drinking cheap wine and smoking. When Tash came round, which was at least three or four times a week, she’d begun reminiscing about life in the Soviet Union. Food, clothing, holidays, life . . . everything in the Soviet Union was better. It was patently untrue. Tash wondered if it was simply old age. How old was Lyudmila? She was vague about her age . . . fifty-something, perhaps even sixty? She’d always been vague about it. Tash tried to compare her to Embeth, Rebecca’s mother, but couldn’t. There was a gulf between the two women that had little to do with age.

She brought up a hand to her face. It had been five years since she’d spoken to either Annick or Rebecca. The truth was, she just didn’t know how to. She didn’t know how to explain things to herself, let alone to them. When Sylvan Betancourt came upon her on the terrace that night, she didn’t know who he was at first. It was dark, for one thing, and she’d had quite a lot to drink. She’d lost count of the number of quick slugs she’d had that evening – she knew of no quicker way to calm the thudding in her chest and her clammy palms. It was in that state of mind that he’d stumbled across her on the terrace. She’d been so surprised to see a grown man crying that it had made her forget her own nervousness. He’d offered her a cigarette and then one thing led to another and by the time she figured out who he was, well, by then, something else had taken hold of her and she couldn’t have stopped herself, even if she’d wanted to. When he bent his head to kiss her, she couldn’t believe
it was happening to her!
At long last! Rebecca and Annick had no idea what it was like to always be the one no one wanted, to be the girl no one ever looked at, especially when Annick was around. She brushed it off, of course, and she’d have sooner ripped out her tongue than admit it, especially to them, but it hurt. It hurt like hell. And now here was someone – a grown man, old enough to be her father if she’d ever had one –
and he wanted her
. It was both more shocking and exciting than anything she’d ever experienced. The voice in her head that shouted out, ‘Stop!’ was drowned out by the unexpected thrill of it all . . . and then it happened so fast that she didn’t even have time to think. He
wanted
her. That was all she could think about and her body responded quicker than her mind. That was it, really. She’d followed his lead until the moment she walked round the corner and saw Rebecca and Annick . . . and that was when it really hit her. That was when she realised who he was and what she’d done. She’d crossed a line then and there was no going back.

Rebecca tried to talk to her in the days that followed. Annick couldn’t, of course, and as for Sylvan . . . he promptly disappeared. But she couldn’t get the words out, not even to Rebecca. What could she have said?
Deep down I wanted it.
Why? Admitting to wanting to be like Rebecca and Annick would have been to admit to something she couldn’t even bring herself to think about, much less say out loud. Around them, she felt lesser, somehow, in a way that wasn’t just to do with money and her perpetual lack of it. She’d grasped pretty early on in life that poverty was something to be overcome. If you worked hard enough and made sure you never let go of your ambition in the way Lyudmila had done, you could manage, perhaps even come out on top. But the other stuff – being beautiful or interesting enough to
attract
someone wasn’t something you could control, at least not in the same way. Her failure in
that
department was a failure of the deepest sort precisely because she could do nothing about it. It didn’t happen. Month after month, year after year, from the sidelines of the friendship, she watched Rebecca and Annick plough through suitors. Not once in all that time had they ever asked her what it felt like not to have one. Not
once
.

Her phone rang suddenly, jerking her out of her uncomfortable reverie. ‘Hello?’ she picked it up warily. It was Michelle.

‘Upstairs,’ Michelle said brusquely. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem with one of the layouts.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ Tash grabbed a notepad, her heart sinking, and headed upstairs.

Walking into Rosie’s office never failed to produce a sharp thrill of pleasure whatever the occasion. Rosie was sitting at the head of the oval glass table that occupied roughly a third of the room. She had the entire penthouse suite to herself; everyone else at
Style
was pushed into the three lower floors of 65 Marylebone High Street that
Style
occupied. The entire glass-walled, 200-square-metre space on the fifth floor was hers. As it should be. Just standing in the doorway, looking out over the treetops towards Regent’s Park and down onto the fashionable bustle of Marylebone High Street below, was a potent reminder of the power and sheer style of London’s most influential
fashionista
.

