Little White Lies (28 page)

Annick shook her head. ‘This . . . this is fine,’ she stammered. ‘And my work is close by. It’s only for a few months.’

‘I see.’ He shrugged. ‘
Bon
. If you’re sure . . . ?’

Annick nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

They continued to the ground floor in silence.

At his office – two small, smoky little rooms next to an even smaller grocery store – he produced the paperwork for her to sign. ‘Here . . . and here,’ he indicated, lighting up a cigarette at the same time. ‘And once more.
Voilà
. Annick Malaquais.’ He peered at her signature. ‘No relation, eh?’ He chortled at his own joke. ‘Mind you, that poor woman. Should never have got mixed up with that African, if you ask me. That’s how it always ends with them. What a thing to happen.’

Annick looked away.
A thing. A thing that happened
. A thing that could have happened to anyone. Instead it had happened to
her
. That was all; that was the difference. It wasn’t a novel or a film, or an account of someone else’s life that she’d read. It was her life. It had happened to
her
.

She watched numbly as he made copies of the contract and sorted out the keys. Five minutes later it was all done. She got to her feet, clutching her keys, and stumbled outside. It was nearly three o’clock. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that morning. She was suddenly ravenous. There was a small bakery on the corner, just before the entrance to the Métro. She had a ten-euro note in her pocket – all that was left of the money Aunt Libertine had grudgingly given her. She hurried over.

Stepping into the warm, sweet smell of freshly baked bread and pastries was like stepping into a warm, scented bath. She stood in front of the glass counter and felt the saliva rush into her mouth. She felt dizzy with hunger.
Three pains au chocolat – no, four – a ham and cheese baguette and . . . a tarte au citron. Yes, that one
. She handed over the note and picked up the paper bag. She tried to wait until she was somewhere more private before she opened the bag but she just couldn’t help herself. She tore open the bag and stuffed a
pain au chocolat
, practically whole, into her mouth. Little flakes of buttered pastry fell down her coat but she didn’t care. It was still warm, the chocolate thick and melting. She’d never tasted anything quite as delicious. She tore off another piece, and another, cramming them into her mouth. She ate all four, one after the other, leaning back against the wall for support. Her coat was covered in crumbs. She brushed them off, intending to go down into the Métro and make her way back home. She would save the baguette and the
tarte au citron
to have with a cup of coffee. Aunt Libertine was out; she wouldn’t be back until much later in the evening. But the lingering taste of chocolate was still in her mouth. She had four euros left; she could feel the coins in her pocket. She hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked back to the bakery.

‘Two more, please.’ There were two young girls behind the counter. The one who’d served her earlier looked up. There was a flash of something between them, not recognition in the conventional sense – they’d never set eyes on each other before – but some private understanding that made Annick’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. The girl watched as her colleague handed over the little paper bag and as Annick turned to go, she heard her whisper, softly but distinctly, ‘
la pauvre
.’ Poor girl. Poor thing. She pushed open the door and hurried out, shame breaking out all over her skin like a film of sweat.

Aunt Libertine seemed only too happy to see her go. Generous now that she knew Annick was leaving, she ordered a taxi. ‘You can’t possibly manage,’ she’d said, looking at Annick’s three suitcases and two large plastic bags. ‘It’s fine. I’ll call a taxi. No, I’ll pay,’ she said, looking at Annick’s suddenly panicked face. ‘You can pay me back later.’

Annick nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She dragged her suitcases down the short flight of stairs. However grubby and tiny the new place might be, it was
hers
. The trembling, shaky fear that had accompanied her every waking moment over the past couple of weeks was gone. She was no longer afraid to be alone. Yes, the apartment was dirty and it was small but she could clean it. She had a job that paid weekly. She’d been told she could have lunch and dinner at the hotel. It was Sunday – on Friday she would pick up her first wages . . . only another five days to go. She stowed her suitcases in the boot, slammed the door behind her and didn’t look back.