‘Ah, Tash. At
last
!’ Rosie barked out. In a bad mood, Rosie was the most terrifying person Tash had ever encountered. She’d never quite recovered from the experience of having an ashtray hurled at her head over some mistake or other she’d made – she still wasn’t sure what. She hadn’t known whether to duck or laugh. Today, Rosie was dressed in a stunning lemon-yellow silk dress that matched her auburn hair perfectly – Stella McCartney, Tash noted. A slim, snakeskin belt and matching snakeskin high-heeled court shoes – Fendi, possibly Prada – and a chunky black-glass necklace completed the outfit. But for all her rages, Rosie was not only the most stylish person Tash had ever clapped eyes on, she was also
fun
. She
played
with fashion, was endlessly inventive, curious, daring, bold . . . all the things Tash secretly longed to be, but wasn’t.

‘Sorry,’ Tash said, slipping into the nearest vacant seat. ‘I . . . I was out. Location scouting.’

‘Something’s not quite right with this.’ Rosie paid her no heed. She pointed to a series of A3 sheets spread out across the table. She tapped one with a perfectly manicured fingernail.
Chanel. 576. Beige Pétale
. Tash made another mental note. It paid to pay attention to what Rosie was wearing. ‘I’ve asked everyone else and sadly, no one seems to have a
clue
.’

There was complete silence around the table. Tash could see Michelle fidgeting nervously out of the corner of her eye. She scrutinised the offending image. ‘It’s the colours,’ she said finally. ‘They’re too strong for the period. We either need to touch them up post-production, or re-shoot.’

Rosie looked at the layouts again. ‘You might be right,’ she muttered finally.

There was an audible sigh of relief around the table. A ‘might’ in Rosie’s mouth was as good as a ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Michelle mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to Tash as they crowded round the prints again.

‘Look, it’s Paris in the 1920s. It’s Louise Brooks and Jeanne Lanvin . . . delicate colours, simple lines, lots of draping, embroidery. But it doesn’t work here. Her make-up’s wrong. Reds and blacks are far too overpowering. She needs a more muted palette. It’s fantastic that we’re actually using Lanvin again. Ortiz’s got the same eye for detail . . . look at that dress, the colour. That was Jeanne’s favourite shade, the Quattro-cento blue, but we need
pale
make-up, not bold. The models look out of place – that’s what’s wrong. The exact historical details aren’t all that important,’ Tash said firmly, casting a quick glance at Rosie’s impassive face, ‘but I think that’s what’s caught your eye. Colours are wrong.’

‘Right. Let’s re-shoot.’ Rosie straightened up, clearly buying Tash’s explanation. ‘See what happens when Lucy’s away?’ she asked no one in particular, though everyone heard the remark as though it were directed at them. Lucy Brocklebank was
Style’s
art director and the one person whose job Tash absolutely coveted. Rosie
adored
Lucy, which meant that there was no chance of moving up the ladder into Lucy’s spot, but she’d recently had a baby and Rosie had (exceedingly reluctantly) agreed to six weeks’ maternity leave – which was why there were problems with the
Flapper Girls
shoot in the first place. Lucy would never have made the same mistake. ‘Will someone
please
call the photographer and get the new prints to me by the end of this week. Right. Any other business?’ There was none.

Six relieved
Style
executives beat a hasty retreat. ‘Oh, Tash?’ Rosie’s voice rang out just before she’d reached the door. ‘Just a minute.’

Tash hung back, her heart suddenly beating fast. ‘Of course, Rosie.’

‘MoMA’s opening a new exhibition next week.
American Glamour
. I’d like you to come.’

Tash’s brain refused at first to work. MoMA? Where the hell was MoMA? MoMA in New York? Rosie wanted her to go to
New York
? ‘New York?’ she spluttered in disbelief. ‘You want
me
to go to New York?’

‘Is there something wrong?’ Rosie’s large green eyes were on her. ‘Do you have another, more pressing engagement?’

Tash shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no . . . of course not.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘W-when is it?’

‘We leave on Thursday night. Opening’s on Friday. There are a couple of people I’d like you to meet. Back on Monday morning. Give Katie your passport. She’ll sort out your tickets and your visa. The car’ll pick you up from home.’

Tash quickly gathered her wits. ‘Er, yes, thanks. Thanks, Rosie.’ She backed out of the office, still dazed by the news. As she walked down the stairs to the floor below, dizzy with delight, she realised that still, even after five years, the only people in the whole world she wanted to call were Annick and Rebecca.

Sitting in the back of a New York yellow cab, next to Rosie who was already on her mobile, Tash did her best to remain calm.
Everything
about the journey was new and exciting – from the moment the sleek black Mercedes had pulled up outside her Earl’s Court flat to the smiles of the British Airways ground staff as they ushered her and Rosie through the separate check-in for first-class passengers. She didn’t dare confess to Rosie that this was only her third flight – and her first in such style. She grinned to herself at the pun and looked out of the window. It was April and although it was still cold, the sun was brilliant and high in the pristine, cloud-free blue sky. She hadn’t seen a sky that colour in months. Her mouth dropped open, as the cab turned onto 5th Avenue and then onto 58th Street. The Four Seasons hotel was suddenly in front of them.

A bellhop eagerly leapt forwards as the car stopped in front of the entrance. ‘Right this way, ma’am.’ He ushered Rosie up the steps first, then turned his attention to Tash. ‘Welcome to the Four Seasons, ma’am.’

Welcome indeed. Tash gazed up at the spectacular marble-and-gilt lobby as they ascended the steps. Rosie was on her mobile, sorting out meetings. She was immaculately dressed – a short, camel-coloured angora tunic top with wide, ruffled sleeves, straight black woollen trousers and a pair of Jimmy Choo suede ankle boots that occasionally revealed a tiny micro-strip of black fishnet stockings. A giant black Prada handbag and over-sized shades completed the outfit. She looked every inch the most powerful woman in British fashion. Behind her, in a pair of skinny jeans, a white shirt and a midnight-blue Gérard Darel leather jacket that she’d borrowed from Michelle, Tash felt like the proverbial country hick. If the bellhop, receptionist or duty manager who personally came forward to greet them (well, Rosie, at any rate) thought so too, all were far too well-mannered to show it. She was shown to her seventh-floor room with as much aplomb and deference as Rosie was to her suite on the forty-ninth.

‘Cocktails are at six sharp,’ Rosie said as the lift doors closed. ‘
Sharp
.’

Tash nodded vigorously. She’d be there an hour early. She followed the bellhop down the corridor and gasped as the he flung open the doors to her room. At nearly one hundred square metres, it was more than twice the size of her entire London flat. She only just managed to shut her mouth on a squeal as he opened the door to the bathroom. ‘Th-thank you very much,’ she managed to squawk as he arranged her bags neatly on the upholstered stool that (she assumed) had been custom-built for that very purpose. ‘Thanks. Here. Um, that’s for you.’ She remembered at the last minute to produce a ten-dollar note. It was received with the utmost speed and discretion, and he withdrew from the room just as quickly and discreetly. She stood in the middle, turning round slowly, hugging herself with glee. It was all so much more glamorous and opulent than she’d dared expect.

‘You?’ Michelle and Holly had both squeaked when she told them the news. ‘
You’re
going with her to New York? Why
you
?’ She hadn’t been able to answer them. She knew everyone at
Style
thought her a bit of an oddball and not the kind of young woman who routinely walked its corridors. Bookish and serious, with a congenital inability to flirt, that funny nose and that strange haircut . . . no, not your typical
Style
exployee. Oh, she was clever enough. There wasn’t much about the history of fashion that Tash Bryce-Brudenell didn’t know – but was that enough to wrangle a trip to New York? She was the most unlikely fashionista at
Style
– lanky, beanpole-thin with that dreadful haircut and those awful teeth – how come
she
got to go? Tash could read their faces as if they’d voiced their complaints out loud. Well, labels or not, Fendi or no, here she was. In New York. In a suite at the Four Seasons with a suitcase of hastily packed clothes, a camera and two pairs of new shoes. It didn’t get much better than that.

The bar on the fourth floor of the hotel was everything a bar in New York should be . . . and more. Dark, supremely elegant and comfortable with an enormous, backlit bar and an impossibly good-looking barman. Tash arrived half an hour early, tightly clutching the sequinned oversized purse that she’d pinched from one of the photo shoots she’d worked on, longing for a cigarette.