The Hôtel du Jardin on rue Championnet wasn’t the sort of hotel Annick would ever have noticed, let alone stayed in. It didn’t even
look
like a hotel. Aside from the small brass plaque outside on which the Tourist Board stars had been conveniently erased, there was nothing to suggest the narrow townhouse, like all the other townhouses in the street, was anything other than a series of tiny hutch-like apartments. There was a makeshift reception desk in the foyer, and a rack of keys behind her head, but other than that, little had been done inside to turn the rundown series of twenty-four rooms into anything that resembled a hotel. Everything was covered in green – walls, floors, sofas, bedspreads, curtains. Even the bathroom suites at the end of the corridors were a particularly vile shade of avocado. It was the sort of hotel in which people either stayed for an hour or a year.

The manager, a slender, sloe-eyed young man from Guadalupe with a wide smile, rattled off the rates, rules and regulations and tips for dealing with troublesome guests. Annick listened dazedly. Three months ago she’d been in meetings dealing with inheritance tax – she felt as though she’d stepped through a doorway into some parallel, hellish universe that she didn’t recognise. She tried to focus. Off-duty manager. Telephone. Police. She nodded dumbly.

‘
Bon
, that’s it, then. I’m off. Been here since last night. I’m bushed. Lunch is through there.’ He pointed to the curtained-off doorway on the right. ‘He starts at one. Cook’s lousy. Algerian. Bit too much harissa for my liking, but what can you do? Dinner starts at six and the night-shift guys come in at eight. Got all that?’

Annick nodded. ‘Yes, I . . . I think so.’

‘Good girl. You’ll get the hang of it. Any problems, give the off-duty manager a ring. Shouldn’t be any, though. Most of the people who come here are regulars, if you know what I mean. Watch out for old Lajeune. Room 314. Been here for ever. He’ll ask you for his key and try and squeeze your ass when you turn round.’

Annick swallowed hard again. A kind of darkness had settled over her, pressing down on her. It was as if she’d narrowed her gaze so that she saw only those things that were immediately in front of her – telephone, key rack, counter top, receipt book. When she thought about the past, it made her feel dizzy. She could no longer step back far enough from her day-to-day self to see anything clearly. Hearing about it from Aunt Libertine had only made things worse. It seemed to her now that everything – every event, every circumstance – stretched around her in a tangled maze in all directions, past and future, and that everything was connected in ways she couldn’t see or understand. Listening to her aunt’s explanations had made her even more fearful. Her parents’ death had its roots in something that had happened two hundred years before she was born, on a continent she’d never seen, in a language and culture she didn’t understand. She had no hope of ever grasping it, or what it meant – for her, for them, for anyone. The only option left to her was to cut herself off. She knew now that she wasn’t like Tash or Rebecca, both of whom saw life differently, especially Tash. Tash saw life as something to be acted
upon
, not just endured. Tash was afraid of nothing. As she watched the manager pick up his coat and check his phone for messages before pushing open the door, she felt a dull blow of pain just below her ribs. She’d have given anything to hear either of their voices again.

‘You ain’t supposed to get salmon when they’re swimming upstream to spawn. But if you’re hungry, you do.’
Loretta Lynn

REBECCA
Tel Aviv

The foyer of the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra was crowded. Welldressed women in furs and expensive-looking coats stood around, holding flutes of champagne, laughing loudly whilst their partners chatted to one another in low, soft murmurs glancing frequently towards the door. Now that the concert was over, their minds were elsewhere.

Rebecca came up the stairs from the toilets, surreptitiously drying her hands on her skirt and caught her mother’s barely perceptive frown. It was her father’s ninetieth birthday and a special performance had been put on in his honour. He sat in his wheelchair in the midst of his friends and relatives, his head held high. In spite of his gruff manner, Rebecca could see just how touched he was by the outpouring of love and good wishes from everyone around him, not just those closest to him. The trip had been an emotional one; though few would ever say so out loud, there was a general feeling amongst those present that it might well be his last. He had outlived two of his sisters and all his brothers – it was time to pass the baton of philanthropic and social work to the younger generation of Harburgs, to Rebecca, his only child.

She glanced quickly at her mother. Now in her sixties, Embeth was still a powerfully beautiful woman who drew people towards her the way she’d done all her life. It wasn’t often that Rebecca speculated or even thought about the nature of her parents’ marriage but tonight, looking at them together, her mother now towering over her father in her elegant heels, she experienced a sudden rush of feeling that brought a thin film of tears to her eyes. Despite their differences in age and culture, they were absolutely devoted to one another. When she was younger, she was ashamed to admit she’d been irritated by Embeth – what, exactly, did she
do
all day? Especially when set against her father’s world, Embeth’s life seemed inconsequential. Lionel had always been powered by an energy that constituted its own force-field, finding its proper outlet in his business dealings and travel. But perhaps she’d been mistaken? Without her mother, she was beginning to understand, her father would simply never have managed the burdens – emotional, financial, familial – that had been placed upon him. She was the anchor to which he attached himself, and in doing so, she gave him rein to roam free.

Was that what it would be like for her? Rebecca wondered. Perhaps
that
was what was missing? Marriage, motherhood . . . the sense of being central to someone? The vague dissatisfaction that had followed her ever since she’d left the Courtauld had intensified. It was as though she was waiting for something – a sign, a suggestion – that would release her into the future, pushing her out of herself and into a new kind of life. She’d done what everyone expected – she’d gone to university, done reasonably well – she’d followed her mother into the philanthropic causes the family supported, throwing herself into the things with gusto. But something was lacking. She could feel it.

Picking up the threads of her friendship with Tash only served to intensify her vague dissatisfaction. When they met nowadays, as pleasurable as it was, she came away each time feeling more and more restless. Tash seemed so
purposeful
, so ambitious. She worked longer and harder than anyone Rebecca knew, but she thrived on it. She seemed to love the buzz and frenzy of the fashion world; being at Rosie Trevelyan’s beck and call, never knowing where she’d be sent or what she’d be asked to do. She loved the unpredictability of her life and she didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. Rebecca longed to be as tough – but she wasn’t. Tash answered to no one. Lyudmila aside, she could come and go as she pleased. Rebecca’s life was completely different. There was a whole generation of extended Harburg relations and foundations to answer to – she couldn’t just hop off to New York on a whim, even if she’d wanted to – which she didn’t. But what
did
she want? She fingered her champagne glass disconsolately. The answer, as always, escaped her.

‘You look rather glum.’ Someone interrupted her. She looked up. A man stood in front of her, tall, silver-haired, wearing a light grey suit with a rather beautiful pale yellow tie. His face was deeply lined but tanned and his eyes were the most astonishing shade of blue. Did she know him? ‘No, you don’t,’ he smiled, reading her mind. ‘But I know who
you
are. You’re Lionel’s daughter,’ he offered with a slow smile. ‘I’m Julian. Julian Lovell. Another of the relatives you’ve probably never heard of.’

Rebecca laughed. A baritone, English-sounding voice. ‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t,’ she confessed.

‘That’s what comes of being the favoured family,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Everyone knows
you
. The reverse doesn’t hold true.’

She blushed. ‘It’s my father,’ she said, shrugging. ‘
I
haven’t done anything worth mentioning.’

‘Not what I’ve heard. You’re an artist, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, no, no. I
studied
art, that’s all. Art history.’

‘Ah. My mother must’ve got it wrong. Funny that. She’s the walking encyclopaedia on all matters Harburg.’

Rebecca laughed again. ‘You make us sound a lot more interesting than we really are.’

He shook his head. ‘Well, the Harburgs are
not
like any other family; that’s the whole point. Can I get you another?’ He pointed to her empty champagne glass.

Rebecca looked over his shoulder at her parents. The concert had ended almost an hour ago and she knew how tired her father would be. She looked back up at Julian. He was a good deal older than her, she thought to herself – late forties, perhaps even older? Very handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way, at sharp odds with the elegance of his suit and tie. ‘Let me just see what my parents are up to. Not that I normally have to check with them,’ she added quickly, embarrassed.